The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Knickerbocker, Vol. 22, No. 5, November
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Title: The Knickerbocker, Vol. 22, No. 5, November 1843

Author: Various

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Language: English

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       *       *       *       *       *




THE KNICKERBOCKER.

  VOL. XXII.        NOVEMBER, 1843.        NO. 5.




THOUGHTS ON IMMORTALITY.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.


THERE are those who reject the idea of a future state; or, at
least, who deny that they ought to be convinced of its reality,
because reasoning, in the method of the sciences, does not appear
to prove it to them; although they acknowledge how natural it is
for man to anticipate a future existence. I have thought that such
persons might be included in a similitude like the following. Let
us suppose a young bee, just returning from his first excursion
abroad, bearing his load of honey. He has been in a labyrinth of
various directions, and far from his native home; winding among
trees and their branches, and stopping to sip from numerous flowers.
He has even been taken, by one bearing no good-will to the little
community of which he is a member, and carried onward, without being
permitted a sight of the objects which he passed, that he might
estimate aright his new direction. Notwithstanding, he is winging
his way with unerring precision to the place where his little load
is to be deposited. Not more exactly does the needle tend to the
pole, than the line he is drawing points toward his store-house. But
in this he is governed by no such considerations of distance and
direction as enable the skilful navigator so beautifully to select
his way along the pathless ocean. He has no data, by reasoning from
which, as the geometrician reasons, he may determine that his course
bears so many degrees to the right or so many to the left. He has
never been taught to mark the right ascension of hill-tops, nor
to estimate latitude and longitude from the trees. He is governed
in his progress by that indescribable and mysterious principle of
instinct alone, which, although developed in man, produces its
most surprising effects in the brute creation. But here, as he is
going onward thus swiftly and surely, by some creative power a vast
addition is made to his previous character. All at once he becomes a
reasoning being, possessed of all the faculties which are found in
the philosopher. He is endowed with judgment, that he may compare,
and consciousness and reflection, to make him a metaphysician. Nor
is he slow to exercise these newly-acquired faculties.

Among other things, his consciousness tells him that he is impressed
with a deep presentiment of something greatly desirable in the
far distance toward which he supposes his course to be fast and
directly tending. Perhaps he has a memory of the place he left, of
the business there going on, and of the part which he is taking in
it. Probably his strong impression is, that he is fast advancing
toward that place; that he expects the greeting of his friends of
the swarm. Possibly he finds his bosom even now beginning to swell
in anticipation of the praise which shall be bestowed on his early
manifestation of industry and virtue. Perhaps his recollections are
more vague; and accordingly his consciousness only tells him that he
thinks of something requiring him to urge onward in that particular
direction, but of which he realizes no very definite idea.

But here Reason interrupts him: 'Why are you pursuing this course
so fast? I see nothing to attract your attention so strongly.' 'I
am going to a place lying this way,' says the bee, 'where I can
deposite my load in safety, which I am anxious to do quickly, that I
may return for another.' 'But,' says Reason, 'what evidence have you
that the place lies this way?' Here Philosophy whispers: 'You should
not act without evidence; it becomes no reasonable creature to do
so;' but Reason continues: 'There are many points in the horizon
beside that you are making for; and I see not why one of them is not
as likely to be the place as another.'

This rather staggered the bee at first; for he had no recollection
of courses and distances taken, by a comparison of which he could
prove his true direction; but suddenly he said: 'Why, I am so
strongly impressed that this is the course, that I cannot doubt
it.' 'But what signify your strong impressions,' says Reason, 'if
they are not founded on any evidence? Were you ever led to such a
place as you seek by the aid of _impression_ alone?' 'I never was,'
said the bee; for in fact he had never before been out of sight of
the place where he was born. 'Then again,' says Reason, 'I ask what
is your evidence?' And Philosophy again, as a faithful monitor,
replies: 'Bee, you must not act without evidence.'

The bee could hardly add any thing more. Had his experience been
greater, and his reflection deeper, he might have answered, that
there are principles in the mind pointing to certain conclusions,
and seeking to establish certain beliefs, of which those principles
are at once the evidence and the source; and that the impression
which now seemed so clearly to point out his course was one of this
class. But in the exercise of his young faculties he had not yet
arrived at that height of philosophy which could lead him to recur
to such principles. He had never come to distinguish between those
impressions which have taken possession of the mind by chance, and
those which Nature herself has prepared to aid the very weakness of
reason. No wonder then, that thus sore pressed by Reason, he seemed
to find himself at fault.

Whether these mental conflicts were sufficient to suspend his course
entirely, or whether, like a prudent bee, he resolved to act as if
nature were right and reason were wrong until he knew nature to be
wrong and reason to be right, I am not able to say. But I could not
fail to reflect, that if he did finally arrive at the place whither
he had been directing his course, he would probably quarrel with all
the arrangements in the tree.

It would not occur to him, for instance, why such particular art
should be observed in constructing the cells of the comb as the
bee has ever been known to observe. Why must they always be made
with just six sides to them, and no more? Why could they not,
upon occasion, be constructed with three or four sides, or even
round, equally as well? Surely a curve is more beautiful than a
combination of straight lines, with angular points to disturb the
mind; and variety is undoubtedly essential to all harmony. But if
six sides are to be preferred, why not have the same number for
the roof and floor? and why should they be always constructed with
one particular inclination? These and other rules, which the bee
has hitherto followed with such admirable but unconscious wisdom,
his uninstructed reason would be slow to deduce from obvious first
principles. He would perhaps be no better a mathematician than man
himself, with whom centuries succeeded one another before he had
followed the discursive and mazy track to the point whence is seen
the just and convenient architecture of the bee.

We can hardly suppose that under such circumstances he would
not become a confirmed skeptic; rejecting all truths which his
peculiar reasonings would not demonstrate; and failing by reason
to demonstrate those truths which to him are of the greatest
consequence. All this would not be because he had reason, nor
because he exercised it, but because he exercised it imperfectly.
And yet he would seem to use it very much as some modern
philosophers recommend.


II.

WHEN the merchant who trades abroad is about to launch upon the
ocean the ship which contains perhaps the whole of his fortune, he
is naturally anxious as to what may be its fate while entrusted to
the winds and waves, and is solicitous to provide, so far as he can,
against the possibility of ruin by its loss. His course is therefore
to go to the insurance office, inform the agent what he is about to
do, and ask for indemnity against risk.

The insurance office was established for the express purpose of
alleviating such disasters as his would be, should his fears be
realized, and his case is taken into immediate consideration.
The agent regards the route of the proposed voyage, and the seas
over which the ship is to pass; the season of the year in which
she sails, and the storms that are commonly incident thereto; he
deliberates on the propriety of insuring, and if the risk be not
too great, fixes the premium to be paid by the merchant. Upon the
receipt of this sum, he gives him a writing, binding the company in
case the vessel does not arrive safely at the destined port, to pay
to the merchant the estimated value of the ship and cargo.

Now the sum which the company receives on this occasion is but a
small part of what they may be obliged to return, and which they
must pay to the merchant in case the ship insured does not arrive at
the end of her voyage. Yet by such transactions as these neither the
company is impoverished nor by his loss is he who adventures undone.
The company is not impoverished, because in the whole extent of its
transactions it receives from those who do _not_ lose as much as its
funds are diminished by those who _do_. The loser himself is not
undone, because by contributing his share, and enabling the company
to carry on its mitigating operations, he becomes, upon his loss,
entitled to a full portion of relief. And indeed in this manner it
happens that loss falleth lightly upon many, rather than heavily
upon few; and those who, to the benefit of mankind, would trust
their all to be carried down to the sea in ships, are not deterred
therefrom by the fear of possible ruin.

When the astronomer, for the convenience of the navigator, in
enabling him to ascertain his place upon the trackless ocean,
determines what will take place at immense distances from our earth,
and calculates at what exact though distant periods of time the
satellites that revolve about Jupiter may with the telescope be
ascertained to pass through the planet's shadow, his conclusions
are all founded on a knowledge of causes, and of their methods of
operation. The observations of KEPLER and HERSCHEL, and the sublime
reasonings of NEWTON and LAPLACE, founded on fact or on axioms, and
tending to pertinent conclusions, are all concerned in these useful
calculations. Not so in proceedings like those to which we have
referred. There parties act not more from their knowledge of causes
than their ignorance of them. Neither the insurer nor the insured
knows what favorable winds may waft the ship prosperously on her
voyage, nor what tempestuous seas may threaten her with destruction.
Did the one know that in the end she would be lost, he would not
insure. Did the other know that she would arrive safely at the end
of her voyage, he would not desire to be insured. But while the one
has hopes and the other fears, yet both are ignorant. They are able,
by the judicious exercise of the faculties which GOD has given them,
to adopt a course which, without impairing the welfare of the one,
shall tend to secure the safety of the other.

The principle which in these cases determines the insurer whether
to insure, and if so at what premium, is a principle upon which the
pursuit of happiness very often requires us to act. This principle
is, that where a case is under consideration where particular causes
cannot be taken into account, we are most strongly to expect such
an event as has happened or as we know will happen, in the greatest
number of possible cases; unless some particular reason appears
which we are certain should make us expect a different result. The
principle has a deep foundation in the nature of the human mind;
and nowhere is the mutual adaptation between the mind and the
external world more clearly seen. Properly applied, it teaches man
to look for an existence beyond the grave.

For, in the first place, we find it _necessary_ that he should
desire immortality. The prospect of annihilation must always strike
the mind with horror. By nature it is capable of conceiving, of
appreciating and desiring, future as well as present happiness. Its
ideas and desires cannot be bounded by a day or a year, but extend
onward, without the possibility of arriving at a limit. Whenever
therefore the imagination is presented with a termination of
enjoyment, however distant in the field of duration it may be, the
mind at once starts back with a feeling of present unhappiness.

It is especially the case that this desire will not allow the mind
to be consoled for the supposed termination of its existence by
the possession of some other enjoyment. The object is something
which cannot be supplanted by any other. It is indeed the mind's
susceptibility to be gratified by its connection with other objects,
which is the foundation of this desire. It desires continued
existence in proportion as it feels the loveliness by which it is
surrounded, and of the actions which it is invited to perform. It
never so much feels the vanity of any pleasure as when that pleasure
is about to terminate. Very far then must the possession of other
enjoyments be from compensating for the want of this! Nay, so much
livelier as is the joy which the present seems to offer, so much
severer will be the pang when the mind looks forward to futurity.

The hurry of novelty and the splendor of dazzling objects may induce
temporary forgetfulness, but forgetfulness is not consolation;
and of little worth must be that freedom from misery which is
only in proportion as the mind loses its activity. It is indeed
in some degree to run into the very evil we dread, to escape the
consciousness of knowing we must be subject to its consequences.
Beside, in spite of such means the mind will often be aroused to
a more painful remembrance of its mortality. The opiates which
for a time may lull, are yet preparing morbid sensibilities to be
restless under the oblivious influence, and to awaken at length to
a more acute feeling of the pain that has been suppressed. Yet who
can believe there is a single faculty in the mind which must ever
desire, without rational hope, and whose despair must be without
solace?

Of most of the affections which are implanted in the heart of man,
we can discover the end and scope by an observation of them in
particular. And of these, where do we find one whose nature is to
fix itself on an object for whose attainment one cannot rationally
hope, and for whose denial he cannot be consoled? If not in
possession, the mind commonly cherishes an expectation of obtaining
it. If this seem impossible, the desire reverts to something
else, upon which it fixes itself while the mind as soon becomes
indifferent to the possession of the former. However long, however
deeply, any affection may have been fixed, and however well-founded
the hope, or well enjoyed the possession, in which it has been
cherished, yet the blow which severs it rarely inflicts a wound too
deep to be healed. Time gradually soothes; other objects invite;
till at length the sigh called forth by Memory is 'pleasant yet
mournful to the soul.' Now by what application of these principles
of probability are we required to believe that the desire for
immortality is an exception to the universality of the rule we have
been exhibiting? All other affections, attachments, and desires
we find to come within it. Love, filial affection, fondness for
glory or wealth, patriotism--all tend to constitute a moral system
which should be capable of happiness. If there be an exception to
the rule, it is the desire for immortality. But if there _be_ an
exception, how does it happen that we find such long-continued
uniformity? We are ignorant of any particular difference in the
case, which should make it an exception. How then can we doubt?

If desire be fixed on an object for a time unattainable, the faculty
of enjoyment is meanwhile increasing in power, and preparing the
mind for a livelier relish of what has been withheld. When it is
attained, there is also the influence of contrast to enhance the
consciousness of enjoyment. Even grief at severest loss, when
softened by time, adds a pleasing interest to contemplation. But
after what lapse of time shall the mind's horror at annihilation
be softened into mournful complacency? What present pleasure, hope
being expelled, can be contrasted with former pain produced by the
prospect of annihilation, without renewing that pain in the mind?
And to what purpose would the power of enjoying the prospect of
immortality be increased, if the prospect itself be hid in the
blackness of darkness?


III.

If we might imagine the time when all mankind, proceeding on the
supposition of the total want of evidence that the soul is immortal,
had lost that glorious and animating hope, which is indeed the
ground of all others, to what state of despair must we not imagine
them to be reduced? What more total overthrow of every principle
of action could possibly be conceived? How many things are there
in this world which man was made to love? How many actions, how
much noble labor, invite men to their performance, offering a
full reward? How interesting to the virtuous mind to behold their
array! How exciting to its energies, to anticipate the results to
which it may attain! There are forests to be removed, fields to be
cultivated, marts to be established, cities to be built; roads and
artificial rivers are to be constructed, and fleets sent forth upon
every sea, to bring together the productions of every handicraft,
and the fruits of every clime. While this is going on, the mind is
also to be employed in bringing the great agent-power to bear on
the whole in the most efficient manner. Earth and air, fire and
water, are to be brought in subjection, and made to yield their
mighty assistance in the gigantic work which man has to do. The
force of gravity and of expansion is to be guided upon engines of
wood, of iron, and of polished brass, and these, with strokes and
evolutions of wheels, cylinders, and pistons, and with every strong,
every gentle, every delicate and complex movement, must be made to
imitate the works of men's hands; but with such prodigious force
and rapidity, and yet with such nice exactness, as shall infinitely
outvie them all. The mind of man itself is to be wrought up to
a higher state of perfection. Colleges and other seminaries of
learning are to be founded, and books are to be written; the secrets
of nature are to be laid open, and pictures of them to be presented
to every man's view. The darkness of ignorance and barbarism is
to be chased away, and the light of science and virtue to be let
in upon the mind. Improvement is continually to be advanced, and
humanity is to be raised higher and higher toward that eminence of
perfection whose peaks rise one above another, over broader and more
extended regions.

This is some of the work which man has to do; and with what delight
in the employment of his faculties, and with what gratifying
prospects of the ends to be attained, does he address himself to
the task! In the glow of his ardor, he encounters difficulties,
grapples with burdens, and exults in the exercise of his powers, as
he advances in the accomplishment of the 'prize of the high calling'
before him. And what is it which encourages him in all this? which
is the foundation of his exultation? Strike from his mind the belief
in its endless existence, and every thing becomes worthless. How
short is the time of action which this world affords, compared
with the endless future; how strong the desire to range through
that future; and oh! how deep the despair, if that great desire be
without hope! Tell me not there are those who disbelieve in any
future state of the soul, who yet preserve their cheerfulness and
equanimity; who interest themselves in the concerns of life, and are
as active as others in its pursuits. Can any experience convince us
that these have a source of enjoyment equal to that which blesses
his expectation who anticipates a triumph over death? Can a part be
equal to the whole, or the finite compared with the infinite? If men
have been able to fix their affections alone on that which earth
affords, it is not because the things of this world have swelled to
the full compass of the soul, but because she has been cast down
from her sphere, and her aspirations trampled in the dust.

To the infidel, Nature must wear a repulsive aspect; for _why_
should she create a phantom joy, which must soon vanish for ever?
The pleasantness of spring, the voice of early birds, these should
be to him the emblems of mourning, the music of a dirge. To him, the
sun and stars are but torches, to light him to regions of eternal
darkness and silence. GOD in HIS mercy preserve us from a belief
such as his!




THE 'RICH POOR MAN:' A FRAGMENT.


    NOW whether he be poor or rich,
    Is one to him--he cares not which;
    In sweet simplicity he lives,
    Happy in what the present gives.




AN EVENING HYMN.


          BENEATH the star-lit skies,
    Treading the dew-gemmed sod, I look to Thee,
      FATHER ALMIGHTY! and these tearful eyes
    Through mortal shadows would thy glory see!

          My spirit long hath bent
    To earthly idols, while Faith's single eye
      Gazing upon the treasures thou hast lent,
    Turns from its goal beyond the glowing sky.

          Ingratitude hath chilled
    Affection's gushing fountain, till it flows
      Sluggishly onward, like a stream distilled
    Where blackened rocks and gathered sands oppose.

          And Hope renews her flight
    Only to mourn her desolate return;
      Since not beyond the veil of mortal night
    She strives the land of beauty to discern.

          And Love hath forged its chain--
    A glittering band that dazzles to subdue!
      The thirsting captives in its lengthened train
    Turn from the fount of Heaven to earthly dew!

          And Thought hath bent its wing
    From its high journeying, awhile to sit
      Within its gilded cage; a captive thing,
    Pleased with the trifles that before it flit.

          And from the harp of life
    Grief hath her wild, discordant measures wrung;
      She saw death conquer in the fearful strife,
    And on the air her notes of sadness flung.

          Even as the withered flower
    Looks up for evening's damp, reviving breath,
      So in this calmly bright and solemn hour
    My spirit struggles with the bands of death.

          From thy resplendent throne
    Eternal Father! grant one lucid ray
      Upon the path which I must tread alone,
    Unless thy smile illume the clouded way.

          To thy returning child
    Bend a propitious ear! Accept my prayer,
      Through CHRIST the crucified, the undefiled,
    Whose cry of anguish rent the midnight air.

          And now the stars look down
    With softer glances, and the dew-drops roll
      With ringing melody from night's pale crown:
    These are Thy smiles to my awakened soul!

  _Boston, Mass._
  H. J. W.




THE DOOMED SHIP.

BY ROBERT L. WADE.


THERE was much of bustle and activity, and hurrying to and fro, in
the streets of the usually quiet little town of Salem, on a fine
October morning, 1740. The sun had not yet risen, but the eastern
horizon, in token of its approach, was stained with a faint crimson
hue, and a few of the most brilliant gems that deck the firmament
were yet burning brightly in the broad expanse above. The morning
had long been looked forward to with anxiety. The colonies were yet
in their infancy, and every unusual circumstance had a tendency to
create excitement; but to us of later times it may seem strange,
and perchance cause many a one to smile, when he reads, that all
this busy stirring was occasioned by the expected departure of a
packet-ship.

This vessel, which was called the 'Countess of Pembroke,' after
the sister of the sweet bard of Arcadia, was one of two owned by a
company of London merchants, who regularly twice a year sent out
one to the colonies, freighted with such matters as were in demand
at the time, receiving in payment principally the produce of the
country; always by shrewd calculation and management succeeding
in getting the latter at very low rates, while their own goods
seldom failed of bringing high prices. No particular ports were
selected on this side of the Atlantic for the regular destination
of the packets of this company, for the proprietors preferred
sending them to whatever place promised the best market at the
time; and therefore it was a matter of uncertainty altogether with
the colonists where to look for the next arrival. The 'Countess of
Pembroke' and her sister packet, however, had now put into Salem
harbor six consecutive times; and as this was a period when the
most perfect harmony existed between those of the mother country
and her bantlings, the New-Englanders took as much pride in the
shipping and naval matters of Britain as did their brethren under
the more immediate protection of the crown. The consequence was,
in this case, that the good people of Salem and its vicinity had a
strong liking for these two vessels, and had begun to consider them
as belonging particularly to their own community; and when reports
several times spread through the town, that Newport, New-York, and
Boston, and several other places, had held communications with the
company, with a view to having the voyages of the sister crafts
terminate at each of their respective ports, and that the owners
had suffered serious thoughts to creep into their minds to the
same effect, they were not slow or scrupulous in venting their
indignation at what they termed acts of meanness in the other
towns, and resolved, with jealous eyes, to guard against what they
deemed an invasion of their rights and privileges. These feelings,
however, were forgotten in the all-absorbing interest created by
the rapid approach of the time set for the departure of the ship.
For two or three weeks it had been bruited throughout the adjacent
country, that on such a morning the 'Countess of Pembroke' would
sail for England, wind and weather permitting; and now when that
day had dawned, beautiful and bright, and with every prospect of a
happy commencement of the long voyage, (such voyages were _long_
then,) the streets of the town were filled with active people, and
all the wharves and house-tops, and in fact nearly every point from
which a good view of the harbor could be obtained, was covered with
interested spectators.

With the early morning tide the ship had hauled out some little
distance into the stream; and now, as the sun was just lifting
itself above the verge of the horizon, and pouring down its floods
of golden light, her yards were covered with seamen, busily
employed in loosing her sails and preparing for departure. At
her peak the old ensign of England was fluttering in the clear
morning breeze, while from her main top-gallant mast a long dandy
red-and-white-streamer was dancing gaily upon the air. Alongside,
attached by the painter to the rope-ladder which hung down from the
bulwarks, a small boat was rising and falling upon the slight swell
of the waters; and at the foot of the steps of the principal wharf
floated another, containing four oars-men, who were waiting with all
possible patience to take the captain off, who as yet had not made
his appearance.

An hour, two hours, rolled away; the ship still swung at single
anchor; the captain's gig still remained at the wharf; but those
in it had now become quite uneasy at his protracted absence, and
manifested many signs of impatience, in addition to giving vent to
their feelings in their own peculiar way:

'The cap'un's on a lee-shore and going to pieces,' said one; 'I
heard as how there was a false beacon up to decoy him on.' This
joke, which had reference to the 'ladye-love' of their commander,
was immediately understood by all, and received with a shout of
boisterous laughter, which had the effect to restore good humor for
the time being.

Upon the land the crowd had greatly augmented. As day advanced, the
numbers had increased upon the scene; and now in every direction
the eye encountered countless human faces, some turned toward the
water and the gallant craft that sat upon it like a duck, and others
partly back upon the town, to catch the first glimpse of the tardy
officer. It was a matter of wonder and much speculation with the
multitude, as to the cause of his non-appearance, an hour after
sunrise having been the time appointed for the departure of the
ship; and two full hours having passed beyond the time, many began
to fall into the belief, in spite of themselves, that it boded no
good for the anticipated voyage.

'I don't like this,' muttered one to his neighbor, with an ominous
shake of his head; 'I fear some ill may befall our pretty vessel,
which Heaven avert! before she casts anchor in the Thames. They
should have been prompt, and started at the time set--at the very
minute. No good comes of tardiness. Why, friend Gibson, I heard of
a vessel once, that her owners intended to despatch from Cork to
Leghorn, and gave notice that she would sail on just such a morning,
at just such an hour. Well, the morning came, and something was the
matter; either the ship was not ready, or her cargo not all aboard,
or her passengers out of the way; at any rate, she couldn't go, and
so they postponed the start for three days; and when the time came,
she didn't sail for six hours after.'

'Well, and what then?' rejoined his hearer, with a careless and
unconcerned expression on his countenance, seeing that the croaker
had come to a stop in his story, and was looking at him out of one
corner of his eye, with a sort of mysteriousness that he could not
account for; 'well, and what then?'

'What then!' repeated the other, in a loud tone, as though
astonished at this response; and then sinking his voice to a husky
whisper, added, 'Why, she was never heard of after she left port.
What do you think of _that_?--eh?'

'Why, that she was either wrecked, or burned, or captured by
pirates, or something of the kind,' coolly replied the other.

'Umph!' rejoined the first speaker, not very well satisfied with
his success in the benevolent endeavor to excite the apprehensions
of his neighbor; 'there was a ring round the moon last night; and
hark'ee, they say there was something seen off the harbor, too,
about midnight.'

'Do they though?' answered the other, with apparent interest; 'and
pray what was it?'

'I don't know exactly,' was the reply; 'I haven't heard the
particulars; but my son Tom heard from the Boston wagoner, who got
it from the uncle of one of the fishermen who came up, that a light,
a bright light, was seen for more than an hour, away off upon the
water.'

'Poh! nonsense, Jenkins! you're a fool!' impatiently exclaimed the
other; 'you've got a silly, superstitious, old woman's notion into
your head, that something or other is going to happen to the ship,
because the captain's detained ashore, and she didn't start at just
the moment she was expected to. As to the captain, I can tell you
where he is, and what the matter is with him. I heard the messenger,
who was sent down to the boat a little while ago, tell one of the
men, that he was at the counting-room of the agent, fixing his
papers. He sent word that he would be down by the waterside at ten
o'clock. And as to yonder brave craft, I haven't the least doubt
that she will have a quick and safe run home, and that we shall see
her again in this harbor a great many times, unless indeed some
of those mean scamps down in Boston or off at New-York, manage to
get her bringing-up place altered. She is a good, strong, staunch
vessel; sails fast and don't labor much; has got an excellent
crew, a first-rate captain, who will make her walk through the
water like a shark, and a jewel of a mate. I tell you what it is,
friend Jenkins, away with all your gloomy fears and your ugly
prognostications! I wish with all my heart a safe and speedy run to
the 'Countess of Pembroke.''

'That is all very well, neighbor Gibson,' replied the other, not
at all disposed to look upon the brighter side of the picture; 'I
wish as heartily as you, that the Countess may get home safe, and if
wishes would carry her there safe, she'd have no lack. But that does
not alter matters in the least. Good wishes, all the good wishes in
the world, won't carry her home; and I'll tell you what it is, signs
and things are against her. Look you there; see how it is clouding
up.'

The man who had been addressed as Gibson turned his gaze upward
as the other ceased speaking, and saw that it was indeed as he
said. A few straggling clouds had hung upon the distant edge of
the horizon nearly all the morning; and now, taking a start from
their stationary position, were moving along up the surface of the
sky, with huge dark banks of the same following close in their
wake. A few had already reached the bright luminary of day, and
spread a thin mantle of mist over its burning face; but these were
not sufficient to dim materially its glory, and the rays of light
and heat pierced through like sharp and glittering daggers. Yet
it was not so clearly evident that those huge dark masses, which
were now slowly and gradually rolling to the zenith, would become
as transparent when stretching before the dazzling orb as their
pioneers; and many were the eyes that were fixed anxiously upon the
sharp circle of the horizon, watching as they fondly hoped for the
last ominous platoon of mist.

At that moment a whisper run through the crowd, and the whole of
that vast forest of human forms was swayed to and fro like the tall
trees of the woods, when the strong wind bears down upon their
wide-spread ranks. A shout then rung upon the air; all stood upon
tip-toe, swinging themselves backward and forward to catch the first
glimpse of the commander of the ship, who was said to be coming down
to the wharf, in company with the agent.

He was soon in the midst of the crowd; and as it fell back on either
side as he advanced, to give him a clear passage through, many
hearty huzzas rung out upon the bracing air; many in kindly tones
bid him 'God speed' upon his voyage; all which awakened the most
grateful feelings of his heart, and in some instances, where his
eyes fell upon a familiar countenance, elicited a return of hearty
and sincere thanks; while all, from the very chambers of their
hearts, wished him a speedy and safe return. Arrived at the steps,
at the foot of which his boat still lay in waiting, he turned and
looked back upon the little town he was on the point of leaving,
perhaps forever, and upon the dense and almost countless multitude,
which had assembled for a last farewell; then raising his hat
from his head, he waved it once and replaced it, which action was
immediately followed by a startling cheer of hundreds of voices. The
agent of the London Company, who had accompanied him thus far, now
prepared to take leave of him, and giving him his hand, whispered,
while shaking it for the last time, a few parting instructions. This
done, they separated; the agent falling back a little and gaining
a position where he could watch conveniently the departure of the
vessel, and the captain hastily descending the few steps which led
down to the water. As he set one foot upon the gunwale, he halted
a moment and raised his eyes toward the sky; and as he watched the
gathering clouds, and noted the position of the wind, there was a
slight knitting of the brows, a compression of the lips closely
together, and a sparkling of his dark eyes to be discerned, which
gave evidence that the appearance of matters were not exactly as
he could have desired. This, however, was but momentary; for his
face immediately resumed its usual calm expression; and stepping
down into the boat which rocked beneath his heavy tread, he seated
himself at the stern, giving command by a nod to the men to shove
off; and then the little craft made its first leap forward, and the
glassy surface of the water was broken by the regular dip of oars.

A few long and steady pulls sufficed to carry the boat alongside the
ship, when she was suffered to float along under the counter, until
opposite the rope-ladder hanging down the side. Rising then from his
seat, he made two strides to the bows, and without awaiting till the
boat was as close in as the men intended to have had it, he sprang
off and caught the steadying rope in his hand. Unfortunately his
feet missed both of the rounds upon which he had expected to alight;
and such a heavy weight as his body falling suddenly upon so small
a rope as that which he held in his hand, proved too much for it;
one strand cracked and untwisted; another and another; then, to the
horror of all within sight--and every eye upon the shore and aboard
the ship and boat, was upon him--it parted, and he fell heavily into
the chilly element, breaking the surface with a fearful sound, and
the waters closed over him as he sunk.

Such a cry now rang forth from the lips of every man, woman, and
child of that vast collection, that one would have thought it
sufficient to have roused the very monsters of the deep. Ashore,
everything was in confusion, and nearly all dismayed. There was
shouting from one to another, to do this and to do that; there was
running to and fro, from one point to another; some were calling
out to put off in boats, and others to throw off planks and casks,
and logs of wood, and every thing that would float; but all to no
purpose; all were giving orders and none obeying them. Some two
or three indeed there were, who with more presence of mind had
abstained from joining in the uproar, and had upon the first alarm
jumped into a little skiff that lay alongside the wharf, and were
now half way to the ship. Those aboard and in the boat, however,
being used to accidents and dangers incidental to a seaman's
life, participated not in the least in the fears of their friends
ashore. They knew that their captain was an excellent swimmer, and
that he would rise in a moment or two, when they had no doubts or
apprehensions of his rescue from a watery grave. Those, therefore
in the boat poised their oars, ready to strike off at the second
toward the spot, wherever it might be, in which he should appear.
The others aboard busied themselves in throwing out spars, casks,
and barrels, hen-coops, and every thing that they could lay their
hands upon, that would sustain his weight in the water, to assist
him in getting aboard.

In less time than I have occupied in its description, all this
occurred; yet short as it was, short as was the interval between
his sinking and reäppearance, it was a period of the most fearfully
anxious interest. Eyes were strained to catch the first glimpse of
his head; and there were conflicting feelings at work within each
bosom; feelings of doubt, and hope, and fear, and worse than all, a
suspense that was torture. At length, to their great joy, the waters
were parted a few yards from the spot where he sunk, and once more
they caught sight of the object of their interest.

Was that not a shout of heart-felt gladness that then startled the
echoes for miles around? Rising confidently upon the treacherous
waves, as though this was his own peculiar element, he brushed
the water from his face, and then struck out boldly for the ship.
At the same instant the men in the boat, with a hearty cheer,
simultaneously dipped their oars, and one strong pull sent the
little skiff nearly a third of the distance that intervened. On
board, too, more spars were thrown over, and no means were neglected
to ensure his safety. Just then one of the sailors of the ship, who
had thrown over every thing that he could get hold of that would
float, and who had gone down into the cabin in search of something
else, appeared at the bulwarks with a large heavy chair in his arms.
Disregarding the expostulations of his mates, and the cries of those
in the boat that enough had been thrown out, and without taking the
slightest notice of its probable course, he hurled it with all his
strength into the air.

'God save him now!' ejaculated many, while a half-suppressed cry of
terror escaped the lips of others, as they watched its rise, and saw
that the direction it was taking was such that it must inevitably
strike the struggling man, or the water very near him. Shouts of
warning, and cries of, 'push away, quick!' and the various sounds
that would naturally occur at such a moment, filled the air, and
drew his attention to the impending danger. He saw and comprehended
all in a second, and with desperate effort struggled to move, though
it were but a yard from the spot in which he then was. Alas! his
efforts were in vain. Steadily up into the air it held its course,
until it was directly over the swimmer, and the force that hurled it
was expended, when it seemed to hang for a second or two, as though
to give warning, and then fell with fearful rapidity. Down, down it
came! None could help him now! With its full force it struck him on
the head, and with a groan that went to the hearts of all who heard
it, he again disappeared.

It is impossible to find words adequately to describe the
consternation that prevailed at this melancholy accident. In
contrast with the previous manner of expression, it displayed itself
not in noise and confusion, but all seemed suddenly petrified with
horror, gazing motionless and in silence at the point where the
unfortunate man was last seen. For ten long and dreary minutes,
this fearful stillness was unbroken by any sounds, save those of
the waves leaping gently over one another, and the rushing of the
breeze. Weary were the watchings for the rise of the commander of
the gallant ship. When they again saw his form, a few hours after,
(rude grappling-irons, constructed on the spur of the moment, having
been successfully used,) the seal of death was upon his brow.

Of the whole of that vast company, so interested were they all,
scarcely one had left the scene; and now, when the dripping corpse
of the unfortunate captain was carried on shore, and borne up to the
house of the agent of the ship, as they opened to the right and left
to give passage to those who carried him, many eyes were filled,
and cheeks were wet with genuine tears. One and another now began
to whisper among themselves, and wonder what would be done with
the vessel, now that she had lost her captain; whether she would
be detained long, or until another commander could be obtained, or
the first mate promoted to the office; what the agent's intentions
were, and whether or not it was probable that he would order her
round to Boston, and try to make a more successful start from that
place. These, together with speculations upon the weather, and the
probability of a storm, for now the aspect overhead was threatening,
formed the staple of conversation of the assembled townsfolk for
another hour, when it was whispered through the crowd, and afterward
spoken loudly, that the agent had altered the day of sailing to
that day week, when she would sail for England, under the charge
of the first mate. Nobody, however, appeared to possess authentic
information relative to this matter; each one who was questioned
confessed that he was told so by a friend, who had got it from
another, who in his turn had received it from somebody else.

But these rumors were speedily verified by a party who had
constituted themselves a committee to ascertain the truth or
falsehood of the reports, and had marched up in a body to the
counting-room of the agent. These now returned and announced that
the counting-room was locked up, the agent being probably up at his
house superintending the necessary arrangements for the reception
of the body of the captain; but upon the door was affixed a paper,
on which was written in his own hand-writing the sum and substance
of what they had heard. There being now no occasion for remaining
together, the crowd began to disperse, at first slowly; but at the
expiration of fifteen or twenty minutes a few stragglers, who had
stayed behind to take a long, last look, for the time being, of the
ship, were alone left of all the hundreds that had so lately filled
the place.

That night one of the most terrific storms that ever visited
New-England broke over Salem, and the surrounding country and towns,
for miles and miles around. Although it was late in the year, it
was accompanied by the most fearfully vivid lightning and appalling
thunder. Rain and hail poured down in torrents; and the winds, as
though the effort to break their chains had but increased their
anger, united in sustaining such a conflict, that the effects of it
were visible for weeks after. The waters of the harbor were lashed
into perfect fury. Several small fishing craft were sunk at their
moorings, or parted their cables and drove ashore. Boats lying at
the wharves, or in the dock, were dashed in pieces against each
other, or carried up high and dry into the streets of the town. A
small brig which was anchored above the 'Countess of Pembroke,'
loaded and ready to sail for New-York, was struck by lightning and
consumed by fire in the sight of many whose fears would not suffer
them to attempt to sleep, and who spent a portion of the long and
dreary hours of the night in straining their eyes to catch glimpses
of the ship, when the lightning for a few seconds at a time rendered
it visible, without an effort being made to stay the progress of
the flames. The good ship herself suffered severely. Though her
anchors held her firmly, yet her spars and rigging were injured. Her
foretopmast was snapped early in the storm, as though it had been a
pipe-stem, and several of her upper spars were cracked. A fishing
schooner, which had arrived only an hour before dark, and had not
hauled up to the wharf, parted her cable, and in driving toward
the shore came in contact with the ship, running her bowsprit up
into her fore-rigging, and staving in the bulwarks of the 'Countess
of Pembroke,' with the force of the concussion. The town also
suffered much. Several houses were blown down; chimneys without
number were shattered, to the imminent danger of house-tops and
whatever might be in the streets; roofs were lifted up and carried
away; and the spire of one of the churches was struck by lightning.
But fortunately the fire was extinguished by the rain before it
had acquired much headway. Nor did the country escape the general
devastation. Old trees, which had braved the storms of a century or
more, were torn up by their roots, as though they had been but the
saplings of a summer's growth; some were struck by lightning, and
others whose prongs and roots had struck too deeply into the earth
to be severed from that relationship, had their massy limbs and
branches broken off, and otherwise suffered severely. It was in fact
a storm of fearful power. None remembered ever to have witnessed
such a night; and many and many months, ay, and years too, elapsed
ere its equal visited the place.

Not to draw out this narrative to a tedious length, the time
intervening between the morning after the storm and that appointed
for a second attempt to carry the ship out may be passed over, with
merely the remark that the unfortunate captain was during that
period followed to his grave by a large concourse of friends; for
his many virtues had won esteem, and all who knew him felt that in
his untimely end a tie of tender relationship had been severed.
The morning came; not like the other, bright and beautiful, with a
clear, fresh breeze careering over the water, filling the sails,
toying with the numberless flags and streamers upon the little
craft in the harbor, and the different flag-staffs in the town, and
gladdening the hearts of the voyagers and their well-wishers with
the prospect of getting well off the coast; but dark, gloomy, and
ominous. The whole of the broad blue canopy of heaven was shut in by
one wide-spreading cloud, immovable and impenetrable, indicating the
close proximity of snow. The ship had been put in complete order;
but her new commander, though naturally elated at his unexpected
promotion, yet felt a heavy responsibility weighing down his
spirits, and a presentiment that some evil was about to befall the
idolized 'Countess of Pembroke' and her crew.

Upon the shore the crowd assembled to witness her departure was
if possible more dense than before; but not now, as then, rose
shoutings and cheerings and well-wishings. All, alas! felt that
silence was the most appropriate for the occasion; and every
individual preserved it.

At the appointed hour the signal of sailing was given. The anchor
was weighed, the sails filled with the chill north wind, and slowly
the gallant ship stood down the harbor. Soon cries from many mouths
announced that a new object of interest had been discovered; a large
crow was seen hovering over the ship, now rising and now sinking,
and flapping its black funeral wings over it. In those days of
superstition an incident like this was, in the absence of every
other sign, sufficient of itself to create consternation and dismay.
In this instance, when so many omens of evil had occurred, it may
well be supposed that the appearance of the dark messenger did not
tend to allay the fears and misgivings of the town's-people. The
motions of the bird were watched by all with intense interest. After
hanging over the ship, or sweeping round for ten or fifteen minutes,
now flapping so far away as to create hopes of its disappearance
altogether, and then returning again to crush those hopes in the
very bud, it finally settled down slowly, and alighted upon the main
truck, where it remained until the ship herself was lost to the
sight of all, save those who had trusted themselves to her strength,
and that 'Eye that never sleeps.'

Slowly the multitude dispersed, with many shakings of the head and
doubtful looks, with many whisperings among themselves, and many
misgivings of the heart, that they had taken their last look of the
gallant bark.

       *       *       *       *       *

A MONTH had rolled away since the departure of the ship, when
one night the inhabitants of Salem were aroused from their beds,
to behold a strange sight in the heavens. It was that of a large
ship, apparently under full sail, with every yard braced up, and
every square inch of canvass spread to its full extent; but from
every point, from deck to trucks and from stem to stern, wide
lurid flames of fire were streaming up, with fearful and appalling
brilliancy. For two more nights the same scene was witnessed, with
this difference on the third, that the ship was seen to go down
very suddenly below the horizon in the height of the conflagration,
instead of fading away gradually, as on the two previous nights. It
'was an honest ghost' of THE DOOMED SHIP. The 'Countess of Pembroke'
was never heard of more.




THE DEITY.

BY MISS MARY GARDINER, OF SHELTER-ISLAND, SUFFOLK COUNTY.


        BENEATH the quenchless light
    Of the broad day-god's life-imparting ray,
    Wrapt in the gloomy clouds of mental night
        That round him thickly lay,
    The ancient Persian bowed, and at that shrine
    Worshipped the glorious effluence as divine.

        THOU! whose creative voice
    Called from the depths of chaos form and might,
    Bade at a word unnumbered worlds rejoice
        In that effulgent light;
    Sun of the Universe! to THEE I bow,
    Almighty GOD! list to my humble offering now!

        Before the stars of night
    In circling systems moved through yonder sky,
    THOU! from Eternity's unmeasured height,
        Wrapt in immensity,
    Beheld the earth chaotic solitude,
    And ages roll away in their infinitude.

        Can human thought explore
    The boundaries of THY kingdom, or define
    Mid all the orbs that sweep the blue vault o'er
        Those that remotest shine?
    E'en Science pauses in her proud career,
    Furls her tired wing and sinks o'erwhelmed to Earth's low sphere.

        Before her glancing eye
    The clouds of ignorance have rolled away;
    She calls the lightning from its throne on high,
        And marks the planet's way;
    Bids the frail bark o'er Ocean's bosom glide,
    And from her mystic cells rolls back the heaving tide.

        And in her search sublime,
    Measures the sunbeam in its trackless flight;
    Earth yields her secrets, and both space and time
        Are subject to her might:
    E'en from the unseen air the mysteries flee,
    But THOU! Eternal ONE! no searching can find THEE!

        THY voice of majesty
    Throughout creation's wide expanse is heard;
    In the low South-wind's fitful melody,
        The music of the bird;
    When by the tempest-breath the clouds are riven,
    And the loud thunder peals through the deep vault of Heaven.

        And in the measured chime
    Of low waves dashing on the sunny shore,
    The streamlet's flow in the bright southern clime,
        The cataract's loud roar,
    And the hollow moan of the restless sea,
    When the storm-spirit sweeps on pinion swift and free.

        And to the human soul,
    Speaks not THY still small voice in accents strong?
    Bidding Remorse like scorching lava roll
        Its fearful tide along;
    Blighting and withering all that yet is fair,
    As blasting winds that sweep upon the desert air.

        And when the burning tears
    Of heart-felt penitence before THEE fall,
    And from thick gloom and agonizing fears
        Ascends the fervent call;
    THY voice of mercy bids Hope's angel form
    Shine like a beacon-light amid the wild night-storm.

        It soothes to calm repose
    The fitful quivering of the spirit's lyre,
    And falls, as rain-drops o'er the dying rose,
        On passion's wasting fire;
    It bids us hasten o'er Life's waters home,
    As summer breezes call the bird o'er ocean's foam.

           *       *       *       *       *

        Lo! in yon darkened room
    Glad angels wait to bear a soul away;
    Death waves his pinions, and the fearful tomb
        Opes to receive its prey:
    Low, dirge-like music stirs the troubled air;
    Hushed is each voice, each breath, for THOU, O GOD! art there.

        Swift o'er the marble brow
    The cold dews gather; oh! what hand shall guide
    The trembling spirit on its passage now
        To regions yet untried?
    Raise the dark veil hung o'er that mystic land,
    And light the wanderer's path from time's receding sand?

        The starless night of thought
    Was lit at Mercy's shrine with purest ray,
    And heavenly truth so long, so vainly sought,
        Shone forth in its mid-day;
    As angels tuned their harps to higher strains,
    And rose the star of peace o'er Bethlehem's hallowed plains.

        Then the INCARNATE came,
    Veiling his God-head in the human form;
    Not with the clarion's voice, the trump of fame,
        The earthquake and the storm:
    He came--the living GOD, creation's King!
    Humble, despised, unknown--joy, 'peace on earth' to bring!

        Oh' fearful was the hour
    When Vengeance poured on his devoted head
    The wrath of ages, and stern Death had power
        His fiery shafts to shed;
    The sun his radiance veiled in midnight gloom,
    And woke to life and light the tenants of the tomb.

        Mysterious Three in One!
    My spirit bows, by matchless love o'erwrought;
    Thyself all-knowing yet by all unknown,
        Beyond the height of thought!
    Justice and Mercy in thy works combine,
    As o'er the raging flood the glittering rain-bows shine.

        THOU watchest o'er the birth
    Of every flower that springs to bloom and die,
    The sparrow falls not to the breast of earth
        Unnoticed by thine eye;
    And suns and systems at thy glance have passed.
    As withered leaves are swept before the wintry blast.

        And when the voice of Time
    Shall chant the death-dirge o'er Earth's ruined fanes;
    When the archangel's voice in tones sublime
        Shall echo o'er her plains;
    Unchanged, unchanging, THOU shalt rise o'er all,
    While Nature's face shall rest beneath Oblivion's pall.




MIND OR INSTINCT.

AN INQUIRY CONCERNING THE MANIFESTATION OF MIND BY THE LOWER ORDERS
OF ANIMALS.

                    'IN some are found
    Such teachable and apprehensive parts,
    That man's attainments in his own concerns,
    Matched with th'expertness of the brutes in their's,
    Are ofttimes vanquished and thrown far behind.'

    COWPER.


THE cultivation of the intellectual endowments of man has raised
him to such a degree above the other orders of animated existence,
that he claims the exclusive possession of the Thinking Principle;
forgetting, while he surveys the monuments of human intelligence,
that they are but the evidence of his advancement from the savage
state; and that while he remained in that primitive condition he
might be considered, in fact, as many degrees below his present
position in point of mental capacity, as above that of the most
sagacious animals;[1] forgetting also that had he continued in a
state of nature, like some of the tribes of Africa or America,
leaving others to judge of his intelligence from the rude vestiges
of his civilization exclusively, they could scarcely attribute to
him more intellect than they would to the beaver, or even to the ant.

  [1] THE term 'Animals' will be confined to orders below Man.

Animals, unlike men, do not improve materially in different
generations, because they generally require no artificial means to
promote their happiness; neither have they the gregarious principle
to the same extent as man; but some of those which have, exhibit the
extraordinary intelligence which will presently be cited.

The object of this inquiry is to ascertain, by the examination of
facts, whether the principle called INSTINCT manifests the same
intellectual qualities as MIND, without having any reference to
its _moral_ attributes. It is not claimed that each one possesses
that rare combination of mental properties which distinguishes
the human species; but merely that there is a similitude in the
intellectual operation of memory, in men and in animals; the same
of abstraction, of imagination, and of reason or judgment, though
possessed among all in different degrees, and under different
modifications.

The word _Instinct_ is employed to designate the exhibitions of
animal nature in their endless varieties. It is a principle which
performs the same office in regulating their conduct, that the mind
of man does in directing his. It is usually defined, an inward
persuasion, a spontaneous impulse, prompting animals to provide
for their safety, and administer to their wants; but in certain
cases the term has been ennobled by the substitution of sagacity,
intelligence, cunning, when the gleamings of intelligence have been
too certain to be misunderstood. The truth is, as of the human mind,
we know nothing of its essence, of its ultimate nature; and our
investigations, as in mind, must be limited to a knowledge of its
properties or qualities.

This inquiry, then, will be confined to the intellectual qualities
of Instinct; and if, from facts carefully examined, it can be
deduced that an animal remembers, we must from necessity concede
to his instinct the quality of memory; or if he exhibit an exact
knowledge of means and their end, by applying the means to effect
the end, we must attribute to his instinct the quality of judging;
and the same of other instinctive operations.

It is important for even a tolerable elucidation of this subject,
to present the utmost number of ways in which the manifestations of
instinct are analogous to the manifestations of mind, as exhibited
by the human race; and in doing this, no apology is deemed necessary
for the introduction of numerous instances from Natural History, and
from common observation.


     I. OF THE MEMORY OF THE PRINCIPLE CALLED INSTINCT.

     ILLUSTRATIONS.--In autumn, says HUBER, honey has been placed in
     a window, where the bees resorted to it in multitudes. It was
     removed, and the shutters closed during winter; but when opened
     again on the return of Spring, the bees came back, though no
     honey remained; undoubtedly they remembered it; therefore an
     interval of several weeks did not obliterate the impression they
     had received.--_Selections from Em. Nat's, but entitled Buffon's
     Nat. Hist., Vide V., 137._

     A sailor who had been strolling round Wombwell's menagerie,
     loitering here and there to identify some of the animals
     with those he had seen in far distant climes, was attracted
     by the strange noise of a tiger, who seemed irritated beyond
     endurance. Jack sought the keeper, to inquire the cause of so
     singular a display of feeling, which became more boisterous
     the nearer he approached the animal. The keeper replied that
     the behavior of the tiger indicated either that he was vastly
     pleased, or annoyed; upon this the sailor again approached the
     den, and after gazing at the animal a few moments, during which
     he became frantic with seeming rage, discovered him to be the
     same animal brought to England under the special care of the
     weather-beaten tar. Jack was now as delighted as it appeared the
     tiger was in recognizing his old friend, and he desired to enter
     the den, for the purpose as he said of 'shaking a fist' with
     the beautiful animal. The iron door was opened, and Jack was
     permitted to enter. The affection of the animal was now shown
     by caressing and licking the pleased sailor, whom he seemed to
     welcome with the heartiest satisfaction; and when the honest
     tar left the den, the anguish of the creature appeared almost
     insupportable.--_London Journal. Buff., II., 88, a like case._

     A dog one afternoon was passing through a field near Dartmouth,
     England, where a washerwoman had hung her linen to dry. He
     stopped and surveyed one particular shirt with attention; then
     seizing it, he dragged it away through the dirt to his master,
     whose shirt it proved to be.--_Buff., I., 290._

     Warren Hastings, Governor-General of India, having dismissed the
     keeper of one of his elephants, the animal refused obedience
     to any other, and finally escaped to the wild herd. Ten years
     afterward the old keeper of the elephant found him in a keddah,
     and he instantly submitted himself to him.--_Buff., N. H., II.,
     190._

We need seek no clearer evidence of memory in its purest sense, than
these instances afford. They are the strong arguments of fact, and
need but a momentary examination. Instances however can be found,
in which the memory of instinct is even more powerful and retentive
than the memory of mind. The homeward flight of the carrier-pigeon
is a consecutive remembrance of places; and who, unaided, could
retrace his steps for hundreds of miles, after one outward passage?
Instances of local memory are familiar to all. The fox remembers his
burrow; the bird her nest; the bee its hive; for, if they did not
recall the fact of having occupied these places before, they would
be found as frequently in the burrow or hive of another as their
own; whereas common observation teaches the contrary. The parrot
also, and the jay, have been noted for their memory. The cat and the
pet sheep distinguish their favorite in the family from day to day;
while the dog welcomes the return of his master with manifestations
of remembrance as conclusive as the remembrance of the child or the
wife.

Our knowledge of the qualities of instinct is derived from actions
only; of mind, from words and actions. But these qualities can be
inferred as legitimately from the latter, under proper restrictions,
as from both; and if we should investigate the properties of mind
from the actions of men exclusively, we could not arrive at them
with any greater certainty than we can at the properties of instinct.

From the above illustrations, (if they were needed,) the conclusion
is irresistible, that Instinct remembers; and all the phenomena of
this memory are identical, both in analysis and synthesis, with
the phenomena of memory in the human mind. No shade of distinction
can be taken, except it be in the degree of strength; and on these
terms, while the mass of animals would fall below man, some would
rise above him.


     II. OF THE PROCESS OF ABSTRACTION BY INSTINCT.

     ILLUSTRATIONS.--The beavers begin to assemble in the month of
     June or July, in order to form a society, which is to continue
     for the greatest part of the year. They arrive in numbers
     from every side, and presently form a company of two or three
     hundred. The place of meeting is commonly the place where they
     fix their abode, and this is always by the side of some lake or
     river; if it be a running stream, which is subject to floods and
     falls, they then set about building a dam, or pier that crosses
     the river, so as to form a dead water in that part which lies
     above and below. This dam or pier is often four-score or an
     hundred feet long, and ten or twelve feet thick at the base:
     the part of the river over which this dam is usually built,
     is where it is the most shallow, and where some great tree is
     found growing by the side of the stream. This they pitch upon
     as proper for making the principal part in their building; and
     though it is often thicker than a man's body, they yet instantly
     set about gnawing it down.--_Buff., II., 24._ NOTE.--This is
     fallen across the stream. They then sharpen stakes, and fix them
     in the bed of the stream, the upper end resting against the tree.

     The fox usually digs his hole in the edge of a wood, or the side
     of a bank; and in the vicinity of a farm-house. He chooses a dry
     and secluded spot, preferring a sandy soil.

     The tigress, to oppose the daring invaders of her den, braves
     every danger. On such occasions she pursues the spoiler with
     an enmity the most inveterate; and he, contented to lose a
     part in order to save a part, is frequently obliged to drop
     one of her cubs. With this she immediately returns to her den,
     and again pursues him; he then drops another; and by the time
     she has returned with that, he generally escapes with the
     remainder.--_Buff., II., 81._

By the process of abstraction, facts are separated from their
original relations, and some of them contemplated apart from the
rest. For example: a stream is considered with reference to its
width, depth, and rapidity, or rather each property in its turn. In
the familiar instance of the fox, we invariably find his burrow in
a dry and secluded place; and in a sandy or earthy soil, unless it
be in natural crevices. From these facts the inference necessarily
results, that he had examined the location with reference to each
of these requisites separately; unless instinct can entertain
two questions at the same instant, which is above the power of
mind; otherwise, his habitation being destitute of one of these
essentials, would be useless, and the poor fox be doomed to toil
in blind experiment, until chance directed him to a place which
combined these and numerous other elements of convenience which the
dainty creature might desire, and of which we can have no knowledge.

The beaver, in selecting a site for his dam, furnishes a stronger
and more interesting specimen of the abstract reasoning of instinct.
The depth, width, and rapidity of the stream; banks sufficiently
high to prevent an overflow; the tree upon its edge; the vicinity of
food, and materials for their work; all these are to be considered
in turn; and if any of these requisites are deficient, a new place
must be sought. If instinct proceeded at random, the multitude
of disadvantages would preclude success; their labors might be
cast away upon a stream too deep and rapid, or too wide, or in
a barren region. But it is asserted that instinct spontaneously
impels all animals to the end they seek; than which nothing can be
more irrational. It is endowing them with a principle which leads
unerringly to results that man might fail to ascertain by the aid
of science. It is in effect endowing them with a principle higher
than mind; partaking something of DEITY itself. When man's attention
has been arrested by their ingenuity or intelligence, he has passed
them over as the workings of mysterious instinct; and indifference
has led him into such absurdities. We have seen, on the authority
of naturalists, that the beaver's dam is always found at a place
which furnishes certain natural advantages. Let us now institute a
comparison. A student wishes to study Algebra; we next see him with
a slate, algebra, and pencil in hand. The three, with reference to
the end designed, make but one object or means; and the inference is
natural, that he had abstractly considered the office and necessity
of each. On the other hand, the beavers announce their intention
of building a dam, by assembling in June and forming a company. We
next see them cutting a tree to fall across the creek. The tree, and
the width, depth, and nature of the bed of the stream, make but one
object or means, as in the other case; and the inference is equally
natural and necessary, that they had abstractly considered these
elements of fitness, before they selected this particular site, in
preference to another.

Comparison is also involved in this selection of a place; and in the
execution of the work, reasoning upon the relations of things, as
distinguished from a consecutive consideration of their properties.
Figure, motion, rest, space, and number are abstract terms. A
case in number only has been referred to. It would be a singular
supposition, that the dam did not know the number of her offspring,
if the proof, from the well-known habits of the tigress, could not
be furnished.

Again: the eagle builds her nest on the most rugged cliff, and in
a region scarcely inhabited by man, her only formidable enemy.
She might find a lofty cliff, with the plains below teeming with
population, or an uninhabited region without a cliff; neither
of which would answer; and to determine whether a given place
combined these requisites of safety, she must consider it with
reference to each of these properties separately; which would be
the simple process of abstraction. The arrangement of objects into
genera and species being a higher process, and the useful result
of abstraction, the inquiry might be extended to ascertain, if
possible, whether animals ever exhibit such classification in
practice.

It is a matter of common observation, that the fox in his excursion
will run through a flock of sheep, among cattle, or swine, or birds;
but the human species, of whatever sex or age, and dogs, of whatever
size or variety, he never approaches; and if he suddenly encounters
either, he turns with alarm. By this it appears that he attributes
hostility of feeling to the human family; and a disposition not very
amiable to the canine species, his hereditary enemy. But horses,
sheep, and oxen he considers inoffensive, and trusts himself freely
among them.

Judging from actions, (to which we are confined,) the manifestations
of instinct in the cases cited, are exactly analogous to the
manifestations of mind, under similar circumstances; and had man
exhibited such conduct, we should without hesitation pronounce
it the consequence of abstract consideration. Now, since we know
nothing of the ultimate nature of mind, or of instinct, and hence
cannot establish a fundamental distinction between them; and since
the manifestations of both are alike, in view of similar premises;
it follows, that we can no more deny the quality of abstraction to
one than to the other.


III. OF THE IMAGINATION OF THE PRINCIPLE CALLED INSTINCT.

IMAGINATION is regarded as one of the highest of the mental
faculties; but since it is manifested in thought rather than in
actions, an additional difficulty is presented of discovering the
exhibitions of this quality, by animals. It will therefore be a
doubtful undertaking, to furnish proof that instinct is endued with
this creative ability 'to fabricate images of things that have no
existence;' and an approximation only can be expected.

The young dog exhibits his native fierceness while shaking a stick;
does he not for the time raise an image of some other animal with
whose properties he invests it? The same of a cat, while in the
act of crouching and springing to seize a pebble. On a kindred
principle, the mere boy rides his willow pony, and the infant Miss
hushes her doll to sleep.

The proximate causes of playfulness in youth are the pictures raised
in the mind by the fancy or imagination. This faculty, says Kaimes,
'is the great instrument of recreation.' The mind is exhilarated by
the cheerfulness with which surrounding objects have been invested
by its touch; and the sports of childhood, together with the gayety
of youth, are mainly referable to its activity. It is not uncommon
to discover the boy and his spaniel at play with a ball as a
go-between. The beautiful animal, with open mouth, pricked up ear,
and eyes sparkling with vivacity, now eagerly watches every motion
of the ball, and of his play-mate, and now seeks for either or both,
in their hiding-place. It would be difficult to determine from
their actions, which exhibited the quickest perception, the most
ingenuity, or the most ardent relish for the amusement. A similar
playfulness is seen in most young animals. The manifestations are
alike in both; hence the causes cannot be very diverse.

The birds of the air constantly change their habitations in the same
latitude, as well as migrate from South to North, and back again.
If they did not picture to themselves images of other regions, more
beautiful, more abundantly supplied with the means of subsistence,
and more agreeable in climate, where is the motive to change? Hunger
with them is a motive to exertion, and danger, to flight; but they
could have no conception of another place, unless by imagination
they might, from the scenes around them, picture another, with more
of such parts as were desirable, and less of such as were not; and
this would be an inducement to depart; but if they could picture
no such prospect, the principle of self-preservation would prompt
them to remain. To fabricate such a picture is the exact office of
Imagination, and is its best definition.

A bright and still summer morning fills the mind with pleasant
images, and the effect is cheerful looks and conduct. The
matter-of-fact man, however, with little imagination, would
be indifferent; while the poet would surrender himself to
the inspiration of the scene. The birds also 'sing out their
thankfulness,' and express enjoyment of the scene, by their merry
notes. The very formation of song seems to be an imaginative art.
On the other hand, a dull morning not only hushes the vocalist of
the grove, but fills the mind with unpleasant reflections. And as
Imagination 'bodies forth the forms of things unknown,' we are
seized with uneasiness, and perhaps with melancholy.

Animals are known to dream, from physical indications during sleep,
especially the dog. We see him agitated in every limb, and uttering
low, angry growls. He sees nothing in reality; but the imagination
must have created images in his instinct of real scenes, probably
of conflict, as his movements would lead us to infer. The fact that
some animals dream is as well understood as that the phenomena of
dreaming are treated in intellectual philosophy as some of the
singular results of our mental constitution.

We are forced to see the analogies between the manifestations
of mind and of instinct; and any candid observer will find it
as difficult to detect a distinction, (except in the degree of
power,) as to prove that these analogies do not exist. The strong
and uninterrupted current of analogies in animal life, also, which
subsist between man and the various species of animals, furnishes
an indirect support to the views hitherto advanced. They have the
senses, natural affections, and propensities, in common with man. In
some they excel. They are 'hurt by the same weapons, and warmed and
cooled by the same winter and summer.' They have also bone, muscle,
and nerve; the vital fluid, and the organs of circulation, operating
in such as possess them, on the same principles as in man. They have
the brain; and so situated with reference to the organs of sense as
to derive their knowledge of external objects by the same physical
agencies that he does. They experience hunger and thirst, pleasure
and pain; and some of them exhibit courage and fear; pride, anger,
envy, jealousy, and hatred: others,

    'Attachment never to be weaned or changed
    By any change of fortune: proof alike
    Against unkindness, absence, and neglect;
    Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat
    Can move or warp; and gratitude for small
    And trivial favors, lasting as the life.'

The existence of these functions, properties, appetites, and
passions is freely admitted; the proof being drawn from physiology
on the one part, and their actions on the other; and yet it is as
evident, and as easy to prove, that an animal remembers as that he
hears; that he exercises reason in given cases, as that he sees; and
as easy that he has imagination, as that a majority of the human
race possess it, seeking for the proof in their actions exclusively.

Let us now consider for a moment the manner in which a knowledge
of external objects is attained. The eye is directed, for example,
to a dangerous animal. Its image is imprinted upon the retina of
the eye; and this impression having been conveyed by the optic
nerve to the brain, which is the organ of the mind, the mind has
then a perception of the animal; upon this perception, reflection
ensues; of its power to destroy; its menacing attitude; the
necessity and means of escape. A dog likewise directs his eye to
the same animal; an image is formed upon the retina of his eye,
and this being conveyed by the optic nerve to the brain, which, by
parity of reason, is the organ of the principle called instinct;
instinct also has a perception of the animal. The modes thus far are
perfectly analogous; but here inquiry has rested; and man absolutely
denied that instinct could make a rational use of the perception,
which he could not deny it had obtained. He did not or would not
reflect, that if the DEITY had bestowed upon animals an eye of
wonderful mechanism like his own; an optic nerve and brain, and a
principle to take knowledge of impressions conveyed to it by the
organs of vision; together with all the other senses requisite for
perception; some of them most delicate, others most powerful; there
was no reason why he should render them nugatory by denying to this
principle the ability to reflect upon such perceptions and arrive
at conclusions. He did not consider that the dog discovered the
object in question to be dangerous as quick as he did; and exhibited
this conclusion by fleeing as soon as he; but insisted, in the face
of unyielding facts, that a blind, unfathomable impulse urged the
creature to escape, while the man arrived at the same determination
by a most simple process of reasoning.

In another and concluding number, the reason or judgment of the
principle called Instinct will be considered at large.




OCTOBER.

BY H. W. ROCKWELL.

    'THE robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,
    And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.'

  BRYANT.


I.

    WHERE is the summer-light?--alas!
      It shines upon the land no more;
    No leaf-shade spots the withered grass,
      No fountain sings upon the shore;
    Gone are the days of golden June,
      Gone her sweet dews at night-fall cool,
    And the young leaves that knew her moon,
      Float sere and reddened in the pool.


II.

    No spice-fed airs are here, to stir
      The flowers which they so lately fanned,
    No murmur but the wind-smote fir,
      Or ground-birds chirping on the sand;
    Too meekly brief was summer's light,
      Too fleetly sweet the tints she wore,
    Yet they are gone, and dusky night,
      And autumn, sadden hill and shore!


III.

    I heard a bird in yonder glen--
      It sang with all too gay a heart,
    For ere I sought the wild again,
      The cold had warned her to depart;
    Afar beyond the southern bound
      Where wind of autumn never grieves,
    She sings in some sweet isle, around
      Whose shore the soft blue ocean heaves.


IV.

    No snow-charged tempest there shall chide
      The forest by the silvery deep:
    No wintry whirlwind there shall ride,
      To break the sweet sea's summer sleep;
    Though cold and brief the northern day,
      The noon-tide lingers longest there,
    Merry with winds that fling the spray
      High in the fresh, brisk ocean air.


V.

    Leave me and the cold north forgot,
      While autumn paints the woods again,
    For sweeter than a fresher spot,
      Is the sad beauty of the glen!
    I'll gaze far through the thickening night
      While the leaves rustle o'er my head,
    Muse on the days which once were bright--
      Feel that they all are cold and dead!




THE INFLUENTIAL MAN.

A SKETCH OF TINNECUM.


THE citizens of the little suburb of Quog pressing on to the
accomplishment of any town measure would remind you of the
sheep-flocks of their own extensive plains and pasture-grounds,
urged helter-skelter, yet all in one direction, and that too by
the agency of a single shepherd. Whoever threw himself in the way,
must either press onward with the throng, or be trampled down
and overcome. Yet plastic as they were in the hands of their own
chosen guides, the people of Quog were an unconquered Democracy,
and breathed the voluptuous air of freedom. Every man was 'as good'
as his fellow, none better. Socially, morally, politically, they
considered themselves on one dead level, like the country around
them. Quog was the very grave of all distinctions; but although
its citizens submitted to no dictation, and would not be 'druv,'
yet what amounted to the same thing, they could be impelled in a
pretty compact body, whether for good or for ill, by the seductive
gentleness of a force applied _a tergo_; that is, not so much to
their reasoning faculties, as to their baser propensities.

Uncle BILLY PINE was beyond all question the great man of Quog; the
umpire, the last court of appeal in complex cases. 'If he _says_
so, I guess it will have _to be_ so,' was a common saying, should
any one be so obdurate as to persist in an opinion of his own. It
was marvellous how two or three words from him would alter the
complexion of cases which had just before been flooded with light
by the eloquence of some confident orator. Arguments piled upon
arguments, until they got to be highly cumulative, were thrown down
in ruinous confusion, the moment his carbuncled nose appeared in
sight. The school-master succumbed to him, but the school-master was
seldom 'abroad' in Quog. The minority, which was ridiculously small,
(for there _was_ a minority on all important questions,) were forced
to acknowledge, 'He is an influential man--an influential man.' How
he came to acquire so much respect, I know not; it was a sentiment
which sprang up, and gradually gained strength, in the bosom of his
townsmen; and which they explained in no more philosophical way
than this, that 'there was something about him.' He possessed the
common rudiments of education; but although he always _did_ take
his regular potations, and always _would_, by reason of which his
face had become as ruddy as a lobster, he claimed it as a positive
virtue, on the strength of which he expected to inherit heaven, that
he was unflinchingly honest, that he 'never robbed nobody,' and
that so long as he was above ground, or had any thing to say, he
meant to see justice done between man and man. He possessed what was
esteemed a handsome property in land, which enabled him to smoke
his pipe at the ale-house in a very leisurely way; and here perhaps
he laid the foundation of his influence, by the fascination of his
social powers, his practical democracy, his cordial familiarity,
and his uniform system of _treating_ all alike. He slurred over his
ignorance very handsomely by being fluent on all public topics, and
by a display of what his fellow-citizens denominated 'good common
sense.' Such was the '_Influential Man_.'

Quog was a maritime place, at least pretty near to the salt-meadows
on Long Island, and carried on a vigorous trade in clams, eels,
cockles, horse-feet, fish of various kinds, and wild duck. The
inhabitants were unlearned, and so were their ancestors before them,
down to the first settlement. There was no occasion for this; they
might have been highly educated to a man, had they desired learning,
and that too without money and without price. There was a source
of revenue among them, which could be instantly developed, richer
than could be derived from creeks, bays, and fishing-grounds in
a century. They might have varied the intervals of toil with the
delight of books, whereas in the existing state of things there was
not so much as a bible or an almanac to be found along the whole
shore. Some philanthropists in a remote part of the town undertook
to abate this ignorance, and to make the people of Quog wise. These
however resented this meddling impudence with great fury, and raised
up such a storm of prejudice and bad feeling as had never been known
to rage within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. It was a very
dangerous experiment on the part of the minority; the 'judicious
Hookers' among them were fain to acknowledge that the attempt was
ill-judged and premature. There were town-lands belonging to the
town of Quog to the amount of some thousand acres, lying in their
state of natural wildness, without fence, but capable of producing
good crops, and being richly cultured. From so much waste ground but
a small and partial benefit fell to the share of each inhabitant.
The imagination of the philanthropist loved to picture those
extensive plains, which now stretched as far as the eye could reach,
without tree or shrub, in one melancholy extent of barrenness,
converted into rich farms, covered with waving harvests, and giving
sustenance to men inured to the noblest of all labor, the culture
of the soil. There was now indeed one pleasing, picturesque sight,
of which the eye never wearied; multitudes of cattle, dotting the
plain in large companies, quietly grazing, or standing in reflective
attitudes, almost as if they were painted on the canvass. Seen at
a little distance, on the naked plain, and relieved by no near
object these variegated groups would cause the eye which loves the
beautiful or picturesque to dance with rapture. The air of quietude
and repose diffused over these dumb creatures, recalls to the mind
every picture of rural happiness, the fondest we have conceived in
dreams, or read of in the lucubrations of the poets.

It was desirable to dispose of these lands for a moderate price, and
convert the revenue into a fund for the education of every child in
the town of Quog. There were a few who had long anxiously reflected
on this subject, and brought every plausible argument to bear upon
the inhabitants. They should relinquish no privilege, they should
reap inconceivable advantages for themselves and their posterity,
and education should shed down its blessings upon all; in short,
nobody could foresee what a revolution would take place among the
people of Quog, if they would but sell the town-lands. There was no
use however of stirring up the matter. Uncle Billy said it should
not be done; no, never, _never_, while his head was above ground;
and 'if he _said_ so, it would have to _be_ so.'

Years passed away, and still the light of education had never dawned
on that benighted people. They were yet addicted to their old
pursuits, spending most of the time in taking eels and clams, and
seemed not to have a single wish beyond satisfying their present
hunger. They sent their cows to pasture on the great plains; and
this was a heritage which their fathers enjoyed, and which, in spite
of all modern reform, they meant to transmit undiminished to their
children. Mr. William Pine grew fonder of the bottle as he grew
older, and was held in more affectionate respect. He threw out his
disjointed philosophy with a most unstudied air, during the interval
of his whiffs; and whether on general politics, or local measures,
his sentiments crept abroad, and formed a standard of opinion for
the whole town of Quog. So subtle a thing is _influence_. It is not
riches, it is not talent, it is not eloquence; it is the _je ne sais
quoi_.

At last the reform party, who had kept quiet a good while, with a
forlorn hope of a better state of things, expecting moreover in the
course of nature that it would please divine Providence to remove
out of this mortal life their obdurate neighbor, began with a very
cautious foot to stir up the old project of selling the town-lands.
They talked very indefatigably, but in a gentle, subdued tone, with
all their neighbors, smoothing down their asperities of temper, and
presenting the subject in a great many plausible lights. Nor did
their labor seem wholly in vain. Those who listened urged nothing
in reply, and were even willing to acknowledge that what they had
stated 'was all well enough.' These good reformers persevered in
their peripatetic philosophy, and even flattered themselves that
they had obtained a good position, and had got a lever adjusted with
which they would move the mountain of old prejudice, and get rid of
that terrible stumbling-block in the way of all good measures, that
blind and ignorant, but _influential_ old man!

The crisis had now come, when, according to their judgment, it would
be judicious to bring into play their new strength, and test the
whole matter by a public vote at the next meeting of the town. In
the mean time, they spared no pains to seek out the most violent
opposers, to reason with them emolliently; and to spread out,
simplify, and explain the subject to those of extreme stupidity.
At last a great many said that they were well enough satisfied,
and 'thought it like enough that they would vote for the measure.'
The 'friends of education' held a caucus, which was attended with
great animation and rubbing of hands. A committee, appointed for the
purpose, presented the draught of a school-house on an improved
plan. Public opinion seemed to have become so leavened by these
new and enlightened views, as to leave scarcely a single doubt of
the most unqualified success. One could mention three or four who
were wavering; another a half a dozen who had made up their minds;
another a dozen who declared expressly that they would vote for the
measure. All this diffused encouraging smiles over the faces of the
members, and led many of them to declare boldly that they could have
carried their point some years ago, if they had only thought so;
that it only required tact, management, and perseverance; and that
they had vastly overrated the importance of the Influential Man.

What had hitherto produced as much popular effect as any thing at
the town-meetings, was a patriotic song, composed by Uncle Billy
Pine, which will serve to show the literature of Quog, and which was
frequently sung with great zest, and an overpowering chorus:

    'SO when the Session it came around,
    All for to make laws for our town,
    We made our laws, and thus did say,
    You shall not take our common rights away:
        Ti de id lo, ti de a!
    You shall not take our common rights away.

    'Now gentlemen, we are in duty bound,
    To support the common rights of old Quog town;
    And this we will do until doom's-day,
    For we will not give our rights away.
        Ti de id lo, ti de a!
    For we will never give our rights away!'

The jingle of the above song, which consisted of a good many verses,
and which was thoroughly learned by all the population of Quog,
still sounded in the ears of the 'friends of education,' and they
sincerely hoped that by the time of the approaching contest it would
be forgotten.

The day at last arrived, the important day, and the townsmen, for
want of a better covering, were assembled to vote beneath the open
sky. The reform party were there in full force, and with an adequate
degree of spirits. When other business had been transacted, the
chairman said:

'Gentlemen, it is proposed to sell the town-lands; those who are in
favor of this measure, will please signify it by holding up their
hands.'

Then it was that the orator of the above party, being loudly called
upon, spoke out. He was a thin-faced man, pale and agitated with the
importance of his message, which he desired to present in the most
translucent way; for he knew the benefits of education, having come
to that benighted region from the very heart of New-England, where
its blessings are as free as air. 'My respected friends,' said he,
'we want you all to be satisfied in your own minds. It doos seem to
be a pity that all this land should lie idle, when you might just as
well sell it for thousands of dollars, and have the money in your
own pockets; or what is a great deal better, edicate your children
with it. Just këount up what it would come to, if there's any of
you acquainted with arithmetic, and you'll find there's plenty,
kalkalating only the interest, for all purposes of eddication. And
what good do you gëit ëout of it nëow? Why every man sends his
këow to pastur', and it's mighty _poor_ pastur', that's a fact.
(_Cheers._) Wal, I s'pose some folks will say the poor man and the
rich man get served both alike, for when the mashes are mowed, both
have the same right. That isn't so, my respected friends. For the
rich man can afford to send four times as many hands, and carry
off four times as much hay. (_Cheers._) Now the time doos seem to
be come to remedy this evil, and to get a fair distribution of the
proceeds. We don't _want_ to 'take your rights away,' my christian
friends; we want to give every man his _own_ rights. I've got reason
to think that many of you look at this matter in the right light,
sence it's been set before you, and made all plain; and this speaks
much for that wonderful nat'ral-born intelligence which is common to
the people of Quog. (_Cheers._) _Nëow_ is the time to decide this
matter; that's the only fault, that you've been a-thinkin' about it
too long; but my friends, you can make up for lost time; put your
shoulder to the wheel, and whatever you do, do it nëow! _nëow!_
NËOW!'

This praiseworthy speech produced considerable sensation on the
ground. One said it was reasonable enough; another said he couldn't
pick any flaw in what the speaker had set forth; another declared he
was a smart man. In short, a very general buzz of approbation ran
through the assembly; and the slow dawn of intelligence beginning
to break gradually over the faces of those present, gave evidence
that 'the cause' had never before made such a long stride in the
town of Quog. The question was now about to be taken, when somebody
requested the chairman to 'hold on a minute; it was well enough to
hear all sides first; and may be Uncle Billy had got a word to say.'
The reform party looked a little frightened, as they had augured
very favorably from not having discovered the 'Influential Man' upon
the ground. He had only retired to the bar-room, however, and held
himself in readiness as soon as the proper moment should arrive. He
now edged his way up to the tribune, with a smiling, rubicund face,
and swinging his hat around, 'Boys,' said he, with a gay, familiar
tone, 'don't you hold up your hands for no such thing. Now you've
got something to give to your children when you die, and they can't
spend it, nor run away with it. Let the aristocrats get hold of the
money, and they'll put it into their pockets, and then see where
you'll be; the plains, mashes, money, all gone. That aint all. The
next thing they'll do will be to sell your fishing-privileges;
(_great excitement;_) and when you go upon the grounds you'll be
druv off. What'll you do then? No clammin', no eelin', and no
pastur' to feed your cow onto. That's what it'll nat'rally lead to.
Now you see, I'm an old man, and know how these things work; but by
----! I won't stand by, not while my gray hairs is above ground, and
see your rights taken away. So hold on to your rights, boys! hold on
to your rights!'

A shout arose, a triumphant shout, from the whole mass, the above
Doric eloquence having turned them completely about. Who would have
thought that the aspect of things could become so changed? But
this comes of having the last word. Pleasant smiles were diffused
over the face of Uncle Billy; and the meeting being now ripe for
the question, it was put, and the inhabitants, as it were with
one voice, decided that the town-lands should remain 'just as
they were.' The philanthropists departed from the ground wofully
chapfallen, amid the jeers and calumniations of the crowd; and the
old chorus met their ears from the tavern-doors and windows as they
passed:

    'I HEARD a song the other day,
    Made in old Quog, as they do say,
    And all the tune that they could play,
    Was to take our common rights away.
        Ti de id lo, ti de a!
    To take our common rights away!'

It is a good maxim never to despair; and perseverance in a just
cause will at last accomplish its most difficult ends. For the
present generation it is to be feared that nothing can be done.
Their case is indeed peculiar. They never will sell the town-lands
until they get education, and they never will get education until
they sell the town-lands. Thus the matter stands; and it grieves me
to say, in conclusion, that never was the pall of ignorance more
dark than that which hangs at this moment over the benighted regions
of Quog.

  F. W. S.




THE BROKEN VOW.


              ----'SHE was his life,
    The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
    Which terminated all.'

       *       *       *       *       *

    HE has learned a sad lesson! he trusted away
      A heart that loved wildly, but oh! how sincere!
    He deemed that such happiness could not decay,
      But the full-flowing fountain has shrunk to a tear.

    He thought that the sun, which at morn shone so bright,
      Would surely shine on, till the star-light appeared;
    But sorrow came down on the cold wings of night,
      And all his best feelings were trampled and seared.

    The being he worshipped, as angels adore,
      The bird he had nestled so close to his heart,
    That one! oh, no other can ever restore
      The joys of his Eden; from her he must part!

    He must strive to forget her, and never again
      Send a dove to the world with the hope of return;
    He must close every portal but sighing and pain,
      In a bosom that sorrow can never unlearn.

  J. T. F.

  _Boston, Oct., 1843._




CHRONICLES OF THE PAST.

NUMBER TWO.


THE application of names to places is often a matter of mere fancy,
without a semblance of appropriateness. The belligerent little State
of Rhode-Island, for example, bears no more likeness to the Isle
of Rhodes, from which it takes its name, than does a West Indian
war-club to the queue of a Chinese mandarin. The Bay State is no
more the State possessing a bay, than are half the sea-board States
in the Union; nor has Connecticut any more claim to the river which
enriches her meadows, nor Vermont to the greensward of her hills,
than has Massachusetts to the one, or Western Virginia to the other.
Far more mal-apropos, however, than all we have mentioned, is the
application of _palmetto_ to the chivalrous land of nullification,
since neither on upland nor lowland, rice field nor cotton-field,
saving only the dwarf specimens upon the sand-banks of Sullivan's
Island, is that fantastic tree of the tropics to be found any where
within the State. In truth, as a general thing, there is neither
character nor cleverness in the application of names to places; and
he who should form his notions of the different sections of our
country from the appellations they have received, would be much in
the condition of Bossuet's student of history, who had taken for his
text-books Gulliver's Voyages and Rabelais's Pantagruel.

There is, however, _one_ notable exception to the general fact.
New-Hampshire is rightly and truly designated the Granite State. Not
only in the bare sides of her stupendous mountains, and the broad
bases of her rugged hills, does she partake largely of this firm
conglomerate, but in her people also she seems to have compounded
no small share of the hard material. Stern, unbending, indomitable,
with physical frames like the gnarled oak, and characters rough as
the huge boulders upon her soil, New-Hampshire may boast a race
of men unequalled for energy and endurance by any other in the
world. It would seem as if the old Saxon legend, which makes Tor,
the war-god, hew the first man, with hammer and chisel, out of a
block of stone, and give him life with a flash of lightning, were
fully verified in these hardy sons of the mountains; for they are
almost literally men of granite, with electric spirits. It has
been my fortune, in a not uneventful life, to have travelled over
many portions of the world's surface, and to have seen much of
human manners and character; and I can truly say that I have always
returned to the barren soil of New-Hampshire with a higher respect
and a warmer love for the rude virtues of her sons; and it is now my
firm belief, should the day ever come, which may Heaven avert! when
dissensions will rend asunder that great charter of our freedom,
the Constitution, that Liberty, like the bird we have chosen for
her emblem, scared from her resting-place in the capitol, would find
her last and secure home among the dwellers on the hill-sides of the
Granite State.

This is not equally true, however, of every portion of
New-Hampshire. Along the southern borders of her territory the
spindle and shuttle have introduced a race who are strangers to the
simple virtues of her husbandmen; so that even they, tempted by the
lucre of gain, have sadly fallen from the primitive plainness which
was once their most enviable characteristic. Neither upon the rich
intervales of the Connecticut, where wealth comes unattended by her
handmaid labor, will you find the true specimens of her stalwart
yeomanry. It is in the distant up-country only, among the townships
far removed from the bustle of the manufactory and the crowd of
the market-place, that the rough husbandmen of the hard soil, the
sterling democracy of our degenerate age, are to be sought and
known. There they dwell, the honest country-folk of by-gone days,
undisturbed by the changes which time brings over other portions of
the world, contented lords of the heritage of their fathers.

Whether it is to be attributed to some peculiarities of climate or
of soil, or to some one of those other thousand influences which
are ever operating upon the physical frame, it is certain that the
maximum of bodily size and human life, over a considerable portion
of the Granite State, is at a higher standard than in any other part
of our country. It is capable of being demonstrated by the student
of history, that more of pure, unadulterated Saxon blood runs in the
veins of the backwoodsmen of New-Hampshire, than in any other class
of our people; but whether this has any thing to do with the fact
we have stated, cannot of course be determined. That fact, however,
is established beyond a doubt; and he who would see a peasantry of
sturdier frames and greater age than is to be found elsewhere in the
whole world, may find them scattered over the rough soil and along
the narrow valleys of the White Mountains. Six feet in height, and
one hundred and sixty pounds in weight, make elsewhere a man above
the customary standard; but in New-Hampshire scores of young men,
from six feet two inches to six feet five, and weighing a hundred
and ninety pounds, never deem themselves above the ordinary size. I
have in my mind's eye at this moment ten young men, who would weigh
two hundred pounds, _without a single ounce of surplus flesh_, and I
doubt not thousands over the State could be found to match them in
every way.

The portion of the State of which this is peculiarly true, lies
north of the Winnepisseogee lake. It is a country of all others
most uninviting to the farmer, and one wonders what could have
tempted its first settlers to have selected it as a home. Huge
rocks, tumbled from the mountains, lie thickly scattered over the
tillage-ground and pastures; ledges, bare or covered with dark
green moss, run for miles often through farms and homesteads;
precipitous banks and abrupt precipices swell and break over the
whole landscape; and the entire country is ploughed with deep
ravines, and barren with a scanty soil, beyond what any description
can convey. To the lover of nature, indeed, it is a country full of
beauty. Those old hills, black with forests of Norway pine, lying
like the sleeping guardians of the beautiful lake by their side; and
those rustic cottages, scattered along the narrow valley which the
retreating waters have left between themselves and the mountains;
and finer than all, the numerous water-falls that leap and dash
and gurgle onward over scaur and precipice and wooded cliff toward
the Winnepisseogee, which seems waiting like some gentle mother
to welcome her joyous children to her bosom; are well worth the
journey of many a long mile to the scenery-loving tourist. But the
people are poor. Toiling from year to year with unceasing industry,
they gain from the hard soil a bare livelihood, from youth to old
age. Happy indeed in their poverty; contented, unaspiring, and
satisfied if the last days of December shall find them no poorer
than they commenced the year, and the produce of the farm has
proved sufficient to pay the tax of poll and parsonage, and yield a
sufficiency for the winter's store.

The features of the country strike the eye accustomed to a more
dense population as singularly unique. One may travel those roads,
winding through the mountain passes and along the high palisades,
for days, and see neither village nor hamlet, nothing indeed but the
low, unpainted houses, sometimes prettily covered with jessamine
and ivy, but more often bare of all taste or adornment, saving the
solitary lilac-trees which stand in the corners of the court-yards,
or the old scented thorn-bushes by the side of the door. Looking
down sometimes from an elevation he has gained, they seem to the
traveller, those cottages, like martins' nests, dotting the curving
shores of some beautiful bay; and again from some deep ravine, they
appear like fairy domicils, perched high on the cliffs and ramparts
of the mountains. Interspersed in every few miles are the district
school-houses and the parish churches, the one almost invariably
standing upon the fork of two or more roads, and the other crowning
the summit of the highest hill attainable by horse and vehicle.
And then the country tavern, whose long shed and sanded hall give
surety to the stranger and his beast of a comfortable noon-tide
baiting; or, in the more solitary townships, where the places
of entertainment are few and far between, the quiet nook by the
forest road-side, where the dipper hangs beside the overflowing
water-trough, and the guide-board measures out the long miles
between him and his evening resting-place; each and all objects
of pleasant recollection to the traveller, as he muses upon his
journeyings in after life.

The effect of a mountain atmosphere upon the health and spirits of
mankind has long been known to the medical faculty, and has been
treated of by its most distinguished writers. Its equal tendency
to the extension of human life, however, naturally as it seems to
follow from the other, has been entirely overlooked. And yet this
is as capable of satisfactory demonstration as any fact connected
with the animal economy. Nor is this the only fact of interest in
regard to this subject, which presents itself to the attentive and
accurate observer. It is also capable of proof, that up to a certain
distance from the equator, the length of life increases in a steady
ratio with the degrees of latitude. In some recent statistics which
have been carefully taken, and which upon their completion will
be given to the world, it has been ascertained that the average
length of human life is thirteen per cent. greater in the mountain
districts of New-Hampshire than it is upon the sea-board country of
Massachusetts or Maine; fourteen per cent. greater than in New-York
or Pennsylvania; seventeen per cent. greater than in Virginia;
and twenty-two per cent. greater than in any State south of the
parallel of thirty-five degrees. There are indeed other causes to
be taken into the account, to which we cannot now refer, which are
every where recognized as having an important influence upon the
_physique_, if not indeed upon the _morale_, of the human race.
But entirely aside from these, the principle of an increasing
age directly following a diminishing temperature, can be most
satisfactorily shown; so that the rough mountaineer of New-Hampshire
has as much right to calculate upon the good old age of eighty-six,
as has the lordly planter of the Sea Islands to the premature
decrepitude of three-score.

This extreme old age to which the agriculturalists of New-Hampshire
attain, is perceptible to the most casual observer. Over the whole
country we have described, evidences of the truth of this force
themselves upon his attention, wherever he goes. The old man of
seventy-five years still mows his swath in the summer, and bends
his sickle in the autumn, with the elastic vigor of the prime of
manhood. The barn rings with the heavy strokes of the flail, swung
in alternate succession by the veteran and his grandson. The cozy
couple, who could tell you stories of their own experience in
revolutionary days, ride each Sabbath morning side by side upon the
pillioned saddle to the house of GOD. The simple head-stones in the
church-yard also, though they may often record the premature decay
of some bright blossom of the social circle, more frequently point
out the resting-places of those who were gathered to their graves
like the shock of corn that cometh in in its season. In the town of
Moultonborough, for example, where the population scarcely reaches
to thirteen hundred souls, no less than forty-four persons have died
since 1833, _whose average ages were ninety-eight years_. Of these
forty-four, twenty-six had exceeded a century, and the youngest of
the band was cut off at the premature age of eighty-seven. 'Think
of that, Master Brook!' But the oldest of the group, he who was for
many years the banner-veteran of our worthies, and whose memory,
we opine, will still be foremost for many years to come; he, our
hearty Scotchman, whose monument rises by the church-yard gate, he,
unshrinking, undismayed, stood erect under the accumulated weight of
_six score and seven full-told years_!

Brave old DONALD MCNAUGHTON! thrice honored be thy memory! Year
after year didst thou live on in the very greenness of decrepitude;
and though old Time filched one by one the glories of thy manhood,
it mattered little, so long as listeners would come to thy long
stories of the feats of daring at Louisburg and the Plains of
Abraham! Thou type of graceful covetousness, thou realization of
penurious modesty, it irks me to think that thou, at the last,
malgré thy unwearied care and long delay, shouldst have been forced
to pass the Lethean stream in leaky Stygian wherry! But Death took
thee unawares; and he whom thou hadst so long defied, impatient of
the delay, and distrusting perchance his skill to meet thee in open
day, stole upon thee in thy midnight slumbers, and carried thee,
a poor forked shape, unresisting because unconscious, to the pale
kingdom.

The history of Donald McNaughton's life would be replete with
worldly wisdom. Commencing life a 'puir bairn,' to use his own
phrase, though at the time to which he alluded he must well-nigh
have completed his fiftieth year, by unremitted industry and careful
economy he amassed a fortune, remarkable in a new and unproductive
country. Up to his one hundredth year he labored daily in the field,
and his best workmen could seldom surpass him in the amount of
labor. Even at that age it was not the decrepitude of years but of
an accidental injury, which laid the old man by, and to the very day
of his confinement, which preceded his death but a single week, he
personally superintended all the business of his homestead. At the
distant market-town in the coldest winter weather; at the polls on
every day of election through the 'sleety dribble' and miry roads
of earliest spring; at church and funeral, auction-sale and country
gathering, he was ever the foremost man. Indeed in all matters,
whether of state or church, public or private, he prided himself
upon his superior sagacity; and not without reason. Shrewd, careful,
far-sighted, firm in the tenacity with which he held, and cool in
the manner with which he expressed, his opinions, he retained over
three generations the undisputed sway of a superior man.

The secret of the great age to which he attained was in
contravention of all the principles of dietetics. No man was ever
more imprudent in his diet, or in his exposure to the weather. He
was, however, habitually cheerful; a consequence rather than a cause
of his continued healthfulness; and no war-worn hero ever better
loved, by the fireside of the wintry night, or under the summer
shade of his broad roof-tree, 'to count his scars, and tell what
deeds were done,' than did old Scotch Donald. How well I remember
the lighting up of his bright hazle eye as he would commence in his
broad highland accent some tale of flood or field; and how readily
we boys would quit the game of cricket or marbles, to listen to a
story of the wars by old 'Gran'fth McNaughton!'

Nor was it in narrative alone that the old man excelled. No man
better loved a ready joke, and no man better turned one, than
did he. I remember a pedler one day riding up to his door, the
poor beast he bestrode being ladened from shoulder to haunch with
the variety of wares which he had to dispose of. Greatly to our
surprise, old Donald met him at the door with a most cheerful
greeting, for we well knew that pedlers were his utter abomination,
and, offering him a chair, inquired what he had to sell. 'Oh,
every thing, Sir; every thing,' replied he of the packs; 'ribbons,
silks, calicoes, combs, thimbles, needles, scissors, gloves, belts,
sewing-silk--every thing, Sir, every thing! What will you have?'
'Got any grind-stones?' asked the old man. 'Oh, no Sir, I came a
horse-back.' '_Ah, I thought you came a foot!_' was the reply,
uttered in a tone and manner that sent the poor hawker out at the
door with a speed that no maledictions could have effected.

For many years Mr. McNaughton was the only justice of the peace in
the town where he resided; and a history of the cases which came
before him, and of his decisions thereupon, would furnish a new
chapter in civil jurisprudence amusing enough. Whatever may have
been the landmarks in law which influenced those decisions, it is
certain that they generally gave satisfaction, and were considered
by the parties in dispute as final beyond resort. Nothing gave the
old man more satisfaction in his judicial capacity than to puzzle
the lawyer, for we had but one in the county in those days, by the
decisions he pronounced, and his frequent reply to the objections
urged. 'So ye dinna ken my reasons, ye say, Mr. Bartlett, for the
decision I mad' to-day? Weel, weel, I ken them mysel', an' that's a'
sufficient in the law, nae doubt!' became almost proverbial in the
mouths of the people. I remember two men being brought before him
upon a charge of stealing the poultry of a poor widow, who lived in
the outskirts of the parish, for whose conviction, Esquire Bartlett,
from some personal pique, had made extraordinary efforts. The men
had been taken the night previous about ten o'clock, one in bed and
asleep, the other sitting up by his kitchen fire. There was but
little evidence of their guilt, and the advocate had to make the
most of every circumstance, in order to show a semblance of justice
in binding the men over for appearance at a higher tribunal. Of
course the situation in which each was found was strongly insisted
upon as a proof of guilt; and while one was awake at the dead of
night, stung by remorse for his crimes beyond the power of sleep to
quiet, the other was shown to be even more deep in iniquity, by the
utter indifference he manifested in going to sleep upon his pillow,
after the perpetration of the horrible deed. Without perceiving the
inconsistency of the two parts of his argument, the lawyer rested
his case, and waited for the decision, which the old justice was not
slow in giving. Calling the two culprits before his chair, he arose
and said: 'I dinna ken what lawyer Bartlett would ha'e a mon do, at
ten o'clock at night. Gin he sits up by his fire, he is a rogue for
sure; an' gin he gang to bed, he is nae honest mon! Here, you John
Wilkins, you may gang free this time, only never let me hear you
sitting up ayont ten at night again; and you, Sam Wilkins, you may
gang free too, gin you promise ne'er to shut your e'en till eleven
o'clock, whenever you rob a hen-roost!'

Although Donald McNaughton was the oldest man in the town, yet
there was not after all that visible contrast between him and his
associates, which a stranger would have expected. At that day, the
minister who sat above him in the pulpit, and who, though he did
not preach, still deemed himself able to do so, and the deacon who
administered the sacramental ordinance, were both nearly a century
in age. Of the former, one of that staunch little band of clergymen,
who, from the time the constitution was accepted up to the close of
the administration of Jefferson, stood manfully on the democratic
side, and lived, and preached, and prayed for the people's rights,
we have many anecdotes to relate at another time. If any man ever
deserved a record in the hearts of freemen, it was he, the faithful
pastor, the unswerving champion of the truth; and though it is a
long time since

    'His labors all were done,
    And the work he loved the best,'

yet it is fitting to call up from the past the spirits of those who
won for us the liberty we enjoy.

But the Deacon, good old Deacon Richardson, was in political
sentiment, as in every thing else, the very antipodes of the
minister. He too, however, was a veteran of the war of the
Revolution; and the stories he told, though not equal in interest
to the old Scotchman's, were yet not without their merit. Of his
years, the Deacon was the most agile person I ever saw; and up
to the age of ninety-four, would mount his horse, and ride over
hill and dale to church or tavern, with the speed of a reckless
plough-boy. Indeed he had a physical frame which seemed never to
feel the effects of old age; one of those lean, tough, shrivelled
bodies that wilt early, but decay late, and which, however seared
by increasing winters, still cling to life, like the last leaf to
the tree. At fifty years the good Deacon looked as old, and felt as
old, as he did forty years after. Through Saratoga, and Monmouth,
and Breed's Hill encounters, he had escaped unscathed; and but for
the untoward fall of the last forest-tree he ever chopped, there
was no reason apparent why he might not have lived through another
century. Cheerful, merry, and frolicksome as a lamb at midsummer,
the dapper little centenarian would frisk about among the matrons
and spinsters at our country parties, like the licensed beau of a
boarding-school. But with all his partialities for the sex, the
Deacon was never married. Why this was so, no one could ever tell,
unless, from a habit of stuttering, which nearly overcame him when
he was embarrassed, he found it difficult to get out words enough
for a proposal. And yet there were those among our lone damsels,
who, one would have thought, would have eked out the sentence when
it was once fairly begun, for the solitude of no man had ever more
commiseration from the gentler sex than did his.

Speaking of the Deacon's stuttering habit of talking, reminds me of
a reply he made to some brethren of the church, who had been deputed
to converse with him upon his known disaffection to a new clergyman,
whom the parish were about to settle. The _real_ objection which he
had to the minister was never known, but the _avowed_ one was the
inferior mental endowments which the sermons he had preached showed
him possessed of. This he urged upon the committee from the church,
and this they in turn combated and denied. At last, finding the
Deacon's objections to be indomitable, beyond the hope of removing,
one of the brethren said: 'Well, Deacon Richardson, let us grant you
all that you say, still I think you are wrong. We must not expect a
man of first-rate abilities in our little congregation. We must be
content with one of moderate talents. You know the Bible says, that
'one star differeth from another star in glory.'

'Humph!' replied the Deacon, 'I sh-sh-shouldn't care if you would
give us a _st-st-star_, but we do-do-don't want a _lightning-bug_!'
The minister was settled over the flock, however, and the old
man lived to overcome all his objections, despite his naturally
obstinate disposition.

Although Deacon Richardson was possessed of many excellent traits
of character, he was by nature rather inclined to an eager grasping
after wealth, a disposition which his solitary state greatly
confirmed and increased. For the last twenty years of his life the
attainment of wealth seemed to be his ruling passion, and he went
on, adding farm to farm, and mortgage to mortgage, until it began to
be feared that he would live to gain possession of all the property
in town. Apropos to this: I remember that a Methodist clergyman, who
had spent the night at my father's house, addressed a little boy,
(who happened to be passing while he was performing his ablutions at
the 'sink' by the door,) and received his answers somewhat in this
wise, greatly to the amusement of all within hearing:

MINISTER. Little boy, what is your name?

BOY. John, Sir.

MINISTER. John what?

BOY. John Berry, Sir.

_Minister._ Don't you think it is time for you to be thinking about
your soul, my boy?

BOY. Sir?

MINISTER. Don't you think it is best for you to be making
preparation for a future state? Is it not time for you to be
thinking about _another world_?

BOY. Yes, Sir; I think it is time, for father says Deacon
Richardson's _going to have all there is in this world_!

But the Deacon has long gone to his last home, and far be it from
us to recall his foibles, 'or draw his frailties from their dread
abode.' He did many a kindly act, and the blessing of the fatherless
rested upon his head.

But we have wandered from our subject, and it is too late to
resume it now. We believe there is much in that sterling democracy
of New-Hampshire, much of real gold, though it lack the guinea's
stamp, which has never been revealed to the world. Not only can all
that we have claimed for the _physique_ of those hardy yeoman be
incontestably proven, but it can be shown with equal clearness,
that in intellectual endowments and moral qualities they are seldom
equalled and never surpassed. And if, in some simple sketches of
these people and their progenitors, we can illustrate a page in our
national history which is yet unwritten; if we can impress upon our
own age the worth of those who lived before us, not for themselves
alone, but to achieve our independence; if we can show what they
were who framed the charter of our freedom, and what they would be
now in the agitations of this hurrying age, what they did and what
they would have us do, our 'chronicles' will not have been written
in vain.




SUNDAY AT PLYMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS.

BY REV. WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.


    'TIS good for us to rest to-day,
      And keep the precept well;
    'Tis good in village church to pray,
      At warning of the bell.

    'Tis good in fair and noble towns,
      By brilliant thousands trod,
    Or where the forests wear their crowns,
      To stay and worship GOD.

    'Tis is good upon the bounding seas
      To pray with soul and lip;
    God sees the sailor on his knees,
      Aboard the merchant ship.

    And _here_, where our forefathers sleep,
      Who crossed of yore the waves,
    'Tis good the Sabbath day to keep
      Among their ancient graves.

    'Tis good to dwell where they have dwelt;
      'Tis good a while to stay
    And pray at altars where they knelt,
      As they were wont to pray.

    Though from our rites the thoughtful eye
      May wander where are seen
    The tokens of the dead that lie
      In ranks of summer green:

    Who, while we wait upon the LORD,
      That blessings may distil,
    For us, their sons, keep watch and ward
      On yonder silent hill:

    We (as did they) in pilgrimage
      Lean on these Sabbath hours;
    Theirs, in each past eventful stage,
      O present GOD, be ours!




THE TOP OF NEW-YORK.

BY S. W. MANSFIELD.


THREE frosts in succession; and now, with extra flannels, a day that
was omitted last summer is dropped down here by mistake; and nerves
that were braced up to a fine tone collapse to a broken fiddle. Men
rush at the soda-shops, looking daggers at each other, and women go
careless of corsets, and showing their natural color. Coal falls
off again; ice-creams go up; NIBLO has another 'crack night;' the
beggars are happy, and so am I.

Do you remember your first julep? The gradual mounting to the brain,
like the rush of joy to a sick heart that takes it doubtingly; the
quick grouping and glancing of thought from your ideality; the
uncorking of fancies bottled in your teens; and at last a sudden
ballooning of the whole head, that brings out the stars, and the
heavens opening, with angels passing to and fro, (Broadway always,
after a julep,) and you forget the dun of the morning, and the girl
that jilted you last night out of a week's passion. You forget her
as such, but you remember, rather you repeat, the heart-flutterings
of the first night; the hand gently withdrawn of the second; the
delicious half-embrace (interrupted) of the third; and the fourth,
body, soul, and lips, all melting innocently together, with pulses
and Fahrenheit mounting the hundred! If after that she gave you the
kiss coyly at the door, with ears up like an antelope's, and said
it was very naughty, you remember that her dress was too airy to
be disarranged; and ah! she's only timing you a little; and so God
bless her forever!

Not that such things happen; never. But the julep makes you think
so. Well, do you remember the charming confusion of that first
julep; its beautiful bewilderment; (I premise, of course, that it
surprised an unbrandied stomach;) and would you like to repeat the
sensation, without breaking your late pledge? 'Juleps be hang'd!'
says you. Very well, you are in trouble to-day. Your wife made you
get up first, and the world rolls the wrong way with you; the sun
rose in the west, you say. Exactly so. It rose to me, no'th-west
and a point off, only yesterday. (Lobster salad for supper; ten
devils and a young one for bed-fellows, and the universe knock'd
into a cocked hat; saw it myself; every star went past my window;
took an observation in the morning: sun in the north-west; the
needle running round like a kitten after its tail, and the earth
bound to the north star! Fact! Nobody knew it but me; but it's all
right now.) Well, the sun rose in the west; your children teething,
perhaps, and the nurse has a child of her own, just arrived; and you
think it probable that your wife has eloped with her cousin, who
urged you to marry her. Are any of these things so?--or, worst of
all imaginings, have you _breakfasted badly_? Then, Sir, _Come up to
the top of New-York_!

If you have strained your eyes, looking up, half a life-time, take
the stair-case, the easiest way in the world of getting up in it,
and look down, or overlook, as you like. We have a cream left, and a
dash of curacoa that colors better than strawberries. Come up, Sir,
and open your lungs to the original element; quick! or you'll be
carried away with the rush. A dam across Broadway for half an hour
would gather a Waterloo army.

Well, here you are; sit down, Sir, and don't shout, or you will have
a park-full looking at you, and probably an alarm of fire. Let the
people pass. We have been through the play, and found that the farce
in real life is the only tragedy. Keep your heart fresh, my young
boy, and away from shilling seductions. Pass on, children; we can't
'make believe' sufficiently to-day, and will just overlook you a
little. Fix your eye, Sir, upon that baboon coming out of a flue,
till your nerves steady a little, and think what a sweep of mind
he must have after the confinement of a chimney. You observe, the
world is neither before us nor behind, for we are atop of it. How
the eye blunders about amid the sea of house-tops, and what variety
of chimney architecture not meant for the eye! Now and then a spire
points up, like the stray pines of a southern barren, and outside
are the tops of the shipping, hedging in the city like bayonets.
Farther on, the white sails dash about in all directions, sweeping
past each other with the untouched precision of a street-walker,
bowing gallantly with a touch of the beaver. The steam-ferries cross
with the straight-forward bearing of a militaire, as though they
took no pleasure whatever in the goings-on; and here and there, with
sails all out, top-gallantly, a tall ship moves among the crowd,
with the emphasis of royalty.

Rather airy, up here! The cream of those small seas in the harbor
has cooled the breeze for us, and the light over all, unless the
sun-spots have grown since, is the unmixed original of the first
day. The groaning of the streets comes up softened occasionally with
a shout, or merry laugh, like a mocking-bird's in a menagerie; and
overhead, a few clouds float about, idle to all appearances, yet
each one is doing its errand of the morning, with a perfection far
beyond your particular range. Some are rolling over and over in the
sunshine; some just touching and parting, like women with dresses
too large to salute; and in the upper heavens, a few long fellows,
like ships upon the sea, are scudding in an entirely different
direction. Just as you are up or down in the world, Sir, will the
wind carry you.

Having looked about us, you may laugh or be sad, as you please. I
advise neither; but there below us is the material, from the smile
to the tear, and thousands of hearts now leaping to one or the
other. Some perhaps at this moment making their first exclamation in
the world, to large points of admiration from the just-made mother;
and some dropping a last broken word upon the bounds of another
world. Between these points are the variety of interjections, the
oh! ah! pish! pah! hurra! and Hallelujah! that make up human life.

There has been a lull for a while; and now New-York has dined, and
the soft pattering of feet tells us that beauty is thronging down
the pavé, to settle the dinner, and the pleasures of the evening.

Has your brain cooled? Take that glass, and tell me if the archangel
Gabriel has unsexed and fallen--into Broadway. How elate that
motion, as though she were walking on a mountain-top, and as the
whole world were beneath her, but not too far for her to be a part,
and the glory of it! Beauty and grace go with her, like sunshine
playing on a fountain. One who has just passed is sunning his
heart in the delusion that she looked at _him_. Poor fool! Her
thoughts are not promenading. Some things in this world are rather
riddlesome--rather. You would not say that sorrow had touched her
heart, and that passions are coiled there like serpents sucking her
very life-blood; some half-dead with gorging, and some casting their
coats for new life and vigor. Lost? As the star that is falling,
which nothing but the hand of God can stay! Follow her home, and as
the street-look is laid aside with her scarf, how sad that face!
Calm and still, with now and then a faint smile flashing over it;
but sheet-lightning, my dear Sir, for with her the storm had passed.
The flash shows the cloud, to be sure; and to-morrow's sun may nurse
it into more thunder; but these are unpleasant reflections. We
should not have looked down.

There comes another, whose heaven is in another part of the
universe, separate entirely. She needs study, like an old painting;
but even with that, you never would know her, unless you were of
the same Heaven. Her sweet voice would be like any other, with a
difference that you would wonder at, but never understand.

And now the up-towns have gone up again, and night comes on, with
the stars out in the upper heavens, and the lights as stars below.
Between two heavens will not do, when either can be reached.

'Ride _up_--Broad-w-a-y!' The boy has music in him. Good night to
the Top of New-York!

  JULIAN.




THE BIRTH-DAY.


    ANOTHER year is added to thy life,
      And it hath left its impress; we can see
      The change that one short year hath worked in thee;
    In thy full eye, with deeper meanings rife,
    And in thy form--a scarce expanded flower,
      Just blushing into perfectness. Thy words,
      The mingled melody of warbling birds,
    Express maturer thoughts and deeper power,
    And they too mark the change. O! may the day
      That prompts these simple lines, ne'er bring the truth
      That hearts like thine, in changing from their youth,
    Can change in their affections; that I may
    Keep it as now, from other days apart,
    Shrined like a second Sabbath in my heart!

  R. S. CHILTON.

  _New-York, July, 1843._




THE EXILE'S SONG.


    I HAVE sat in chambers rich and high,
      When the haughtiest brow was smoothed in smiles,
    When kindness warmed proud Beauty's eye,
      And Art displayed its softest wiles;
    But the forest wild was my delight,
    At dawning gray and gathering night;
    More joy had I in my leafy hall,
    Than in fretted roof and storied wall.

    I have knelt at the incense-shrine of Praise,
      When a thousand voices chanted deep,
    When the organ pealed, and the torches' blaze
      Saw some in triumph, some to weep;
    But higher rites have I partaken,
    When Heaven with the tempest's wing was shaken,
    When the forest blazed, and the lightning's dart
    Quailed all but the wandering exile's heart.

    In climes of softer air I've been,
      And sat in bowers when the rose was blown,
    When the leaf was yet in its freshest green,
      And with one to love till then unknown;
    But deeper raptures I have felt,
    When by her rocky couch I knelt,
    Who crossed for me the stormy main,
    Content in one fond heart to reign.

  A. M.




THE ELEMENTS OF A RELIGIOUS CHARACTER.

'BY THEIR FRUITS YE SHALL KNOW THEM.'


WHAT are the elements and traits of a religious character? What
combinations of virtue and excellence, of principle and attainment,
enter into and form a character which answers to our conception of
religion? We think we can recognize and judge of such a character
when it appears before us as the result of a process, and therefore
our first thought is, that it would be easy to describe such a
character. We know and can respect such a character when we see it,
and therefore we might say it could not be difficult to tell how it
is to be formed, and of what elements and traits it must be composed.

But indeed it is not easy to describe a religious character, nor to
tell, on the moment, the combination and proportion of its virtues,
nor to analyze its parts. It is not easy, because character is
of itself a wonderful and a mysterious creation; its springs are
hidden, its processes are secret, its foundation and development
do not admit of close observation, and the power with which it
impresses us is rather realized than understood. And then the
religious elements of a character only increase the difficulty of
exhibiting its construction and its power. And then again there
has grown up such a difference of estimate, such a variance in
opinion among men, as to what religion is, what it enjoins, what it
allows, what it approves, that we may indeed number it among the
acknowledged impossibilities, to portray the ideal of a religious
character to the satisfaction of any large number of persons. What
different models are held up for our imitation! As we trace back
the burthened history of two thousand years, we perceive that very
different traits have been insisted on, and various excellences
required. Stress has been laid upon one or another virtue;
illustrious homage has been offered in different generations to
characters quite in contrast with each other. Indeed, the civilized
world now reveres alike some departed worthies as joined in the
communion of saints, who if on earth together would have mutually
denied each other's claims to any measure of regard.

Call up from their graves the departed worthies of their own day,
the robed and transfigured memorials of distant times; let the long
line of the revered dead pass in imagination before you, and as
they pass, read their titles. The difference between a smile and a
tear, between martyrdom and a triumph, between a smile of joy and
a pang of agony, between a feast and a fast, is not greater than
the difference in model and standard of character in those whom we
agree in calling religious men. The saint from the dreary caverns
of Africa leads the line. His bones start from his attenuated skin;
even the skin is worn away from his knees by frequent prayer; his
body is wasted by fasting, watching, and scourging: he has been the
companion of beasts, the prey of vermin; he has seen it may be for
half a century no human face or form. There was the standard of a
religious character for him, and for his age. Next in the line is
the monk; renouncing what is good, and commanding what is wicked;
possessing the virtues of a cloister, and the fancied holiness which
has made itself necessary to supply the place of real holiness. And
then the monk was accounted worthy. But with his well-kept vows, and
the well-worn record of his prayers, the monk retires into shadow
with the saint, and a saint of a different aspect fills the eye. He
comes as a dignitary of the church, bowed down with gold and jewels;
with armies at his command, and holiness for his title. His garments
are suffused with the odor of incense; millions fall prostrate and
do reverence even to his feet with a kiss. He is anointed in life,
and canonized at death. He lived in a gorgeous palace, he sleeps in
a costly shrine. But while the pilgrim is on his way to that shrine,
another ideal of the religious character passes before the mind;
and then there appears before the eye one who is called a pious and
godly man. He is the Puritan of ancient days. He comes with sad and
austere looks, yet with a kind and tender heart, only we do not see
the heart, because he wishes to be known by the face, which his
close-cut hair brings into full view. A laugh to him is mockery;
luxury is but a feasting of the adversary of souls; amusement is
impiety; outward ceremonial is blasphemy. The offices of religion in
one perpetual round, cases of conscience, large and little volumes
of dry divinity, and rigid family government, are the sacrifices
which he offers to God. He leaves his home that he may thus worship.
He raises his psalm of deliverance in the wilderness, and at death
he rests beside the roots of a forest-tree in a grave not without a
memorial. And he was the religious character of his day. And as the
shades of the departed fall back into mystery, we find ourselves
surrounded by groups of the living, who arrange themselves under the
different standards which they recognize for the religious character.

These standards might fitly be inscribed with the mottoes,
'Morality, Ordinances, Faith;' for from the one or the other of
these titles come the different models for the religious character.
Practical goodness, cheerful, kind and ready sympathy for the
suffering, uprightness in dealing, blamelessness in example, these
constitute the highest religious character for some. The observance
of seasons or rites, the literal fulfilment of the terms of
ordinances, is the great essential for the completeness of religious
character to others. Then justification by faith, an embrace
of doctrinal formularies, a fixed and constant and unresisting
submission to a covenant which suspends mercy, is the standard for
others. These are the prevailing standards of a religious character
now. Of course, if they exist, they are in some quarters insisted
upon, and the differences must constantly appear in the various
estimates formed by religious persons. These diverse standards
have likewise been chosen in the light of experience, of long
experience, and in full view of all those ancient models which we
have contemplated.

Now from this survey of the strange contrasts presented to us, as
exhibiting the ideal of a religious character in different places
and generations, and among us now, we might at first judge that
there was in reality no true standard, but that it was all a matter
of fancy, combined somewhat with the aspects and emergencies of
society; that a religious character was no fixed, well-ascertained,
and established existence. Yet, after all, this standard has been
by no means so diverse as it would seem. For a deeper search proves
to us, that the same qualities of heart have been seeking for
expression by the most widely different manifestations. Change the
skin and drop the body with its worn knees, its sordid or its golden
robes, its rigid features, or its gay smiles, and the elements of
Christian excellence, if they exist, will appear the same in all,
divested of the local peculiarities of age and generation. Indeed,
true Christian goodness, excellence of character, is like the water,
the emblem of renewal and grace; water, as diffused over the earth,
differing every where by elevation and clime. Here it is frozen into
mountains of ice, there it issues as boiling vapor from the earth;
it is scanty and brackish in the desert, profuse and clear in the
green woods; here it is borne along in torrents; there it trickles
in dancing rills; here it is buried in deep wells, there it oozes
from full fountains; every where it is different, but every where
it is water, and every where it is the element of life. Such is
goodness, true excellence of character every where, apart from the
peculiarities of age and clime.

Now by all this we are helped in discerning the elements of a
religious character. The common consent of men amounts to little
more than an allowance that a religious character must be formed
out of a common character by two processes; the one a process of
denial, the other a process of culture. And this indeed is the key
to our whole subject, the solution of the great question which
we have proposed, as to the standard of a religious character.
There is an element of denial, and an element of culture, in a
religious character; that is, a human character is made religious
by renouncing something, and by attaining something. A religious
character is to be formed out of a common character with some new
materials; it is to part with something of its earthly organization;
something of passion, weakness, and low desire, and to endue itself
with something of heavenly grace and essence; turned from darkness
unto light, from the power of Satan unto God.

Self-denial and culture, renunciation and attainment, are the two
great processes by which a religious character is to be formed,
and which, when applied, decide its elements. Yet there is a work
which precedes and accompanies these processes, and that work
is discipline; discipline, the agency which forms a religious
character. The first essential then in a religious character is,
that it be the subject of discipline; of discipline varying in the
intensity of its struggles; in the difficulty, the amount, the
protraction of its efforts, according to the natural differences
of individuals, but always discipline; self-knowledge and
self-control, strong in its formed purpose, resolute in pursuing it.
A religious character was never of spontaneous growth, nor acquired
unconsciously. It is known to the heart through all its stages. It
is based upon spiritual convictions; it crosses many natural wishes;
it embraces prospects which lie beyond the grave. These are elements
of thought, of action, of life, which never come by chance, or by
mere good influences around an individual. They vary in degree
and strength in individuals, but are conscious possessions to all
who share them. Self-discipline is a work which summons all our
faculties, purposes, knowledge, resolutions, and efforts; it has its
weary hours; its seasons for starting anew with quickened strength
and zeal.

The prominent feature of a religious character is, that it has
been the subject of discipline; that it is itself the result of
discipline; has been wrought upon, formed, and established by
discipline. In such a character we expect that every element
shall declare effort and principle. The man or the woman, called
religious, must bear about them the proof that they are what they
are, as the result of an intention. We expect to see in a religious
character distinctions and differences which we do not look for in
the common standard of character. Nor only this; we expect also that
these differences should appear as the results of a good purpose
well-endeavored; a foundation, a life, a growth, consecrated by
high intentions to the highest uses and for the highest aims. This
is a truth which cannot be too strongly urged or insisted upon.
A religious character ought to strike every one as the result
of conscious effort; a work begun and in progress; a diamond in
the process of being polished in the only way in which it may be
polished, by other diamonds. Discipline, visible in its intention
and work, this is the first of all essentials. This discipline will
be strongly marked by two processes, a process of self-denial, and a
process of culture; of renunciation and attainment. Of the fruits of
these processes a religious character must largely partake; yet it
is scarcely possible to describe in particulars the entire operation
as it appears in the result.

The long and almost uniform opinion of men is right in judging
that a religious character should present evidence of self-denial
and self-restraint; should have renounced something of pleasure
and desire; should have mortified some affections, and wrestled
with some infirmities. Of the measure of this denial, each honest
conscience must judge for itself. The great end of it, the sole
reason for its necessity in an individual character is, that the
law of the spiritual life may be obeyed, by the right exercise of
the highest faculties and aims of the human heart. All indulgence
inconsistent with this consecration is sin, and must be restrained.
Yet who can decide the measure of this indulgence or restraint
for another? A large ecclesiastical body has lately decided that
dancing is inconsistent with a religious character. Whether this
opinion is true or false, can be decided only by each individual
for himself; by his own knowledge whether this or that amusement
makes him frivolous and trifling, or whether it is only a momentary
relaxation, enjoyed and then forgotten.

Now it is evident that the Almighty does not need nor require at
our hands any self-denial or restraint of any kind, considered by
itself, independently of its uses. Self-denial is of value only
because of its influence on the character. So that we must ask
ourselves what is the _reason_ for self-denial in any given case,
what is the _nature_ of it, what the _degree_ of it, what the
_result_ of it? Then shall we learn that in a religious character
there has been a struggle between the lower and the higher nature,
and that in all the parts and stages of that struggle, passion
and sense have been denied; and denied for what? Not for a sour
or morbid sanctimoniousness, but for the sake of a calm and
meditative rest of the spirit, that unseen realities, and spiritual
convictions, and noble purposes, and heavenly hopes, may have power
over the character.

And as to the second process, of which a religious character is to
show the visible results, the process of culture: this may appear
in many traits, and graces, and actions, so as to distinguish a
religious character from a common character. The elements of that
culture are affections and duties, motives and convictions. The same
strife between the higher and the lower nature which is begun in
self-denial, is pursued in spiritual culture. The heart searcheth
after the means of improvement and progress: and they are found near
to us; in the lowly duties of common life, in the opportunities of
a day, in the necessity which our uniform experience presents,
for acting from principle if we would act aright. Self-culture, in
all its highest and most comprehensive processes, is the condition
by which Christian elements of character are to be acquired. Of
course, virtues and graces, tastes and affections, are to be valued
and preferred in proportion to their relative excellence. Piety and
love, which express the applications of the two great commandments,
are to be cherished, cultivated, and manifested. He who is truly
and earnestly pursuing these two processes of renunciation and
attainment, will acquire through his own experience a better
knowledge of the elements of a Christian character than any creed
or covenant can teach him. The opposing systems, the controverted
dogmas, the various usages and ceremonies of Christian sects, will
have but little importance for him; and he will feel that there are
two parties which he is to satisfy--GOD and his own soul.




GEORGE WASHINGTON.


I.

    SING of her heroes' deeds, ye harps
      That long in Erin's halls have hung!
    Give to the world their mighty names--
      Give to their glorious deeds a tongue!


II.

    Clime of the South! whose seven hills
      Uphold the fount of Genius, where
    To drink large draughts, from every land
      The votaries of art repair:


III.

    Thou hast a list of time-tried names;
      Some truly great were born of thee:
    Some with their iron heel stamped out
      The last sad spark of liberty.


IV.

    One land the Grecian madman boasts,
      Another claims the conquering Swede;
    One, echoing back the name of TELL,
      Holds up her hands from fetters freed!


V.

    Yet brightest on the lists of fame,
      Bright with the glory Virtue gives,
    Enshrined within a nation's heart,
      Our PATER PATRIÆ ever lives!


VI.

    No tear-stained laurels bind his brow,
      No bleeding land has cursed his birth;
    A _world's_ proud meed hath given him place
      Above the honored names of earth.

  HORACE.




SKETCHES OF EAST-FLORIDA.

NUMBER TWO.

MY LAST NIGHT ON GUARD.


I WAS flat on my back, trying to count a small group of stars in
the zenith of that part of heaven which overhangs St. Augustine,
taking my observation by the camp-fire, from a pine board, with the
'stub-shot' for a pillow; the six feet of Bravo were disposed of in
the same manner; and Boag and a few Spaniards were radiating in the
zodiacal circle, of which the fire was the centre. The duties of our
profession had not been so severe that day as to forbid our sitting
up; but then it was much easier to lie down, at least so thought
the Spaniards, who take every thing the easiest way possible; and
Boag was deep in the invention of a new whirling contrivance for
the making of egg-nogg, and chose to give himself up exclusively to
the concentration of mind necessary for that purpose. Some one had
thrown out, rather lazily, that it was 'very warm,' and he reckoned
'the alligators would stick their noses out to-night;' and another
had remarked, with considerable effort, that 'alligators or not,
it was just right and couldn't be better;' and this seemed so much
the sense of the majority, that no one cared to heat himself with
any argument upon the subject; and each one wandered off on his own
private speculation.

It was that kind of night that seals up the lips like twilight.
Warm, perhaps to a fault, and yet a change of two degrees would
have drawn our cloaks over us, and we should have complained of
the cold. The fire was a mere companion, that could talk to us
without the effort of conversation; and in the absence of French
perfumery, the smell of the pitch kindling was quite passable, and
that of the orange-wood pretty much like any other. But the night
was _not_ like any other; common enough there, but not within the
scope of any imagination that dates north of thirty-five degrees.
The air was nowhere in particular, unless you might suppose, from
the solemn tone of the pine woods, that the sea-breeze which went
out in the morning was on its way back; but a feather thrown up
would probably have wandered about for a while, and then balanced
itself upon my nose, and I should merely have seen a strange star
in the heavens; olden philosophers have done worse. But I didn't
throw up a feather; too much trouble. Overhead, all was bright and
still; no shooting-stars, nor any thing of a quarrelsome nature;
and not a cloud to be seen, in a sky that has no clouds for mere
shading purposes; and though a stranger, standing on the sea-wall,
would have guessed a storm, from a flash seen occasionally in the
haze lying on the eastern horizon, there was no storm to be; merely
the playfulness of the Gulf Stream that is sometimes seen from that
coast.

In the lower part of the city, a dog was howling out some
unimaginable irritation, perhaps only to indicate that something
should be said upon such an occasion; or perhaps the hoot of a
porpoise disturbed him; or more likely, it was _too_ still for him;
he couldn't bear it. If I had fallen asleep, I should have dreamed
of being outside some ruined city, and the cry of that dog sounding
up through the narrow streets, like a man talking through a trumpet,
would have been the howl of a hyena or jackal; and with fallen
columns and moonlight, it would have sounded very well in a 'letter
from our foreign correspondent.' But in Augustine, it was only a
dog, and just like any other dog, that sometimes fancies itself
very unhappy, and howls out its inspired misery in baying the moon.
Beyond all doubt, dogs may be poetical. There are all varieties of
dog; and it would be strange if in such a mixed breed there were
not a poet-species, in a race that takes madness so easily. The dog
excepted, one would have called it very still at first thought, but
on listening, there was a great deal of varied music going on; one
voice after another coming to the ear from the innumerable land and
water fowl, making up a kind of opera, in which each one appeared
to speak very much at random; and that, I take it, is the peculiar
beauty of operas. Amid a great variety of short interjections,
queries and answers, some were talking entirely to themselves, as it
seemed, and others appeared to have a domestic, 'keep away' kind of
expression in their remarks, arising probably from some member of
the family's being too assiduous in his attentions; or perhaps they
had dined badly, and so got up a quarrel to improve their digestion.
No doubt there are unknown griefs, as well as unwritten poetry, in
all animal life. Whatever the cause, there was an irritability and
a nervous restlessness in the waters and salt-grass, that larger
animals of two legs, who dine when they please and as they please,
understand much better than I can tell.

Over all these inconsistences of a night so beautiful, swept like
a minute-gun the sound of the third wave breaking on Anastasia
Island; and on the other side, the forest, as aforesaid, which had
hundreds of miles of even tree-tops on which to get up its 'voice of
the night,' answered back in the same earnest and solemn manner. No
fingering, or tugging at the bellows, in all this organ-izing, which
was quite as good as could be made to order.

All this (and if any one wonders what it has to do with the incident
to follow, he has read novels in vain,) all this had 'come and gone'
through my mind, unconsciously, like a glass of congress-water
elsewhere; and I turned to the stars as usual, before shutting up
for the night. 'Very tolerable,' said I to myself, thinking of the
night, 'and not to be sneezed at.' (No taking cold in that climate.)
'One, two, three; the sides of an equilateral triangle, and the
square of the hypothenuse bisected in the middle,' and so forth. Q.
E. D.; there we are, the fourteenth; that is, the very 'particular
star.' We had agreed that she--that is, that we--would look at the
same star, and not to blunder upon different stars, which would be
very awkward, and, a thousand miles distant from each other, could
not be connected without some waste of sentiment on the passage. We
had selected one in a group which had to be theorized geometrically
before the bright particular one could be identified. The idea of
her looking miscellaneously at the north pole and I at the south,
and each expecting the requisite titillation of sympathy! We were
not to be duped into any such latitudinal delusion!

I had found my star, and was looking very hard at it through the
tube of one hand, while the other was brushing off musquitoes, when
a gun reported itself about two miles distant; and directly another,
and another; after which the enemy appeared to be entirely used up,
and the engagement over.

The guard were asleep, and coming gradually to my elbow, I intimated
to Bravo that there was a disturbance at the North Post. He gave
the alarm to his comrades, who, one by one, came very slowly to
the consciousness of an Indian alarm. Then of a sudden muskets
glittered in the moon-light, belts were strapped, primings looked
to, and the sentries received orders to fire at any, the least
whisper, that was not perfectly intelligible and satisfactory.
Bravo started for the city; and now we began to hear the tramp of
the horse as they clattered up to the point of alarm. There were
five hundred Charleston volunteers in the city, ready for the first
show of fight or frolic; and in half an hour every man in town who
had a musket or rifle, was on his way to do battle against--nobody
knew what. There was much tramping, and shouting of 'Where are the
rascals?' 'Which way?' 'Clear the track for the big gun!' 'Down
with the red devils!' etc.; all which passed over, after a little,
and the people went back again, with a keen relish for hot suppers,
and a highly exhilarating sense of their increased importance. It
was not, however, so trifling a matter; and upon more than one
occasion during the war, the feeble and aged repaired to the fort
for security. Indians had been seen near the town only a few days
previous; several bold murders had been committed on the Picolata
road; and the tracks of parties almost daily seen by the escort sent
out between the two places. But this, if I remember aright, was the
first experience of the town in this new kind of excitement.

After an hour or two Bravo returned with the fact, as he alleged,
that an Indian had been seen and fired at; and the sentry thought he
saw several more, but they wouldn't wait for the people to come and
shoot them. The people had gone to bed again, assured that no Indian
would show himself _there_ again; and as to the southern post, it
was only necessary to reflect that Corporal Bravo had command there,
and turn over to unwinking repose; 'for gentlemen,' said Bravo, 'I
have not thought proper to alarm the town with my views upon this
matter; though it is perfectly plain that an odd Indian was sent to
that post to attract attention that way, while the main body of the
enemy is undoubtedly in our neighborhood, and _we_ shall receive
the first attack. Every man will sleep with one eye open, and his
hand on his musket.' As the Indians might be within hearing, the
speech was received with silent applause; but there were quite a
number of severe and very rapid gesticulatory engagements, showing
what would probably be done in the course of the night. Boag and
myself stood apart. We were out of favor. Our exploit as 'officer of
the night' had something to do with it; and any one who likes the
fag-ends of every thing will be glad to learn that we arrived safe
at our quarters under the protection of the corporal, who had missed
us from the camp. On retiring that night, that is, laying myself
out on a board, I went down, step by step, into a very deep sleep;
and although I was threatened with a 'lock-up' in the fort, and a
court-martial trial, it was found impossible to make me understand
that I was wanted 'on guard,' and another man was posted in my
place. There was also an 'incident of travel' that had soured the
'complainants' exceedingly.

In marching down from the fort, a day or two previous, the corporal
stopped at his house for a moment, and Boag and myself walked on,
turned the next corner, and went direct to the camp. The corporal
and guard, on resuming their march, missed us, and presuming that we
had deserted, went half a mile out of their way to the house where
they expected to find us. Some of my friends happened to be lounging
on the balcony when the guard came up, and replied to their inquiry
for us, that we were not there. Bravo insisted that we _were_,
and he would find us, and made one step to that effect, when one
of my friends, who has a very quiet and effective manner for such
occasions, stepped before the door-way and remarked, in his ordinary
tone, 'You can't come in, Sir.' The corporal stopped, with one foot
up, lifted the pan of his musket, shook up the powder, looked up and
down the street in a speculating way, and then stalked off with his
men, having decided that the speculation was a bad one. They found
us at the camp, target-shooting, but were too much chagrined to join
us, and vented their spleen in a noisy discharge of Spanish and
Minorcan, in which both seemed equally offensive.

My name was not on the sentry-list for to-night; but upon the
grounds now mentioned it was determined that I should be posted; and
accordingly at three o'clock I took my stand about a hundred yards
from the camp-fire, and soon beat a short path in the sand, where I
was to walk out the hours of the night. The night ought to have been
very dark and cloudy, with high winds, and a thunder-storm. I should
have liked it much better; but it was not. On the contrary, the
light of the moon in that latitude is sufficient to make a common
newspaper type quite readable, and I was in the full blaze of it.
But directly before me was the deep shade of the forest; so near,
that by lengthening my walk a little I could have stepped into it,
as from a lighted room into midnight darkness; and this gave enough
of the mystical for the most imaginative sentry. The 'voices of the
night' had died away one by one, leaving only the solemn roar of
the sea and the pine-tops, and the wash of the tide, as it swept
up occasionally into the long grass of the marsh. Once in a while,
perhaps at a great distance, there would be a sharp, snappish cry,
which I would stop a moment to analyze, and occasionally a splash,
which might be an alligator crawling in from a night ramble; but
to all these noises I had been previously hardened. However it may
seem to the very romantic, it is not, after all, a very pleasant
thing to stand in a bright light, where an enemy can approach within
pistol-shot of you, or perhaps give you his first notice by a stab
direct. The matter-of-fact probability, the _expectancy_, in this
case is not so pleasant; and to one who has never been in just such
a position, it would be amusing, the first night or two, to observe
the increased circulation of blood, and the lively and exhilarated
condition of body; far beyond a salt-water bath, and with nothing of
the chill of it; on the contrary, very warm. Then the quick turn at
the end of the walk, not knowing what may have taken place since the
last facing; the Lot's-wife look over the shoulder; and all the time
an acuteness of hearing that at last embraces a whole roar of small
noises, surging and dashing like so many breakers.

I had been out about an hour, and was in something of a glow in this
respect, when from the swamp side there came a sudden crashing. I
halted, brought my gun to a half-bearing, and looked; nothing to be
seen, but directly again, crash!--_crash!_--CRASH!

'Halloo!' said I, forgetting the _militaire_ for a moment, and then
resuming it with a blush, (I _know_ I must have blushed,) cried out
very boldly, 'Who comes there?' No answer, and nothing to be seen.
I took out a small opera-glass and swept over a range of half a
mile. Nothing moving, but the shade of the forest was so deep that
any thing short of a bonfire _might_ have been there, and I should
never have seen it. All being still again, I resumed my walk, making
it much shorter than before; and with very peremptory turns, half
laughing to myself that any body should dare to approach a man with
such a musket, and such a step, when again came the crash! _crash!_
CRASH! and much nearer than before. 'Fury!' said I to myself; and
I gave out the challenge, calling the corporal of the guard at the
same time, with a rapidity that would have astonished a Frenchman.
But there was no answer, and the whole camp was asleep.

This was a little too much. 'Man or devil!' I shouted, 'if you
make one more step forward, I'll blow you to atoms!' and upon the
last word, as a kind of bravado, as it seemed, came two more heavy
crashes. Although considerably heated, I was at the same time very
cool, and aiming carefully at the noise, I blazed away; a double
charge of powder, a large musket-ball, and fifteen buck-shot.
There was a rustling, and something like a fall, and then all was
still again. I blew out the barrel, and with one eye on the marsh,
was ramming down cartridge for another shot, when Boag came down,
shouting like a madman: 'Where are they?' said he, looking all ways
at once. 'There!' said I, ramming away, 'there; don't you see them?'
'Whoop!' said he; 'now I have 'em;' and aiming miscellaneously, he
sent his ball almost any where in that direction, and gave another
whoop that might have been taken for 'the real Indian.' My second
cartridge followed immediately, and another was ready, when Bravo
and his men marched down in battle array. 'Halt!' with a voice of
thunder; 'make ready, take aim, _fire_!' and a whole volley was
poured into the marsh. Boag was in raptures, and didn't wait for
orders; but now, in charging for the next round, we discovered for
the first time that the enemy didn't return the fire. Boag suggested
that they might have crept round to the left wing, and proposed
that we should fire in that direction; but that was considered
rather promiscuous for a military operation. We sent out scouts,
however, who went very short distances each way, but far enough to
discover that all Augustine was close by; the horsemen taking the
road, and those on foot coming cross-lots, crying out to us to hold
on, and not fire till they came up; and making in various ways a
vast display of courage, properly proportioned to the distance. The
horsemen came up first, and made a furious charge upon the marsh,
and all the people received orders not to fire in that direction
till the _cavalry_ returned. The day was now breaking, and the marsh
was scoured for half a mile; but the enemy--had disappeared; not an
Indian was to be seen; but wandering about, in a very distracted
manner, was a young heifer, dangerously wounded, and close by lay
her aged mother. She had received a musket-ball, and 'expired
without a groan.'

Boag would have it that he saw Indians, and swore that he winged
one of them, for he heard him _yell_, as did the guard, who knew
all about Indian yells, and myself, who did not; but in a free
country people will think as they like; and as they have dined, or
been called out of bed to the consultation, will be the difference
of opinion. Others in my position had been suddenly sick, and
variously afflicted, to avoid duty. I had not; but this last _chef
d'oeuvre did_ the thing effectually. From that day I was considered
impracticable.




SEED OF CONTENTMENT.

FROM THE GERMAN.


    SINCE Fate in her simple wisdom
      Has passed me unfavored by,
    I let the blind wheel of Fortune
      Roll on without a sigh.

    Still blest with humble fruition,
      Disdained I the proffered store;
    Nor to the current of youthful days
      Did memory wander more.

    Free from corrosive repining,
      From discontentedness free,
    I knew that to-day's enjoyment
      A source of to-morrow's would be.

  W. F. P.




TO A FAYRE PERSONNE

UPON SHORT ACQUAINTANCE.

BY JOHN WATERS.


I.

    I MAY not, would not, quite forget
      The hours I pass'd with thee--
    'T were death to say, 'I love;' and yet,
      Silence harder seemeth me.


II.

    Ah no! I never could forget
      Those words of joy, from thee!
    They say thou lov'st another--yet
      How bright thy beam o'er me!


III.

    They say thou art 'a sad coquette'--
      Yet how to doubt a smile,
    In which Day-dawn and Eve are met
      For Fraud--if this be Guile!


IV.

    And then thine Eye! of morn's grey hue
      Kindling with beams of wit--
    If its deep glories prove untrue,
      Let all be false, like it!


V.

    'Let all be false!'--How hath this thought
      Found life within my heart?--
    Is this a change thy spell hath wrought,
      Thy spirit could impart?


VI.

    I may, I can, I must forget
      Those golden hours with thee:
    Half-lovers were we ere we met,
      Such could we no more be!


VII.

    Forever be forgot, the day,
      The form, the voice, the eye--
    Since thou thyself art ta'en away,
      Take, take thy memory,


VIII.

    Thy dewy fragrance from my heart;
      Thy Genius off my mind;
    Thine untold Grace, the thrill, the dart--
      Leave not a dream behind!


IX.

    Then shall my soul--like mountain lake
      The tempest hath plough'd o'er--
    Its diamond shield reluctant take,
      And Heaven reflect once more!




THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.


LEAVING Michael Rust buried in death-like slumber, the result of
intense mental anxiety that had denied his body that repose which it
required, we must turn to one destined to take an active part in the
succeeding events of this history; and who, on that same evening,
was employed in a manner directly the reverse of that of Rust. That
man was Harry Harson.

Seated at a table in his own room, with every feature puckered up
into a very hard knot, the combined result of thought, perplexity,
and anger, he was poring over a number of papers, occasionally
pausing to scratch his head, or breaking out into an exclamation of
displeasure, not unfrequently accompanied by a hard thump on the
table, as something met his eye which excited his indignation in a
peculiar degree.

It was past midnight; three good hours beyond the time, at which he
usually retired to rest. All indications of bustle and stir in the
streets had long since ceased, and not a sound was heard, except the
occasional tread of a belated straggler, hurrying to his home; the
sharp ticking of the clock, and the plethoric snoring of Spite, who
made it a rule never to go to bed before his master; and who, being
a methodical dog in habit, and an obstinate one in disposition,
could not be induced to depart from old usages. As each successive
hour was heralded by the voice of the clock just mentioned, Spite
rose, looked at the time-piece, then at his master, as if to say,
'Halloo! old fellow, do you hear that?' gaped; sauntered round the
table, and resumed his former position, each time lessening the
distance between himself and the fire, as its embers gradually
crumbled to ashes. Still, Harson continued his occupation; tossing
over, examining, and studying the papers and letters, in utter
disregard of hints and admonitions. Apparently, he became more
troubled as he advanced in his investigation. His brow contracted;
his breath came thick and fast; the color deepened in his cheek;
his eye kindled, and more than once he threw the papers impatiently
on the table, and rising up paced the room with rapid strides. This
occurred at intervals, during the whole evening, until finally, he
came to a letter which caused his anger to boil over. Starting to
his feet, and clasping his hands, he exclaimed: 'Good God! shall
such things be? and wilt Thou not protect the innocent, and punish
the guilty?'

'But why ask?' added he, suddenly: 'I know, that even now, through
channels which were least dreamed of, justice is working its way
to the light. Confirm me, great GOD!' added he, fervently, 'in my
purpose of seeing right done; and grant that I may never swerve from
my course, until that purpose is accomplished!'

Had the culprit against whom he uttered this invocation and prayer
heard the muttered threat which succeeded it, and witnessed the
kindling face and stern, determined eye of the person who had
uttered them, his heart, had he been a man of ordinary mould,
might have sunk; but as the culprit in this case was no other than
Michael Rust, who had no belief in an hereafter; who entertained
suspicion against all men, and who never yielded his point under any
circumstances; it is possible that it would have produced no other
result than increased watchfulness, increased determination, and
bitter hatred.

'I have read of such schemes as these,' muttered Harson; 'but I
never expected to have anything to do with them myself--never. Can
there be no doubt that these came from Rust,' said he, turning them
over in his hand? And is there no doubt that he is at the bottom of
all this villainy? The letters certainly bear a different name from
his; but such things are common; and Ned says that he can produce
proof of it. They can scarcely be forgeries, vamped up to obtain
money from me; for many of them were written years ago; and bear
post-office stamps, whose dates correspond with the dates within.'

He stood at the table, thus talking to himself, and turning over
the letters, until his eye rested on one written in a delicate
hand, and indorsed, 'Mary Colton to Henry Colton.' Harson opened
it, mechanically, and ran his eye over it. It was very short, and
breathed a heart broken by some grief which was only alluded to, but
not mentioned. It ran thus:

     'MY DEAR HENRY: With all others, hope has darkened into despair;
     but I will not give up yet; I cannot. It would kill me, if I
     did. Go on, my dearest Henry; make all efforts. I feel that you
     have done all that can be done, and that all means have been
     tried without success; but even yet, do not cease; and I will
     pray for you, and bless you, for your disinterested kindness;
     and GOD will reward you.

  'Yours, affectionately,
  MARY COLTON.'

"_Disinterested kindness!_" muttered Harson; "_God will reward
you!_' Yes, 'Henry Colton,' God _will_ reward you! Sooner or later,
the reward always comes; and you'll get it. Yes, if I live, 'Henry
Colton,' it shall be my especial business to see that you receive
it!' 'But,' said he, looking at the clock, 'enough of this. It would
almost make a young man gray to wade through the details of such
villainy. An old man like me must spare himself. I've had enough for
one dose; so I'll sleep on it, and take the rest in the morning.
Ha! Spite,' said he, stooping down, and patting the dog; 'better
be a good, honest dog, like thee, my old cur, than a man with such
a heart as some have. The temper's a trifle, Spite; so don't be
worried about your's, for your heart's right, my old dog! There's
no double-dealing about you. I don't know whether God blesses an
honest dog, or not; but I believe he does, in some way or other.
Come pup, I'll not keep you up longer.'

Saying this, he gathered up the papers, and placed them in a small
box, which he locked, put under his arm, and followed by Spite, left
the room, for the story above. He paused, and listened at a door
at the head of the stairs; then turning the knob so as to make no
noise, he went in. It was a small room, having a thick rag-carpet on
the floor, and a dressing-table covered with white muslin, standing
between the windows, whose curtains were as white as snow. In one
corner was a bed. On a chair, at the side of it, lay a child's
clothes; and in the bed itself was a girl, of about five years of
age, with her light hair streaming over the pillow like a web of
gold. There was little trace in her face of the outcast whom he had
taken from the streets but a few weeks before; for the thin cheek
had filled up, and the flush of health had succeeded the paleness of
suffering and illness. Her eyes were closed, and their long lashes
drooped over her cheek; but she did not sleep soundly; for once
or twice she muttered to herself, as Harson bent over her: 'Come,
Charley; we've been looking for you a long time. Come!'

'She's dreaming of the boy,' thought he; 'but be of good heart, my
poor child; we'll find him yet.'

He leaned down, until his gray hair mingled with her bright locks,
pressed his lips to her forehead, and went quietly out into the
entry, where his presence was greeted with no little satisfaction
by Spite, who had been shut out, and was becoming somewhat testy at
being kept in the dark.

It was not long before Harson, with a thick counterpane up to his
very chin, was sleeping as soundly in his own bed as Spite was under
it.

What dreams hovered around the old man's pillow, or whether he had
any, we cannot tell; but certain it is, that when the morning sun
broke through a small opening between the window-curtains, flinging
a long, thin streak of gold across the carpet, Harson was still
sound asleep; and it is quite uncertain how long he might have
continued so, had not the same ray of sunshine, in its passage
across the room, fallen directly across the centre of the right eye
of Spite, who had been drifting about the apartment since day-break;
and who now vented his disapprobation of the liberty taken, in an
irritable yelp.

Harry sat up in bed. 'What ails thee, pup?' said he, rubbing his
eyes.

Spite, however, was not in a communicative mood; but walked to the
door, and seating himself, surveyed the knob with great attention.
Harson rose; threw on a dressing-gown, and going to the door, let
him out, shutting it after him.

He then went to a basin, as portly and capacious as himself, dashed
nearly a pailful of water into it; bared head, neck, and shoulders,
and plunged them in. Out he came, very red in the face, with water
dripping from nose, and chin, and eye-brows. Then in again he went;
and then followed such a rubbing, and puffing, and blowing, and
spouting, that he seemed like a young whale at his gambols. This
ceremony being repeated some half dozen times, and the same number
of towels having dried him, he proceeded to dress himself.

It might have been observed, however, that during the whole time,
his thoughts were wandering; for he walked to the window, with
some article of apparel in his hand, and stood looking into the
street, in a state of deep abstraction; and then, drawing a long
breath, continued his dressing, as if it had struck him that he was
neglecting it. Then again he seated himself on the side of his bed,
and sat for some minutes, looking on the floor.

'It's terrible, terrible!' said he, 'but it's not too late to remedy
it. Thank God for that!'

Putting on one thing after another, sometimes upside down, sometimes
getting his feet in his sleeves; then thrusting an arm in the
wrong side of his coat; tying and untying his huge white cravat
half a dozen times, and enveloping the half of his face in its
ample folds; doing every thing wrong, and rectifying his mistakes
with the greatest gravity, and without the slightest appearance of
impatience, Harson finally found himself fully established in coat
and jacket, with no other mistake than the trifling one of having
buttoned the lower button of the last article into the top button
hole. Having duly surveyed himself in the glass, to see that all was
right, without having detected his mistake, he went out.

He stopped at the door of the child's room. His footsteps had
apparently been recognized, for it was ajar; and a pair of bright
eyes were peeping out to welcome him.

'Annie, is that you? Ha! child, you're a sad sleepy-head. You'll
lose your breakfast. This won't do--this won't do. Spite was up long
ago.' He shook his finger at the child, who laughed in his face; and
then, flinging the door open, showed herself fully dressed.

'Wrong, Harry; wrong, wrong again,' said she, springing out, and
addressing him in the familiar manner that he always liked: 'I am
dressed.'

The old man took her in his arms, kissed her cheek, and carried her
down stairs; and did not put her down until they were in the room
below.

'Come, Harry, there's breakfast; and there's your seat; and here's
mine,' exclaimed she, leading him to the table. 'Martha has got here
before us,' said she, shaking her head at a demure-looking woman of
fifty, in a faded cap, with a rusty riband round it, who was already
seated at the table, preparing the coffee. 'Here, Spite--come here.'

Spite was not a dog given to the company of children. He was by
far too old, and sedate, and dignified for that; but there were
occasions on which he could unbend, and these fits of relaxation
generally came over him just at meal-times, when he permitted the
child not only to pat him, but even to uncurl his tail. Doubtless
the sight of the creature-comforts which garnished Harry's table had
its effect in producing this change, although it is possible the
knowledge that the child devoted fully half of her time to supplying
his wants, (a thing which his master sometimes neglected,) may have
had its weight. Obedient at any rate to the summons, Spite hopped
from a chair on which he had been seated, and placed himself at her
side, watching every mouthful she swallowed, and licking his lips
with great unction.

Harson's breakfast-table was, as the neighbors said, (particularly
the poor ones, who now and then chanced to drop in at it,) enough to
awaken an appetite in a dead man; and if dead people are peculiarly
alive to hot coffee and mutton-chops, and hashed meats, and warm
cakes, and fresh rolls, like snow itself, and all these things set
off by crockery which shone and glittered till you could see your
face in it; and table-linen without a speck or wrinkle in it, there
is little doubt but that a vast number of departed individuals must
have found their mouths watering at exactly half past seven each
morning; that being the precise hour at which these articles made
their daily appearance on Harson's table. But certain it is, that
whatever may have been its effect upon them, it had little upon
Harson; for he scarcely touched any thing, nor did he bestow his
usual attention on those about him, but sat sometimes with his eyes
fixed on the cloth, sometimes staring full in the face of the old
house-keeper, who looked at the ceiling, and on the floor, and in
her cup, and coughed, and hemmed, and fidgetted, and grew so red,
and confused, and embarrassed, that before Harson was even aware
that he was looking at her, to use her own expression, 'she thought
she should have dropped.' But this was only of a piece with all
the rest of his actions, during the morning; for to all remarks or
questions, his only answer was an emphatic 'humph!' a species of
reply to which he particularly devoted himself during the meal; and
it was not until he observed the others had finished their meal that
he hastily drank off his coffee at a draught, and rose from the
table.

'You need not remove the things now, Martha,' said he, as the
rattling of the crockery announced that this process was commencing.
'The noise disturbs me. I wish to be alone for a short time; and
after that you can do as you please.'

The house-keeper made no reply; but went out, taking the girl with
her, and leaving Harry to his meditations.

That these were neither pleasant nor composing, was quite evident;
for after walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, and
muttering to himself, he finally stopped short, and apparently
addressing Spite, for his eyes were fixed upon him, and Spite
returned the look, as if he supposed that he was being consulted, he
broke out with:

'What am I to do? This matter on my hands; and Ned, poor Ned, kicked
adrift by the old man, and Kate breaking her little heart about
_him_; and her father quietly led by the nose to the devil. There's
no doubt about it; that fellow Rust's at the bottom of it all; and
no one except me to unravel this knot. God bless me! it bewilders
my brain, and my old head spins. But Annie, Annie, my poor little
child! if I forsake thee, may I never prosper! How now, Spite?'

This exclamation was caused by a somewhat singular proceeding on the
part of Spite, who, after looking at him as if deeply interested in
the tenor of his remarks, suddenly uttered a sharp bark, and bolted
from his chair as if shot from a gun. The cause of this movement was
soon shown in the person of a man dressed in a very shabby suit of
black, with a beard of several days' growth, who stood just inside
the door, and who, after a familiar nod to Harson, asked:

'Is all the family deaf except the dog?'

'When a man enters a stranger's house, it is but proper to knock,'
said Harson, sharply.

'Did you want your house battered about your ears?' inquired the
stranger; 'for I _did_ knock, until I was afraid it might come to
that. Perhaps you're deaf, old gentleman; if so, I'm sorry for you;
but as for your d--d dog, I wish he was dumb. I can scarcely hear
myself speak for him.'

This explanation cleared from Harson's face every trace of anger;
and silencing the dog, he said: 'I did not hear you; and yet I am
not deaf.'

'Well, I made noise enough,' said the other. 'Is your name Henry
Harson?'

Harson answered in the affirmative.

The stranger took off his hat and stood it on a chair; after which,
he thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out a letter. 'That's
not it,' said he, throwing it in his hat; 'nor _that_,' continued
he, drawing out a handkerchief, which he rolled in a very tight
ball, and transferred to another pocket.

'I've got a letter somewhere, _that_ I know. It must belong to the
mole family, for I put it uppermost, and it's burrowed to the very
bottom; d--d if it hasn't! Ah! here it is,' said he, after a violent
struggle, bringing up both a letter and a snuff-box. The former,
he handed to Harson, and the latter he opened, and after applying
each nostril sideways to its contents, took a pinch between his
fingers, returned the box to his pocket, and seating himself snuffed
deliberately, all the while eyeing the breakfast-table, with a
fixed, steady, immovable stare.

The thread-bare, poverty-stricken look and hungry eye of his visitor
was not lost on Harson, who, before opening the letter, glanced at
the table and at the stranger, and then said: 'It's early; perhaps
you have not yet breakfasted, Mr., Mr., Mr ----'

'Kornicker,' said the stranger.

'Kornicker, Mr. Kornicker. If so, make yourself at home and help
yourself while I look over this letter; no ceremony. I use none with
you. Use none with me.'

It was a tempting sight to poor Kornicker; for there stood the
coffee-pot steaming away at the spout; and the dishes, far from
empty, and such rolls as he was not in the habit of meeting every
day; but mingled with all his defects of character, was a strong
feeling of pride which made him hesitate, and it is probable that
pride would have carried the day, had not Harson, divining something
of his feelings, added:

'Perhaps it's scarcely civil to ask you to the table, when I have
left it myself; but I should not stand on a trifle like that with
you; and I hope you'll not with me. Those rolls are excellent; try
them.'

He said no more; but going to the window, broke the seal of the
letter and commenced reading.

Left to himself, Kornicker struggled manfully; but hunger got the
better of all other feelings; and at last, drawing his chair to the
table, he commenced a formidable attack upon its contents.

'So you're with Michael Rust,' said Harson, after he had finished
reading the note, going to the table, and standing opposite
Kornicker.

Kornicker's teeth were just then engaged in a severe struggle with a
roll, and he could do nothing but nod an affirmative.

'Who is he?' inquired Harson; 'what's his profession?'

Kornicker swallowed his roll, and kept it down by half a cup of
coffee; and then said:

'As to who he is; all I know is, he's sometimes an old man;
sometimes he isn't; sometimes he wears a red handkerchief on his
head, and sometimes he don't; but who he is, or what he does, or
where he goes to, or where he comes from, or who he knows, or who
knows him, curse me if _I_ know. That's all I can tell you, Sir.
He's a mystery, done up in the carcass of a little, dried-up man, of
a d--d uncertain age. May I trouble you for the milk?'

'Humph!' said Harson, in a very dissatisfied tone, at the same time
passing the milk; 'and yet you are in his employ?'

Kornicker nodded.

'It's strange,' muttered he, 'quite strange.'

'D--d strange,' said Kornicker, burying his face in a huge
coffee-cup, 'but true,' continued he, setting it down.

'True,' repeated Harson; 'true that you are in his employ; are in
the habit of daily intercourse with him; attend to his concerns; see
him constantly, and yet do not know who he is?'

'Partly correct, partly incorrect,' quoth Mr. Kornicker, pushing
his cup away. 'I'm in his employ--correct. I know nothing of him;
correct again. As to the rest--incorrect. Sometimes, I don't see him
for weeks; sometimes I have something to do--often nothing. I never
know when he's going, or when he's coming back.'

Harson stood quiet for some time. 'This is all very strange. Don't
you know who are his acquaintances, or associates?'

Kornicker shook his head.

'Who comes to see him?'

'Nobody.'

'Do you never hear him speak of any one?'

'Never heard him name a soul, till the other day he named Enoch
Grosket, and to-day you.'

'Do you know nothing of his mode of life, or intentions, or plans,
or whether he's honest or dishonest, or how he lives, or where his
money comes from, or what his family is?'

'Nothing,' said Kornicker. 'Indeed it never struck me till now how
much there was to know on the subject, and how little conversant I
was with it.'

'Shall _I_ tell _you_ who he is?' asked Harson.

Mr. Kornicker replied, that any information in his then
unenlightened state would be acceptable.

'Well, then, he's one of the veriest villains that ever disgraced
human nature. He's ----'

'Come! come! none of that! hold up, old gentleman!' interrupted
Kornicker, sitting bolt upright; and grasping the handle of a
coffee-cup with a somewhat hostile tenacity. 'I've just been eating
your bread, backed by not a little meat, and no small quantity of
coffee, and therefore am under obligations to you; and of course, a
quarrel with you would be greatly against my stomach. But you must
recollect, that Rust is my employer. What I eat, and drink, and
snuff, comes out of his pocket; and although he was small in some
matters, yet he helped me, when it required a good deal of salt to
save me; my fortunes were not only at an ebb, but they'd got to dead
low tide. I'm bound to stand up for him, and I'll do it. I've no
doubt he's the d--dest rascal going; but I'll not hear any one say
so. If I do, damme. So no more of that. Come, come,' said he, after
a somewhat hostile survey of Harson's person, 'you don't look like
the man to make a fellow regret that he's broken your bread.'

Quizzical as was the look of Kornicker, and vagabond as he seemed,
there was something in the open, blunt manner in which he defended
even Rust, that found an answering note in the bosom of Harry, and
he said:

'No, no, I am _not_. You're an honest fellow; but I suppose there's
no harm however in wishing you a better employer?'

'No, not at all,' said Kornicker, after a minute's reflection; 'I
often wish _that_ myself; but,' said he, with a philosophical shake
of the head, 'some people are born with a silver spoon in their
mouth, and I wasn't one of them; mine must have been iron; and I'm
rather inclined to think that there must have been no bowl to it,
for it always held mighty little.'

There was a mixture of comicality and sadness in the tone in which
he spoke, which left Harson in doubt in what strain to answer him.
At last he drew a chair to the table; leaning his two arms upon the
back of it, and surveying his guest attentively, he asked: 'What's
your business, if I may be so bold?'

'Law,' replied Kornicker, leaning back. 'I'm the champion of the
distressed; see widows and orphans righted, and all that sort of
thing. It's a great business--devilish great business.'

'And is Michael Rust a lawyer?' inquired Harson.

'No, I attend to that part of his concerns. He's a mere child in
matters of that kind; but devilishly wide awake in others; but come,
old gentleman,' said he, suddenly breaking off, 'I'm to thank you
for a breakfast; now let's have an answer to the letter. It's time
to be off.'

Harson glanced at the letter, and then said:

'Do you know the contents of this?'

'Not a word of them,' replied Kornicker.

'Nor what it's about?'

'No. Rust is neither confidential, nor communicative,' replied
Kornicker. 'So, what you've got to say say in writing. I don't want
the trouble of thinking about it, or trying to recollect it.'

'Humph!' said Harson. 'There's nothing here requiring a great
stretch of either. He wants me to meet him at his office, on very
particular business; a request somewhat singular, as I never laid
eyes on him in my life.'

'Quite singular,' ejaculated Kornicker.

'But I _know_ much about him; and _that_ leaves me no desire to be
more intimate with him. What do you think of it?'

'I think you're in luck,' replied the other; 'you're the first
that ever was asked inside the door since I've been there. Several
very nice, pleasant fellows of my acquaintance, have dropped in
occasionally, and although his office is nothing to brag of, d--n me
if he didn't invite them to air themselves in the street, and not to
come back! It was quite mortifying, especially as I was there at the
time.'

'What did you do?' inquired Harson.

'You've never seen Rust, you say?' said Kornicker, in reply to the
previous question.

Harson answered in the negative.

'Well, Sir, if you _had_, you wouldn't ask that question. I looked
out of the window, and held my jaw--that's what I did; and that's
what I'd advise _you_ to do in the same trying circumstances. But
come, Sir, give me the answer.'

Harson, after a moment's thought, said: 'It isn't worth while to
write. Tell him I'll come, or send some one. You can remember that?'

Kornicker replied that he thought he could; and taking up his hat,
and shaking hands with Harson, and favoring Spite, who was examining
the quality of his pantaloons, with a sly kick, he sallied out
toward Rust's office.


CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

'COME, Spite,' said Harson, when his visitor was gone, 'we must be
up and doing. This is not a business that can be trifled with. The
longer we put it off, the tighter will the knot be drawn. Stop,
until I get the papers.' Leaving the room for a moment, he returned
fully equipped for walking; with a huge handkerchief wrapped round
his chin, and his broad-brimmed beaver pulled tightly down over his
forehead. 'Now my cane, Spite, and we'll see if we can't get to the
bottom of this deviltry. We're embarked in a good cause, my old
pup, and mustn't give up. Now then! it's a glorious day; the air's
bracing, and will make your old bones quite young again. Hey! what
spirits you're in!' said he, as Spite, elated at being associated in
so important a matter, after wriggling his body in a most convulsive
manner, by way of expressing his satisfaction, finally fell over on
his back, in an abortive effort to perform a hilarious pirouette on
his hind legs. 'Never mind, old fellow,' said Harson, 'pick yourself
up; accidents will happen to the best of us. I warrant me you'd
have done it better ten years ago; don't be down-hearted about it.
We're going to see old Holmes; and when you and I and old Holmes are
thoroughly at work in sifting this matter, why Rust had better look
sharp. Hey, Spite?'

Thus talking to his dog, or whistling to himself, or exchanging a
cheery word with an acquaintance as he passed, the old man trudged
along, followed at a very staid pace by his dog, who since his
late unsuccessful effort, had fallen into a very serious mood,
notwithstanding all the efforts of his master to raise his spirits
and to banish the recollection of it from his mind.

The person whom Harson sought was a little antiquated man, who had
buried himself among his books, and spent his time in burrowing in
out-of-the-way corners of the law. He had wormed his way into all
its obsolete nooks, and haunted those regions of it which had become
deserted, and as it were grass-grown from long disuse. By degrees he
had slunk from a practice which had once promised to be large; and a
name which had once bid fair to shine brightly in the annals of the
law, gradually grew faint in memory, as its owner was missed from
those places where the constant rush of the crowd soon wears out any
impress made by those who are no longer seen. But there were times
when the old man looked out from his den, and prowled among those
who had crowded in his place; and there were times, (but those were
on rare occasions, when some exciting case would be on the carpet,)
when an old man would steal into the court-room, with a bundle of
papers under his arm; and would take his seat at the table among the
counsel engaged in the case; sitting silent throughout the whole;
speaking to none; taking no notes; watching the witnesses with his
dim eyes; studying the faces of the jury; occasionally referred to
by the other counsel; but taking no part in any discussions until
the evidence was closed, and the cause was to be summed up; and
then, to the surprise of all, except the bench and a few of the
oldest of the bar, rising to address the jury; commencing in a low,
feeble tone, and apparently sinking with infirmity, until by degrees
his dim eye became like fire; his faint voice like the clear ringing
of a bell; his eloquence as burning as if flowing from the lips of
manhood's prime; his sarcasm withering; his logic strong, clear,
fervid, and direct; no loitering; no circumlocution; no repetition:
what he had to say he said _once_, and only once. Those who missed
it then waited in vain for something of the same nature to explain
it; it never came. His object was before him; and he hurried onward
to it, sweeping every thing before him and carrying all with him.
And when he had concluded, as he gathered his papers and left the
court, the elder members of the bar would say among themselves: 'Old
Holmes is himself again;' and the younger ones wondered who he was;
and as they learned his name, remembered dimly of having heard it as
that of one who had lived in by-gone days.

His office was not in the business part of the town; but in a quiet,
shady street, which few frequented, rilled with huge trees, and so
quiet and out of the way that it seemed like a church-yard. Thither
Harson bent his steps; and it was not long before he found himself
in his office.

It was a large, dim room, with high shelves filled with volumes
and papers, reaching to the low ceiling. Long, dusty cobwebs hung
trailing from the walls: the very spiders who had formed them,
finding that they caught nothing, had abandoned them. The floor was
thickly carpeted; and a few chairs were scattered about, with odd
volumes lying upon them. Upon a table covered with a green cloth,
were piles of loose papers, ends of old pens, torn scraps of paper,
and straggling bits of red tape. Altogether, it was a sombre-looking
place, so still and gloomy, and with such a chilly, forbidding
air, that it seemed not unlike one of those mysterious chambers,
which once abounded in antiquated castles, and tumbling-down old
houses, with a ghost story hanging to their skirts; or which some
ill-natured fairy had doomed to be shut up for a hundred years; and
the little thin dried-up man who sat in the far corner of it with
every faculty buried in the large volume on his knees, looked as
though he might have dwelt there for the whole of that period. Had
it been so it would have been the same to him; for in that dim room
had he spent the most of his life, immersed in the musty volumes
about him; now and then coming to the surface, to see that the world
had not disappeared while he was busy; and then diving again to
follow out some dark under-current, which was to lead him, GOD knows
whither. What was the world to him? What cared he for its schemes
and dreams and turmoil? The law was every thing to him; home,
family, and friends. GOD help him! a poor lone man, with kindly
feelings, and a warm, open heart, which might have made a fireside
happy; but now without a soul to whom he might claim kindred. Many
respected him; some pitied him, and a few, a very few, loved him.
There he sat day after day, and often until the day ran into night,
delving, and diving, and pondering, and thinking; a living machine,
working like a slave for his clients; alike for rich and poor, the
powerful and the friendless; beyond a bribe; too honest to fear
or care for public opinion; strenuous in asserting the rights of
others, and never enforcing his own, lest he might give pain to
another. GOD help him! I say. He was not the man for this striving,
struggling world; and perhaps it was well for him that in his murky
pursuits he found that contentment which many others wanted. Yet he
never freed his mind from its trammels, and looked abroad upon the
wide world, with its myriads of throbbing hearts, but he found in it
those whom he could love and could help. GOD help _him_, did I say?
Rather, GOD help those who warp and twist the abilities, talents,
and wealth which are showered upon them, to unholy purposes; who
make the former the slaves to minister to deeds and passions at
which human nature might blush; and the last but the stepping-stone
to selfish aggrandizement, or the nucleus around which to gather
greater store. Pity _them_, but not _him_; for although but a pale,
thin, sickly being, with barely a hold upon life, with scarce the
strength of a child, growing old, and withered, and feeble without
knowing it; yet was he all-powerful, from the bright, bold spirit
that animated him, and a soul stern in its own integrity, which
shrank from nothing except evil; and blessed was he, far above all
earthly blessings, with a heart ever warm, ever open, and in which
GOD had infused a noble share of his own benevolence and love to
mankind.

It is no wonder then that Harry Harson, when he stood in the
presence of one in heart so akin to himself, paused and gazed upon
him with a softened eye.

'Holmes, Dick Holmes,' said he, after a moment, 'are you at leisure?'

The old lawyer started, looked wistfully up, contracting his dim
eyes so as to distinguish the features of the person who addressed
him, and then doubling down the leaf of the book which he had been
reading, rose and advanced hesitatingly until he recognized him.

'Ah Harson!' said he, extending his hand quietly; 'honest old Harry,
as we used to call you,' continued he, smiling; 'I'm glad to see
you. Few save those who come on business cross my threshold; so
_you_ are the more welcome. Sit down.'

He pushed a chair toward him, and drawing another close to it, took
a seat, and looked earnestly in his face. 'Time doesn't tell on
you, Harry; nor on me, _much_,' said he, looking at his attenuated
fingers; 'still it _does_ tell. My flesh is not so firm and hard as
it used to be; and I'm getting thinner. I've thought for some months
past of relaxing a little, and of stealing off for a day to the
country, and of rambling in its woods and fields, and breathing its
pure air. It would quite build me up; perhaps you'll go with me?'

'That I will, with all my heart,' said Harson; '_that_ I will; and
right glad am I to hear you say so; for it's enough to break down a
frame of iron to spend hour after hour in this stagnant room, poring
over these musty books.'

Holmes looked about the room, and at his volumes, and then said, in
a somewhat deprecating tone:

'I've been very happy here. It does not seem gloomy to me; at least
not _very_ gloomy. But come; I'll walk out with you now. It does me
good sometimes to see what is going on out of doors; if I can only
find a person I care for, to keep me company.'

He half rose as he spoke; but Harson placed his hand on his arm, and
motioned to him to keep his seat.

'You made a mistake this time,' said he, in a good-natured tone,
and beginning to fumble in his pockets; 'business brought me here
to-day; business, and a desire to follow the suggestions of a
clearer head than mine.'

As he spoke, he drew from his pocket the package of letters, and
placed it before the lawyer.

Before you examine these, I must tell you what they are about.
Perhaps you won't believe me, but these letters will confirm every
word I say. You must hear my story, read them, and then tell me
frankly and fairly what to do; not only as a lawyer, but as a
friend. I shall need your advice as both.

'You shall have it,' said Holmes; 'go on.'

The tale which Harson told was sufficient to arouse every feeling of
indignation in the lawyer. As Harson went on, Holmes became excited,
until, unable to control himself, he rose from his chair and paced
the room, with every honest and upright feeling in arms. He forgot
every thing but the deep wrongs which were recited. Debility and
age were trampled under foot; and his voice, clear and loud, rang
through the room, scorching in its denunciation of the wrongdoer,
and bitter in its threats of retribution. Then it was that the
spirit showed its mastery over the clay, and spurning the feeble
form which clogged it, shone forth, strong in its own might, a
glorious type of the lofty source from which it sprang. But suddenly
he sat down; and passing his hand across his face, said in a feeble
tone: 'I am easily excited now-a-days, but I will command myself. Go
on; I will not interrupt you again.'

As he spoke he placed his arms on the table, and leaned his head
upon them; and this position he maintained without asking a question
or making a comment, until Harson had finished speaking; and when he
looked up, his face had assumed its usual quiet expression.

'Do these letters prove what you say, beyond a doubt?' he asked.

'I think so.'

'And why do you suppose them to be written by Rust? The name, you
say, is different.'

'I had it from a person who would swear to it. By the way,' added
he, suddenly, 'I have just received a letter from Rust. I'll compare
the writing with those; that will prove it.'

He took the letter from his pocket, and placed it beside the others;
and his countenance fell. They were as unlike as possible.

Holmes shook his head. 'You may have hit upon the wrong man, or you
may have been purposely put on a false scent. There certainly is no
resemblance between these,' said he, carefully comparing the two;
'not even in the general character of the hand.'

Harson could not but admit the fact. It was too evident.

'Look over the whole bundle,' said he. 'There are at least twenty of
them. If this is a disguised hand, it is possible that he may have
betrayed himself in some of the others.'

The lawyer went over the letters, one by one, carefully comparing
them; but still the character was the same. All of them were in the
free, flowing style of a good penman; while the letter which Harson
had produced was written in a bold, but stiff and ungraceful hand.

'Where did you get this?' said Holmes, pointing to the one which
Harson had received from Kornicker.

'It was brought to me by a clerk of his this morning.'

'Then you know him?' said Holmes.

'I never saw him in my life.'

'Have you ever had any business with him through others?'

Harson shook his head. 'Never.'

'How do you know that the person who brought this letter was from
Rust?' inquired he.

'The letter proposes an interview. If it isn't from him, the cheat
would be found out when I go.'

'How long have you been ferreting out this matter?'

'Several weeks.'

'Have you worked in secret, or openly?' inquired Holmes.

'I kept the matter as quiet as I could,' replied Harson, 'because I
didn't want him to get wind of it, and place obstacles in my way;
for I supposed that he was the man; but still, I was obliged to
employ several persons, of whom I know little.'

'Then this Rust _is_ the man, you may rely on it,' said Holmes, in
a positive manner. 'He has discovered that you are busy, and is
startled at it. Depend on it, this wish to see you has something to
do with your present movements.'

'I thought so too,' said Harson, 'and shall go there this morning.'

'I'll go too,' said Holmes; 'and the sooner we start the better.'

'Thank you, thank you,' said Harson, stretching out his hand; 'the
very thing I wanted.'

The old lawyer said no more; but after fumbling about his room for
his hat and great-coat, and having succeeded, without any great
difficulty, in putting on the last, (for he had no idea how shrunken
and attenuated he was, and it was large enough for a man of double
his size,) and supported by Harry's steady arm, they set out.

'Stop a minute,' said Harson; 'we've shut Spite in. There'll be the
deuce to pay if we leave _him_. Come, pup.' He opened the door; and
Spite having leisurely obeyed his call, they resumed their walk.




THIS TO THEE, LUCY.


    WHEN like the ripples of some troubled lake,
      Each year shall hasten to its lingering end,
    That chord in Memory's sweet-toned harp awake,
      Which thrills responsive to the name of Friend!
    And oh! whate'er shall be thy future lot,
    In sunshine or in shade, forget me not!

    Whether thou dwellest in the busy mart
      Ceaseless caressed by pride, and pomp and power,
    Or circlest the ambition of thy heart
      Within the lowly cot and rustic bower,
    'The world forgetting, by the world forgot,'
    Still, still my prayer shall be, 'Forget me not!'




NATURE'S MONITIONS.

AN EXTRACT.


    OH! who hath not, in melancholy mood,
    Musing at eve in some sequestered wood,
    Or where the torrent's foaming waters pour,
    Or ocean's billows murmur on the shore;
    Oh! who hath not in such a moment gazed,
    As heaven's bright hosts in cloudless glory blazed,
    And felt a sadness steal upon his heart,
    To think that he with this fair scene must part!
    That while those billows heave, those waters flow,
    Those garnished skies refulgent still shall glow,
    He, that once watched them, will have passed away,
    His name forgot, his ashes blent with clay;
    Unlike those glittering orbs, those quenchless fires,
    Ordained to roll till Time itself expires.




GRAVE THOUGHTS ON PUNCH.


IT was a nice remark of the distinguished French General Moreau
during his residence in this country, that the next thing in the
world to a shock of cavalry is the English word, WHAT! There exists
in it an irresistible abruptness, that frequently puts to flight at
once the whole array of thoughts of the foreigner whose nerves are
assailed by it. 'I can stand,' said he, 'any thing better than your
word, WHAT! It is impossible to reason against it; I seem to have
nothing to do, when I hear it, but to submit!'

It certainly is one of those short words of power, one of those
words of pistol-shot energy, that characterize our grand tongue and
give it originality and force. It is a word to conjure with; and
has many a time raised Truth out of the depths of the heart of the
double-dealer: it is a word of defence--and not unfrequently has
it overturned or repulsed in one utterance the half-formed scheme
of some wheedling knave endeavoring to make a confederate, or
nefariously to win the heart of a pretty girl. May you and I, dear
Editor, never hear from lips we love, in the overwhelming accents of
astonishment and of disappointed hope, the English word, WHAT!

The word at the head of my Essay, and which by the way I mean to
make the subject of it, is another of these short English words
of great strength and pith. This carries however no disfavour
with it; no discourtesy; nor does it raise up one association
that is otherwise than bland and attractive to the mind: and yet
how forcible is it, alike in sound and in effect! Let us listen
to it----PUNCH!----To the ear of my Imagination it is altogether
irresistible! How impossible to parry it! what a possession it takes
of the faculties, and how entirely it seems to get the better of
one! Then how intrinsically, how essentially English it is in all
the strength and vigour of the tongue!--PUNCH! Turn the word into
the French, and behold how pitiable is the effect--_ponche!_

Now it is a curious fact in the Natural History of Liquids, that a
similar and not less remarkable result occurs in the noble beverage
which this short word is intended to designate! Try over the whole
continent of Europe and wheresoever else the English language is
not the vernacular, try I say to get PUNCH, and it invariably comes
out _ponche_ or something still more despicable! I have essayed it
repeatedly and have always found the result the same; and yet I am
neither a young, nor an inexperienced, nor, if you will allow me the
word, an _inextensive_ traveller!

On the other hand, the moment you recross the channel and 'set
foot upon the sacred soil of Britain,' or come home quietly to
our own unassuming United States and lay your hand upon the right
ingredients, out of the sound of any foreign language, the mixture
succeeds as a matter of course, and at once becomes virtually and
essentially, PUNCH--PUNCH proper; PUNCH itself; in short, PUNCH!

    'Tout Éloge d'un grand homme
    Est renfermé dans son nom!'

The native merits and distinctive propriety of the word being thus
established; before I enter into any consideration of the drink
itself, I cannot refrain from chiming in with the general feeling
of the day on this side of the Atlantic so far as to observe, how
incontestably this proves the mutual interest and common origin
of 'the two great nations;' and should the dark day ever arrive,
when letters shall be obliterated; printing forgotten; and language
lost; it is still consolatory to reflect, that a mutual and inborn
affinity between the two last representatives of 'the MOTHER
and DAUGHTER' might be satisfactorily shown and most agreeably
demonstrated by means of _two lemons_; _four tumblers of Croton
or filtered spring water_; _one of double refined loaf sugar well
cracked_; _and one of old Rum_!

Gentle Reader! hast thou carefully dwelt over this list of
ingredients? Are earth, air, fire, and water, more dissimilar in
their elementary properties than are Lemon, Sugar, Water, and Rum?
and has it ever before occurred to thee, to what supernal brightness
of original and fortuitous Genius thou must have been indebted for
this astonishing combination? Art thou alive to the grandeur of the
original conception? Alas! the name of the architect of the Temple
of Ephesus might as well at this epoch be sought for as that of the
author of this stupendous compound, but the irrefragable word which
is universally attempted to be attached to it indicates beyond the
shadow of a doubt the land that claims the honour of his birth!

I am writing to thee from the attic of the house in which I have my
abode.----Canst thou tell me the name of the first artificer who
planned the building of a second story? who first contemplated or
imagined STAIRS? or changed the tent and the cabin into the fabrick
of diversified flights? The scheme of this was taken from the
invention of the Beaver----But where throughout the animal creation
was the instinctive indicator to the man who first conceived the
thought of PUNCH?

NEWTON by the fall of an apple is said to have determined the Theory
of Gravitation: how vast and limitless in its application has been
the discovery! Yet is the whole but the elucidation of one principle
or element of knowledge----while four different and antagonistic
elements associate and are made to combine homogeneously in the
glorious beverage of PUNCH!

DAVY, in his wonderful invention of the Safety Lamp, went with it
completed in his hand from the laboratory to the mine, and found his
reasoning true! Throughout the terraqueous globe his achievement is
cited as the conquest of abstract Science over Physics. But vain is
all abstract reasoning here; all distant experiment; all knowledge
of the gases; all study of the powers of repulsion;--here four
palpable and repulsive reasons are placed in presence of the chemist
and philosopher, and the irresistible argument of all is--PUNCH.

These are hints for reflection to thee, Gentle Reader, in the
quiet and solitary concocting and brewing of thy Pitcher, during
the two hours that thou shalt diligently pour it from one glass
receptacle into the other. When all is finished, and thy star hath
proved benignant to thee; and thy beverage shall have become like
the harmony that steals away thy heart; gushing from four musical
instruments where the sound of neither predominates;--then drink to
the memory of the great original Genius who planned and inspired thy
joy; and forget not to favour, with a passing thought, the verdant
Spirit who would gladly be Thy Companion; and who here subscribes
himself, Thy Friend,

  JOHN WATERS.




HER NAME.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.


    THE fragrant odor of the perfumed flower,
      The plaint of one who doth his pain confess;
    The farewell whispered in the shadowy hour,
      The thrilling sound of love's impassioned kiss:

    The seven-hued scarf that o'er yon field the cloud
      A trophy leaves to the triumphant sun;
    A trancing strain, now lost, now faintly heard,
      The twilight hum that tells the day is done:

    The accent of some voice remembered well,
      The glorious ray that crowns the western sea;
    The secret wish that maiden may not tell,
      The first sweet dream of sleeping infancy:

    A far, faint choral chant; the wakening sigh
      The Memnon gave to morning's glance of flame;
    All that thought hath of beauty, melody,
      Less sweet is, O! my Lyre! than her sweet name!

  M. E. H.




THE STORY OF ABUL CASSIM'S SHOES.

FROM THE ORIGINAL IN TURKISH.


IT is related that there once resided in Bagdad a very wealthy man
named Abul Cassim, who was celebrated for his avarice and parsimony.
So strong was his ruling passion that he could not even be prevailed
upon to throw away his old shoes, but whenever it became urgently
necessary, he would have them stitched at a cobbler's stall, and
continue to wear them for four or five years. So finally, they
became so heavy and large that it was proverbial in that city to say
that a thing was 'as clumsy as Abul Cassim's shoes.'

Now one day as this man was walking in the bazaars of Bagdad, a
friend of his, a broker, informed him that a merchant from Aleppo
was just arrived, bringing some bottles for sale. 'Come,' added he,
'I will get them for you at a low price, and after keeping them a
month or so, you can sell them again for three times as much as you
gave, and so make a handsome profit.' The matter was soon arranged
between them; Abul Cassim bought the bottles for sixty dinars,
and after employing several porters to carry them to his house,
he passed on. He had also another friend, a public crier, whom he
likewise happened to meet, and who told him that a merchant from
the town of Yezd had some rose-water for sale. 'Come,' said he, 'I
will get it for you now at a low rate, and dispose of it for you
some other time for double the amount' So Abul Cassim was prevailed
upon to buy the rose-water also, and on reaching home he filled the
bottles with the water, and placed them on a shelf in one of his
apartments.

The day following, Abul Cassim went to a bath, and while undressing
himself, one of his friends going out saw his old shoes, and
jokingly said: 'Oh! Cassim, do let me change your shoes, for these
have become very clumsy.' Abul Cassim only replied, '_Inshallah_!
if GOD wishes;' and continuing to undress himself, went into the
bath. Just then the _Cadi_, or judge of the city, came to the bath,
and undressed himself near to Abul Cassim. Some time afterward Abul
Cassim came out of the inner room of the bath, and when he had
dressed himself, looked for his shoes, which not finding, but seeing
a new pair in their place, he thought his friend had made the change
that he desired; so putting them on, he returned to his house.

When the Cadi came out of the bath, and had put on his clothes,
he asked for his shoes, but lo! they could nowhere be found;
and seeing, close by, the old ones of Abul Cassim, he naturally
concluded this latter person had purloined his. So the Cadi was
greatly enraged; and ordering Abul Cassim to be brought before him,
he accused him of stealing shoes out of baths, imprisoned him two or
three days, and fined him.

Abul Cassim on his release said to himself: 'These shoes have
dishonored me, and I have been severely punished for their sake;'
so with revengeful feelings he threw them into the Tigris. Two days
afterward some fishermen, on drawing their seines out of that river,
found a pair of old shoes in them, which they immediately recognized
as those of Abul Cassim. One of them remarked that perhaps he had
fallen into the river; and taking the shoes in his hand, carried
them to Abul Cassim's house, and finding its door closed, he threw
them in at a window which was open. Unfortunately the shoes fell on
the shelf where the bottles of rose-water were ranged, so that it
was thrown down, the bottles broken, and all the rose-water was lost.

When Cassim returned to his house, he opened the door and beheld the
loss he had sustained. He tore his hair and beard with grief, wept
aloud, and charged the shoes with being his ruin. To be free from
farther misfortune on their part, 'I will bury them,' said he, 'in
a corner of my house, and then all will end.' So the same night he
arose and commenced digging a hole in a corner of his dwelling; but
his neighbors hearing the noise, thought he was undermining their
house; and rising in affright, they complained to the governor of
the city, who sent and apprehended Cassim, and threw him in prison,
from which he was released only on the payment of a fine.

After this Cassim returned to his house, overwhelmed with grief,
and taking his old shoes, he threw them into the sluice of a
neighboring caravansary. In the course of a few days, the sluice
being stopped, it overran its banks, and workmen having been called
to clean it out, lo! Cassim's shoes were found to be the cause of
the inconvenience. So the governor again threw him in prison, and
fined him to a large amount.

Abul Cassim, now perfectly in despair, took his old shoes, and after
washing them clean, laid them on the terrace of his house, with the
intention, after they were well dried, to burn them, and so put an
end to all shame and misfortune on their account. But it happened
that while the shoes were drying, a neighbor's dog passing over the
terrace saw them, and mistaking them for dried meat, took one in his
mouth, sprang from one terrace to the other, and in doing so let it
fall. The neighbor's wife was _enciente_, and as she happened to
be sitting at the foot of the wall, the shoe fell upon her, and in
her alarm she was prematurely brought to bed. Her husband, in great
anger, complained to the governor, and Abul Cassim was once more
thrown into prison and made to pay a fine.

Abul Cassim now tore his hair and beard with grief, and accusing
the shoes of being the cause of all his misfortunes, he took them
in his hand, and going before the Cadi of Bagdad, related to him
all that had befallen him. 'I beg you,' added he, 'to receive my
declaration, and I hope all these Mussulmans will bear witness that
I now break off all farther relation between me and these shoes, and
have no longer any thing to do with them. I ask also a certificate
showing that I am free from them, and they free from me; so that
if henceforth there are any punishments or fines to be incurred,
questions to be asked or answers to be given, that they may take
them all upon themselves.

The Cadi, much amused with what he heard, gave the desired
certificate, and added a present to Abul Cassim. Behold in this tale
to what misfortunes the avaricious subject themselves!




TO A HUMMING-BIRD.

BY H. W. ROCKWELL.


I.

      BRIGHT stranger from the South! who with the cool
      Light airs of Summer visitest the sweet
      Soft twilight that o'erspreads the shaded pool,
      And the young river-flowers that faint with heat:
      Welcome art thou to the cold North again,
      With thy dark glossy hood, and emerald wings;
      And pleasant be thy way along the glen,
      Where the brown wood-thrush in the thicket sings,
    Or where to prostrate trees the nodding wild flower clings.


II.

      Thy silver beak, which late from Southern flowers
      Sipped GOD'S good bounty, here, where green leaves meet
      And shed their coolness through the long sweet hours
      Of the bright noontide, shalt find blooms as sweet;
      The juicy clover in the meadow-grass
      Shall give thee honey from its crimson cells,
      And thou shalt take, where curling eddies pass,
      Thy supper in the dewy mountain-bells,
    When the meek evening-wind amid the forest swells.


III.

      Waters shall catch thine image; thy green wings
      Fanning with music the sweet forest airs,
      Shall bear thee where the reddening wood-rose springs
      Amid the moss and sunshine. Thou shalt fare
      Upon the glossy seeds when they are ripe
      On their long stems, beside the streamlet's bed,
      And on thy scarlet jacket thou shalt wipe
      Thy shining bill when thou hast freely fed
    Upon the river-plum and mountain-cherry red.


IV.

      Welcome thou art unto my lattice; here
      In safety thou may'st smooth thy velvet hood,
      And sip the summer-sweets without a fear,
      With the sweet winds thy gentle sisterhood.
      Ay! thou art welcome; nor would I in vain
      Take lesson from thine own meek history;
      But when the hazy summer comes again
      To these wide woods, may'st thou no stranger be
    Among those friends which are my best society.

  _Utica, August, 1843._




LITERARY NOTICES.


     THE POLITICIANS, A COMEDY: in Five Acts. By CORNELIUS MATHEWS.
     pp. 118. New-York: Printed for the Author.

     POEMS ON MAN, IN HIS VARIOUS ASPECTS UNDER THE AMERICAN
     REPUBLIC. By CORNELIUS MATHEWS. In one volume, pp. 112.
     New-York: Printed for the Author, and for sale at WILEY AND
     PUTNAM'S and other metropolitan Book-stores.

     THE CAREER OF PUFFER HOPKINS. Published in the 'serial form,'
     from the office of the 'BROTHER JONATHAN.'

In a notice some four years since in these pages of the 'Motley
Book'[2] by the author of the above-named productions, we expressed
our conviction, and gave the grounds for our belief, that Mr.
MATHEWS had mistaken his vocation; that he exhibited a mind
capacious enough of vague dreams and dim similitudes of humor,
but that there was no naturalness in his descriptions, and no
distinctness in his pictures; that his observation of men and things
was cursory and superficial, and that his style was of such a
character that the reader was often led to doubt whether he always
affixed any very precise idea to the language which he employed.
We excepted from these remarks, we remember, a serious sketch or
two of the writer, 'The Potters'-Field,' and 'The Unburied Bones,'
as evincing a degree of spirit and pathos, which justified us in
counselling him, if he must needs write, to confine his literary
efforts to that species of composition. Since the period to which
we have referred, Mr. MATHEWS has continued to write and print,
with great industry and perseverance, what he must have considered
works of humor and satire; but we are sorry to be compelled to
add, without exhibiting the slightest improvement. Like MICHAEL
CASSIO, Mr. MATHEWS, when he sits down to pen, ink, and paper,
'sees a mass of objects, but nothing _distinctly_.' He has a large
grasp of small things, without selection and without cohesion; his
ideas, if they may be _called_ ideas, are often diffuse, pointless,
and apparently aimless; and it is impossible for any intelligent
reader to resist the conclusion that his 'wit's diseased,' in one
sense, at least. Let us take, as an illustration of the justice of
our animadversions, the 'Comedy' whose title stands first at the
head of this notice. From the strutting boldness of the language
in the preface, the reader is led to conclude, evidently with the
author, that an 'American dramatist' has at last arisen, who is to
present the proof that 'America contains within itself material
quite adequate for any class of literary productions;' that there
is 'no lack of materials for comedy in our country and among
ourselves;' and that here we have a dramatic attempt which is to
furnish 'countenance to the Cause of true National Literature.' In
consonance with Mr. MATHEWS'S own opinions of his 'Comedy,' is his
modest request that nobody should 'interfere with his privileges as
its author, or prevent him from deriving such emoluments from its
representation as are equitably his due.' Probability rather favors
the conclusion, we think, that no person ever did! The writer adds,
also, that he 'would be greatly rejoiced' if the play should be 'the
thing' to awaken the National Legislature to a 'realizing sense'
of its duty in the matter of international copy-right! Such is the
character of the introduction to the public of the 'Comedy' before
us. Now for a taste of its quality.

  [2] SEE the KNICKERBOCKER for December, 1838.

The first act opens with a dialogue between a political candidate
and his 'chum' touching 'the use of a church-bell' to bring out the
voters, who are to be wrought upon by an announcement of the fact
that 'the steeple is in the hands of their party,' whose ticket is
to be 'spread on the weather-cock.' After a discussion of various
modes of catching voters, which we should be glad to have the reader
_see_, but which we must 'respectfully decline' to _quote_, we come
to the annexed characteristic specimen of our author's wit. Stand
aside, reader; for the text says: 'Enter BOTCH:'

     BOTCH. Have you heard this rumor, Sir?

     GUDGEON. What rumor, for Heaven's sake? They haven't bought up
     all the large flags in the ward?

     BOTCH. No, Sir.

     GUDGEON. Have they got in a new barrel of beer? or hired
     Blaster, the popular trumpeter? I spoke to him myself last
     night. They haven't engaged Murphy's two starved horses, that
     always operate so on the popular sympathies and bring up so many
     voters?

     BOTCH. None of these, Sir!

     GUDGEON. What then, Botch? Be quick--what then?

     BOTCH. Why, Sir, the Brisk party is going to use the belfry of
     the church to distribute tickets from, and they intend to employ
     the sexton to read prayers every morning of the election from
     the small window in the steeple.

     GUDGEON. This must be counteracted: it will have an overwhelming
     effect. We shall have the whole religious community moving
     against us in platoons, pew by pew!

     BOTCH. Something must be done, Sir; I see clearly something must
     be done. What shall it be, Sir?

     GUDGEON. Yes, something must be done.

     BOTCH. Certainly; something must be done.

     GUDGEON. What then, in the name of Heaven, shall it be? Couldn't
     we get Glib to climb the steeple above the window and deliver
     an harangue? It might do away with the evil influence of the
     proceedings below, and give us a tremendous ascendency at once.

     BOTCH. I doubt whether Mr. Glib would undertake it, even if
     he could snatch a notary's commission from the weathercock,
     as the chances of being made a martyr of by stoning would be
     considerable.

In the fourth scene there is a new effect given to stage
song-singing, by a Mr. BLANDING, one of the characters, which should
neither be lost to dramatic writers, theatrical persons, nor to 'the
world.' A fragment will suffice, we suspect:

     BLANDING. (_From within._) Fol-la--_my heart_--andino--_has
     gently_--sa--_felt_--allegro--allegro--_sweet Kate_--piano--_the
     sharp and sure revenge of fate_--La-mi-fol-sa.

     CRUMB. The fit is coming upon him.

    BLANDING.      _Oh smile upon the gloomy wave
                            That bears me to a gloomier grave._

     That goes badly in andante--so-fa-me-fi-so.

    BLANDING.  _And fly_--too slow--_and fly_--allegro--allegro,
                        _And fly with me._ Prestissimo.

     CRUMB. (_Breaking in._) Heigh-ho! how is this, Sir? Are you
     trying to set a runaway match to music?

     BLANDING. I beg your pardon, Sir--but--

     CRUMB. You may well do that, and the pardon of the whole city
     council, if you please. Meditating a rhymed elopement with Miss
     Brisk, daughter of John Brisk, candidate for alderman of the
     ward! Why this is an audacious breach of ordinance.

Pass we now to the second act, wherein we find Mr. and Mrs.
GUDGEON engaged in a remarkably humorous colloquy. He informs her
that a committee has been appointed to 'have his own portrait
of his individual self, ROBERT GUDGEON' taken; whereupon, among
other things, Mrs. GUDGEON is led to remark, that now she has
a presentiment that his election is safe. To which, 'thus then
GUDGEON:'

     GUDGEON. And so have I. Some great event is clearly at hand. We
     have had a meteor the other night that whizzed round the sky,
     like a large Catharine-wheel; then there has been a school of
     sixty whale cast ashore off Barnegat; and the Rain-King, only
     last Week, caught a storm on a lightning-rod, and held it there
     two days, notwithstanding the entreaties of the neighboring
     county, that was suffering sorely under a drouth. What do these
     things mean? what do they refer to? The approach of the comet
     foretold in the Farmer's Almanac; or, it may be so, (for I
     recollect the birth of my father's five-legged calf, in Danbury,
     was brought on by an early sun-rise,) the election of Robert
     Gudgeon as alderman.

Is not the wit of this undeniable? Does it not 'fortify like a
cordial?' Yet it is not more striking than the humor of many other
portions of the 'Comedy;' not more so indeed than several passages
in the third act, especially in the dialogue between CROWDER and
the committee-men, concerning the means by which the candidate is
to recommend himself to his constituents, though it were to 'run a
_sewer_ through his pocket (!) and drain it to the last cent.' The
committee do not 'sit' in their room at a tavern without 'creature
comforts.' Observe: the landlord is called:

     LANDLORD. (_From without._) Coming!

     CROWDER. We want your bill. That will bring him up with it,
     short and quick.

     LANDLORD. (_From without._) It's e'en a'most made out; only a
     few items to add.

  _Enter_ LANDLORD.

     CROWDER. Come, read it off, jolly Job Works, in a good clear
     half-price voice; by particulars, and it's cash on the nail.
     Begin!

     LANDLORD. That I likes; 'four sperm candle'; Nothing like the
     ready metal; 'Two quarts beer, with snuffers.'

     CROWDER. Well, he has a fine throat of his own; it smacks of the
     spigot.

     LANDLORD. Room-hire, cigars, and two juleps, with benches.

     CROWDER. Well.

     LANDLORD. A small pig with lemon.

     CROWDER. A pig with lemon!

     LANDLORD. Two plates pickled beans, two rolls twisted bread, and
     beer extra.

     CROWDER. Beans, bread, and beer!

     LANDLORD. Six lobster and two pound sage-cheese; likewise a
     splendid pork-pie made of chops.

     CROWDER. A splendid pork-pie made of chops!

     LANDLORD. And a suet pudding.

     CROWDER. Nothing else?

     LANDLORD. Nothing else.

The landlord declares, in answer to a little grumbling, that
'the things' named in the bill were 'sent down for' from the
committee-room by way of the chimney, in a stone-bottle 'as big-as
my two-fist,' which struck his cook, 'poor hunch-back JENNY, in the
small, or rather I should say in the big of her back, as she was
stooping over a dish of _prawns_ (?) for Tom Lug!' CROWDER pays, of
course, in the usual way; but his rival is not to be outdone by such
liberality. He 'bears a charmed life:' for Mrs. GUDGEON has 'told
him to buy fresh chick-weed and goose-grass to carry in his pocket,
because they say it draws voters!'

But enough. If our readers desire more of Mr. MATHEWS' 'Comedy,'
they must seek it elsewhere. We have selected the liveliest
passages we could find: for there is a calm placidity of emptiness,
diversified with a bustling inanity of thought, in _other_ portions
of this performance, which we have small desire to illustrate by
examples; since they would not fail to produce at least twenty yawns
to a page; a soporific that neither watchman not sick-nurse could
support.

We come next in order to the poems on '_Man, in his Various Aspects
under the American Republic_;' a very comprehensive title to much
incomprehensible rhyme with little reason. As a poet, Mr. MATHEWS
cannot reasonably expect to take the exalted order of rank which he
holds as a dramatist. That indeed were expecting quite too much! To
use the illustration of a nautical critic, his plan of writing-verse
would seem to be, to 'fire away with the high-soundingest words
he can get, whereby his meaning looms larger than it is, like a
fishing-boat in a fog.' Where there is such a ground-swell of
language, there can be no great depth of ideas. Yet there _are_ good
ideas in some of the lines in these ten-score of pages, borne down
though they be, and almost smothered, with words. For the most part,
however, the volume presents but a farrago of crude expressions,
ideas, and pictures, some poetical and others 'quite the reverse,'
aggregated in a rude and undigested mass. The writer treats, under
nineteen divisions, of Man as child, father, teacher, citizen,
farmer, mechanic, merchant, soldier, statesman, etc.; and from
some of these we propose to select a few examples of Mr. MATHEWS'S
thoughts and style poetical. The following stanza is taken from the
advice given to 'the father' of an infant:

    'A soul distinct and sphered, its own true star,
    Shining and _axled_ for a separate way.'

An 'axled soul' is good, as POLONIUS would say; but it is not much
better than one or two equally original expressions which ensue:

    'BE thou a Heaven of truth and cheerful hope,
      Clear as the clear round midnight at its full;
    And he, the Earth beneath that elder cope--
      And each 'gainst each for highest mastery pull:
    The child and father, each shall fitly be--
      Hope in the evening vanward paling down,
    The one--the other younger Hope upspringing,
      With the glancing morning for its crown.'

The writer counsels 'the citizen' not to 'overstalk' his brother,
but to show in his mien 'each motion _forthright_, calm, and free;'
and he farther advises in the words following, to wit:

    'FEEL well with the poised ballot in thy hand,
      Thine unmatched sovereignty of right and wrong:
    'Tis thine to bless or blast the waiting land,
      _To shorten up its life or make it long_.'

In the annexed stanza there is an assortment of similes, the like
of which one seldom encounters in so brief a compass. The lines
are addressed to 'the farmer;' and we are acquainted with several
excellent persons among that indispensable class of the community,
to whom we should like to hear Mr. MATHEWS _read_ them! It would be
a 'rich treat' to hear their opinion of such pellucid poetry:

    'WHEN cloud-like whirling through the stormy State
      Fierce Revolutions rush in wild-orbed haste,
    On the still highway stay their darkling course,
      And soothe with gentle airs their fiery breast;
    Slaking the anger of their chariot-wheels
      In the cool flowings of the mountain brook,
    While from the cloud the heavenward prophet casts
      His mantle's peace, and _shines his better look_.'

Cloud-like revolutions stopping on the highway to slake their
chariot-wheels in a mountain-brook! If that isn't 'original poetry'
we know not what is. Now the opening of the piece from which
the above stanza is taken we have no doubt is considered by the
writer quite inferior to it; but to our conception, the nature
and simplicity which it preserves for a moment are worth all the
striking figures to which we have alluded. 'The mechanic,' whose
business is to 'shape and _finish forth_ iron and wood,' comes in
for his share of rythmical counsel:

    'LET consecrate, whate'er it strikes, each blow,
      From the small whisper of the tinkling smith,
    Up to the big-voiced sledge that heaving slow
      Roars 'gainst the massy bar, and tears
      Its entrail, glowing, as with angry teeth--
    Anchors that hold a world should thus-wise grow.'

Observe the felicitousness of the foregoing poetical terms. The
'tinkling smith,' and the 'big-voiced sledge' _roaring_ against
an iron bar, and tearing out its _entrails_ with angry _teeth_!
Could appropriateness and power of metaphor reach much beyond this?
'Not good,' we suspect. We thought to have given our friends, 'the
merchants,' a lift with Mr. MATHEWS'S moral instruction; but we can
only remind them, with his assistance, that

    'Undimmed _the man_ should through _the trader_ shine,
    And show the soul _unbabied_ by his craft.'

'Next comes the soldier,' to whom Mr. MATHEWS thus addresses himself:

    'With grounded arms, and silent as the mountains,
    Pause for thy quarrel at the _marbled sea_.'

'Marbled sea' is good; as good as 'the mobled queen.' It might
perhaps assist the effect a little, if the reader knew what it
meant. Possibly the writer knows; yet we doubt it. The next stanza
presents a cloudy vision of the sublime obscure:

    'THOUGH sleeps the war-blade in the _amorous_ sheath,
      And the dumb cannon stretches at _his leisure_--
    When strikes the shore a hostile foot--out-breathe
      Ye grim, loud guns--ye fierce swords work your pleasure!
    And sternly, in your stubborn socket set,
      For life or death--_your hilt upon the stedfast land_,
    Your glance upon the foe, thou sure-set bayonet,
      Firm 'gainst a world's shock in your _fastness_ stand!'

'The statesman' is not less felicitously 'touched off' than the
soldier:

    'DEEPER to feel, than quickly to express,
      And then alone in the consummate act;
    _Reaps not the ocean, nor the free air tills_,
      But keeps within his own peculiar tract;
    Confirms the State in all its needful right,
      Nor strives to draw within its general bound;
    For gain or loss, for glory or distress,
      The rich man's hoard, the _poor man's patchy ground_.'

'Hold, enough!' doubtless exclaims the reader. Yet could we go on to
the end of the volume with just such 'poetry' as this. We must ask
the farther attention of 'the curious' to be directed to the work
itself, while we proceed to glance for a moment at the production
last cited at the head of this notice.

The swelling prelude to '_The Career of Puffer Hopkins_' is kindred
in assumption and manner with the preface to the 'Comedy,' to which
we have already adverted. 'CERVANTES, SMOLLET, FIELDING, and SCOTT,
to say nothing of more recent examples,' are modestly invoked, to
show that the author cannot justly be charged with caricaturing. We
yield the point, without the examples. A caricature always bears
some resemblance to an original; but Mr. MATHEWS'S characters
have _no_ originals. They are in no respect _vraisemblant_. Take
his whole catalogue of names, (in themselves _so_ 'funny!') his
'Hobbleshank,' 'Piddleton Bloater,' 'Mr. Gallipot,' 'Mr. Blinker,'
'Mr. Fishblaat,' 'Attorney Pudlin,' 'Mr. Fyler Close,' 'Alderman
Punchwind,' 'Mr. Shirks,' 'Counsellor Blast,' 'Dr. Mash,' 'Mr.
Bust,' 'Mr. Flabby,' etc.; analyze them, if possible, and tell us
if any one of them ever had any thing like a counterpart in 'the
heavens above, in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the
earth?' Are they any more distinctive, _internally_, than 'the
pie-faced man,' or the man 'with features like a dried codfish
suddenly animated,' _externally_? 'Not a jot, not a jot,' will be
the reply of every one who attentively scans them. The death of
'Fob' partakes in a good degree of the pathetic, and justifies
the counsel which we gave the writer in our notice of 'The Motley
Book.' It is however as evidently suggested by kindred scenes in the
writings of DICKENS, as is the writer's raven and coffin-maker's
apprentice. We have not the space, had we either the leisure
or the inclination, to attempt a notice in detail of 'Puffer
Hopkins.' We say 'attempt,' because it defies criticism. It has
neither plot nor counterplot; neither head nor tail. Memory, it
has been well said, is the best of critics; but we doubt if there
be a scene or part of a scene, in the entire work, that could be
segregated and recalled by the recollection of the reader. Aimless
grotesqueness; the most laborious yet futile endeavors after wit;
and a constant unsuccessful straining for effect; are its prominent
characteristics. Take up the book, reader, open it _any where_, and
peruse two pages; and if you do not acquit us entirely of undue
depreciation in this verdict, place no faith hereafter in our
literary judgment. Let us open it at random for an illustrative
passage or two. In the following, Puffer (after receiving a lecture
on political speech-making, in which among other things he is
told, to 'roll his eye-balls back under the lid, and _smell of the
chandelier_, though the odor isn't pleasant!') is thus further
instructed:

     'IT'S best to rise gradually with your hearers; and, if you can
     have a private understanding with one of the waiters, to fix a
     chair conveniently, a wooden-bottomed Windsor, mind, and none of
     your rushers; for it's decidedly funny and destroys the effect,
     to hear a gentleman declaiming about a sinking fund, or a penal
     code, or the abolition of imprisonment for debt, up to his belly
     in a broken chair-frame. As the passion grows upon you, plant
     your right leg on one of the rounds, then on the bottom, and
     finally, when you feel yourself at red-heat, spring into the
     chair, waive your hat, and call upon the audience to die for
     their country, their families and their firesides; or any other
     convenient reason. As Hobbleshank advanced in his discourse, he
     had illustrated its various topics by actual accompaniments;
     mounting first on his legs, then the bench, and ended by leaping
     upon the table, where he stood brandishing his broken hat, and
     shouting vociferously for more oysters.'

There are other suggestions; such as having 'immense telescopes
constructed, and planted where they could command the interior of
every domicil in the ward, and tell what was in every man's pot for
dinner six days in a week;' together with a 'great ledger, with
leaves to open like doors, on which should be a full-length likeness
of each voter, drawn and colored to the life,' even 'down to his
vest-buttons, and a mote in his eye!' Who shall say that _this_
isn't 'genuine humor?' Here too is 'a touch of _nature_,' such
as Mr. MATHEWS delights in. An electioneerer or 'scourer' of the
wards visits a theatrical 'lightning-maker,' (a highly _probable_
character,) at his laboratory, where the following witty dialogue
ensues:

     'THIS profession of yours,' said Puffer--he dared not call it
     a trade, although the poor workman was up to his eyes in vile
     yellow paste and charcoal-dust--'this profession, Sir, must give
     you many patriotic feelings of a high cast, Sir.'

     'It does, Sir,' answered the lightning-maker, slightly mistaking
     his meaning; 'I've told the manager more than fifty times that
     lightning such as mine is worth ninepence a bottle, but he never
     would pay more than fourpence ha'penny: except in volcanoes;
     them's always two-quarters.'

     'I mean, Sir,' continued the scourer, 'that when you see the
     vivid fires blazing on Lake Erie; when Perry's working his ship
     about like a velocipede, and the guns are bursting off, and the
     enemy paddling away like ducks; is not your soul then stirred,
     Sir? Do you not feel impelled to achieve some great, some
     glorious act? What do you do, what can you do, in such a moment
     of intense, overwhelming excitement?'

     '_I_ generally,' answered the lightning-maker with an emphasis
     upon the personal pronoun, as if some difference of practice
     might possibly prevail, '_I_ generally takes a glass of beer,
     with the froth on.'

     'But, Sir, when you see the dwelling-house roof, kindled by your
     bomb-shells, all a-blaze with the midnight conflagration: the
     rafters melting away, I may say, with the intense heat, and the
     engines working their pumps in vain; don't you think then, Sir,
     of some peaceful family, living in some secluded valley, broken
     in upon by the heartless incendiary with his demon-matches, and
     burning down their cottage with all its outhouses?'

     'In such cases,' answered the lightning-maker, 'I thinks of my
     two babies at home, with their poor lame mother; and I makes it
     a point, if my feelings is very much wrought up, as the prompter
     says, to run home between the acts to see that all's safe, and
     put a bucket of water by the hearth. Isn't that the thing?'

     'I think it is; and I'm glad to hear you talk so feelingly,'
     answered Puffer Hopkins; 'our next mayor's a very
     domestic-minded man; just such a man as you are; only I don't
     believe he'd be so prudent and active about the bucket on the
     hearth.'

     'At this, the lightning-maker smiled pleasantly to himself, and
     _unconsciously thrust a large roll of brimstone in his cheek_.'

Oh, for modern schepen, to laugh himself to death at this fine
'burst' of nature and of wit! Holding both his sides, how would he
guffaw at that brimstone mistake! 'How _can_ you make me laugh so,
when I am so sick?' Well, well; it _is_ funny, certainly; but wait
until you read this fragment of 'burning satire' upon the political
press:

     'An '_Extra Puncheon_,' pretending to give late news from the
     Capitol, but containing, in reality, Flabby's long-expected
     reply. 'Capital! capital!' cried Mr. Fishblaat, as he hurried
     on; 'Flabby called Busts a drunken vagabond, in the _Puncheon_
     of Wednesday week; Busts called Flabby a hoary reprobate, in
     Monday's _Bladder_, and now Flabby calls Busts a keg of Geneva
     bitters; says the bung's knocked out and the staves well
     coopered. Capital! This alludes to a threshing, in front of the
     Exchange in which Busts had his eye blacked and a couple of ribs
     beaten in.'

But we must draw our notice of Mr. MATHEWS'S 'writings' to a close.
We cannot do so, however, without again inviting the attention of
our readers to the 'works' themselves, if they are desirous to
partake in a yet larger degree of the kindling effect of his unique
wit and humor, and to render _full_ justice to 'the American Boz!'


     THE POETS OF CONNECTICUT; WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Edited by
     Rev. CHARLES W. EVEREST. In one volume, pp. 468. Hartford: CASE,
     TIFFANY, AND BURNHAM. New-York: KNICKERBOCKER Publication Office.

HONOR to Connecticut for the 'bright names in song' to which she
has given birth; and honor to Mr. EVEREST for the faithfulness and
good judgment with which he has discharged his editorial function,
in the large and exceedingly beautiful volume before us. Few of
our readers can be aware of the number and high character of the
poets of America who first drew breath in the 'Land of Steady
Habits.' The catalogue 'deflours us of our chiefest treasures' in
poetry; numbering as it does, HALLECK, BRAINARD, PERCIVAL, PIERPONT,
PRENTICE, HILLHOUSE, HILL, SIGOURNEY, ROCKWELL, and others scarcely
less known to fame, and whose effusions are endenizen'd in the
national heart. The volume presents a brief historical account of
the poetical literature of Connecticut, from its commencement to the
present period. The writers are arranged in the order of birth, as
being less invidious, and as better comporting with the design of
the editor. In the department of biography, the sketches have been
made as complete as possible, in the case of deceased writers, while
in those of the living, the principal facts of personal history
are carefully preserved. The editor has judiciously confined his
critical duties to the mere pointing out of a few characteristic
traits of each author's verse, refraining from especial eulogy or
censure. The volume is in all respects a valuable contribution to
our national literature, and deserves, what we cannot doubt it
will receive, a circulation commensurate with its merits. It is
beautifully printed, upon large, clear types, and embellished with
a fine vignette-engraving of the city of Hartford and Connecticut
river.


     ABBOTTSFORD EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. Edinburgh: ROBERT
     CADELL. London: HOULSTON AND STONEMAN. New-York: WILEY AND
     PUTNAM.

WE have already twice spoken of this most _perfect_ edition of
the works of the immortal SCOTT; but as the numbers reach us in
succession from abroad, and the fine taste and profuse liberality
of the publisher are more and more revealed, we are continually
tempted to descant upon merits and beauties which we could wish our
readers throughout the Union and the Canadas could _personally_
appreciate. We have before us at this moment the series complete
to the thirty-second issue; and how many illustrations does the
reader suppose are included in these numbers? No less than _five
hundred and fifty_; varying, in each number, from sixteen and
eighteen to twenty-four. These illustrations, too, are in the
very finest style of the art of engraving, whether on steel or
wood. There is nothing omitted that _can_ be illustrated, in any
of the great 'Northern Magician's' works. The first painters in
England are employed to paint from nature the originals of all the
principal scenes; these are transferred to steel by the most eminent
engravers in Europe; and the same faithfulness is apparent in all
the principal portraits, which are so numerous and authentic, as to
leave nothing to be desired in this department of the work. Add to
this the fact, that every _thing_ to which any especial interest
attaches in the novels is pictorially presented, with a kindred care
and correctness; and that the fine texture and dazzling whiteness
of the paper and beauty of the printing are unsurpassed; and the
reader will have some idea of the comparative _cheapness_ of a work
like this, when informed that each number costs but two shillings
and sixpence sterling! The edition will contain, when completed,
more than _two thousand engravings_, on steel and wood, and of the
highest order of excellence. Indeed, the landscape engravings on
steel will of themselves form a splendid series of an hundred views,
illustrative of the novels.




EDITOR'S TABLE.


THE LATE WILLIAM ABBOTT: HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL JOURNAL.--In briefly
noticing, some months since, the decease of WILLIAM ABBOTT, Esq.,
late of the Park Theatre, we promised again to advert to his career
in England and this country; and the perusal with which we have
recently been favored of an exceedingly entertaining autobiography
of this excellent actor and accomplished gentleman, has 'whetted
our almost blunted purpose.' We learn from a brief obituary in
the London 'Gentleman's Magazine,' that Mr. ABBOTT was born at
Bath, England, in 1788, and began his theatrical career in that
city, whence his varied talent caused his being transported to
Covent-Garden Theatre, at the age of twenty-four. He remained there
twelve years, continuing all the time to grow in reputation. In
social life, his house at Knightsbridge, near London, was long the
scene of meetings in which good taste and refinement increased
their attraction, by being blended with less ceremonious pastimes,
and the constant flow of fanciful recreations. Thus he traversed a
flowery time until 1824, when ambition tempted him to become the
lessee of the Dublin Theatre. He lost money by the speculation;
and his next move was to Paris, where with an English company he
entertained the Parisian public with _éclat_ for two years. In the
French capital his enjoyment of society was of a very gratifying
kind; and he spoke the language with so much purity as to escape all
the usual inconveniences attendant upon foreign disclosure. In 1828
he returned to Covent-Garden to enable Miss FANNY KEMBLE to appear
as JULIET with an adequate ROMEO. Subsequently, untoward events of
a pecuniary nature, connected with the management of one of the
minor theatres of the metropolis, induced him to try his fortunes
in America. The professional and social qualities which had won for
him reputation and friends in his own country, gained him both in
this, in an equal degree; while the same experience as a manager
attended him here that was 'his destiny' abroad. The Charleston (S.
C.) Theatre, the management of which he assumed, proved worse than
valueless to his interests; and at the time of his death he had
resumed his place upon the boards of the Park Theatre, where he had
always given ample satisfaction to the public. He was the author of
several successful dramatic productions in England, and was known on
both sides of the Atlantic as a gentleman of fine literary taste and
acquirements. He was a person of the most gentleman-like manners,
cheerful disposition, ready wit in the play of conversation, and
possessed a kindly and liberal heart. Few men were more welcome to
society, or more entertaining within its bounds. He was full of
anecdote; and the humorous stories of the stage found in him a most
amusing reciter. He had also the song, the jest, or the repartee,
which never failed to add mirth to the festive board. Above all,
shone the unclouded cheerfulness of his nature, over which even his
own misfortunes apparently never suffered a shadow to pass; and that
good-will toward others which defied the taint of envy, (either
in private life or in an envious profession,) which was happy in
contributing to happiness, and would not tread on a worm, or even
injure an enemy. 'Such,' says our London contemporary, 'was WILLIAM
ABBOTT, who for many years was a popular favorite in the principal
theatres of London, and who performed the second class of characters
better than any actor we ever saw. His walk too was unconfined. In
tragedy, not of the sterner sort, he was graceful and impressive;
in genteel comedy, equal to any of his contemporaries in that line;
in the more unlicensed exuberance of farce, a laughable and jocular
actor; and in all, he was ever perfect in his part.'

We proceed now to select a few passages, almost at random, from the
delightful manuscript volume to which we have referred; a work which
we have no doubt will speedily be in the hands of a publisher, since
it cannot fail to prove one of the most various and entertaining
books of the season. We commence our extracts with the annexed
sketch of personal misadventure, which will remind the reader of the
somewhat similar scene in 'The Antiquary' of SCOTT. The _locale_ is
Tenby, in South Wales, opposite the Devonshire coast:

     'WHAT vivid recollections throng my mind, when I recall the
     perilous situation in which I was once placed there! It was my
     constant custom, whenever I had a character of importance to
     study, to wander on the 'Sands' in front of the town; not like
     DEMOSTHENES, with a pebble in my mouth, but seating myself on
     some jutting rock, listen to the roar of old Ocean in storms,
     or watch its gentle undulations, like an infant rocking itself
     to sleep. On one occasion I pursued my path greatly beyond all
     former wanderings; passed each inlet I encountered, and again
     emerged on the broad Sands; and on turning, the town met my
     eye, and appeared, although three miles distant, to be almost
     within my grasp. The waters kept at a respectful distance, while
     I reclined upon an isolated rock, not unlike a rude arm-chair.
     Like another CANUTE, I wanted to see if the waters would dare
     approach me. My mind was full of 'meditation and the thoughts
     of love;' and many a _chateau en Espagne_ was peopled with
     delightful visions of air-born spirits, paying homage to my
     towering theatrical genius! Casually turning round, to my utter
     confusion I saw the water laving the base of a high projecting
     rock which intercepted my return. I felt that no time was to
     be lost. I rushed back, and knee-deep, cleared the obstacle.
     Another, still more formidable, stood before me. Beyond, the
     golden Sands, tinged by the beams of the setting sun, gave life
     and hope; at my feet lay despair and death. Not a soul was in
     sight; and the opposing obstacle that separated me from the path
     by which I could reach the town, was rising perpendicularly
     from the deep. I was young in years; and in an instant all my
     previous life flashed upon me, in one dreary perspective. No
     escape, no hope! DEATH himself stood before me! The very rocks
     on which I had so often gazed with a romantic delight, now
     oppressed me with terror. Grim visages with demoniac smiles
     started into life from the surrounding cliffs, to mock my
     helplessness. The roaring waves, dashing upon the sharp rocks,
     uttered a voice of fearful warning. Despair was almost at its
     height, when suddenly my nerves became iron. I rushed to the
     opposing rock; I reached, and how I know not, a fearful height;
     I clung to some stunted brushwood, which found a frail hold in
     the fissures of the rock. One point of safety was visible, but
     as I attempted to reach it, loose particles crumbled and rolled
     beneath my feet, and I heard the crackling of the branches.
     The yawning gulf was ready to receive me! One last effort, one
     convulsive spring, enabled me to reach the desired refuge; and
     although in comparative safety, I sat there shaking with terror,
     and watched the rapid approach of the waves, which, although
     fortunately not violently agitated, covered me with the 'salt
     sea-foam.' The excitement prevented my feeling the cold, though
     I was wet to the skin. The heavens were calm and blue above,
     and the stars shone in all their splendor; but the restlessness
     of the waters, through the dim obscurity, kept me in perpetual
     agitation. For hours I remained in this situation; at length the
     early morning dawned upon me, and the receding tide lifted a
     weight from my heart.'

Many of our readers will remember sundry anecdotes, from theatrical
persons and works upon the drama of 'ROMEO COATES,' of Bath,
England. Mr. ABBOTT gives a very amusing account of the manner
in which this _soubriquet_, which attached to the subject of it
throughout his life, was obtained:

     'THOUGH an unmitigated ass, he was the lion of the day. He came
     from one of the West-India islands, was very wealthy, and on
     all occasions wore brilliants of the first water. In a place
     like Bath, where _ennui_ will step in occasionally, he was a
     godsend. He was followed, courted, fooled to the top of his
     bent. The sprigs of fashion 'drew him in' to give at the York
     Hotel the most expensive entertainments; and at one party, when
     I was present, they insisted upon his mounting a table covered
     with decanters and glasses, to give a specimen of his skill
     in the small-sword exercise, and display his figure to the
     best advantage. One of the party, _Bacchi plenus_, became his
     opponent, and the result was, the destruction of a most superb
     chandelier. His face was like a baboon's, and the twistings
     and distorted attitudes into which he threw himself were alike
     indescribable and irresistible. One pleasant morning there
     appeared an announcement in the theatre-bills which shook the
     city of Bath to its foundation. It was like the precursor of
     a volcanic eruption: '_Romeo, by an Amateur of Fashion!_' The
     doors were beset at an early hour in the afternoon by those who
     had failed to secure places at the box-office. Box-admittance
     was paid by crowds of gentlemen, to enable them, by jumping
     over, to secure places in the pit. Men of rank and distinction
     did not disdain to occupy seats in the gallery. The fever of
     excitement was at its pitch, when the gentle ROMEO appeared,
     dressed in the most fantastic and absurd style, in consonance
     with the advice of his fashionable friends. He wore diamonds
     to the value of thirty thousand pounds! I was one of his
     instructors, and entered into the joke with a keen relish for
     the ridiculous. It was hardly to be expected that his acting
     would be tolerated by the true judges of art, and I was obliged
     to be dressed for the character, in order to finish the part.
     But no! The appetite of the audience grew by what it fed on; and
     when the dying scene came, a tremendous burst of mock enthusiasm
     rang from all parts of the house, and he was universally
     _encored_. He bowed most graciously, while Juliet (Miss
     JAMIESON) was lying on the stage, not dead, but literally 'in
     convulsions' of laughter. Oranges were thrown upon the stage,
     with a request that the actor would not hurry, but refresh his
     energies before he recommenced his death. He kissed his hand
     to the ladies in graceful acquiescence with their wishes, and
     deliberately proceeded to suck two oranges! His second death
     was infinitely more extravagant than the first, and drew down
     repeated and prolonged bravos, and a second _encore_, which
     however was not complied with. Showers of bouquets now fell upon
     the stage, and 'closed one of the most extraordinary dramatic
     exhibitions I ever beheld in a regular theatre.'

A singular circumstance is mentioned by Mr. ABBOTT as having
occurred to a professional friend of his at Bath, named SIDLY. It
is authenticated beyond all peradventure. 'Can such, things be, and
overcome us like a summer-cloud, without our special wonder?'

     'HE was quietly seated in his arm-chair, at his lodgings in
     Beaufort-square, after his return from the theatre; his wife
     had retired to her bed-chamber, adjoining their drawing-room;
     while he remained, for the purpose of reading over a character
     for the ensuing evening. His mother resided a short distance
     from London, and so far as he knew, was at the time in perfect
     health. His mind was not preöccupied with the thoughts of home,
     and an unusual calmness pervaded his spirit. After reading a
     passage, and trying to see if he had mastered it, he raised
     his eyes, and on a chair opposite sat his mother, smiling
     benignantly upon him. His agitation was extreme. He hastily
     turned round, and saw that the door was closed. He struggled
     to speak, but his lips were sealed; and with a beating heart
     and hair erect, he rushed to the bed-side of his wife, and in
     broken sentences, and with thick-starting perspiration rolling
     down his face, he detailed what he had seen. His wife endeavored
     to persuade him that it was all a dream; and to convince him,
     quietly walked into the drawing-room, and found the apartment
     precisely as she had left it, the fire burning and the candles
     lighted; but nothing could do away the illusion; and in two days
     afterward poor SIDLY received the intelligence of his mother's
     death at the very hour of the occurrence here narrated. He
     seldom referred to the circumstance, and never without deep and
     melancholy emotion.'

LISTON, the great comedian, as most readers are aware, was an
inveterate wag. He was never more happy than when successful in
making a fellow-actor lose his 'power of face' upon the stage. Mr.
ABBOTT relates a pleasant anecdote of one of his efforts in this
kind:

     'IN Newcastle, under the management of STEPHEN KEMBLE, (who
     played the part of Falstaff without stuffing,) LISTON on one
     occasion took the character of Pizarro. When he is lying on the
     couch, Rolla enters, apostrophizes his defenceless situation,
     and then rouses and drags him in front of the stage. Judge of
     the surprise of the actor, at finding one half of LISTON'S face
     painted in imitation of a clown! This portion of his features
     was of course studiously turned from the audience, who were
     indulged only with the simple profile. Rolla burst into a fit
     of laughter, and rushed instantly from the stage, to the great
     scandal of the audience, who had not the slightest suspicion of
     the cause of such ridiculous conduct.'

Our excellent friend JOHN WILSON, that most mellow of vocalists,
once gave us a similar anecdote of LISTON. In the play of 'Guy
Mannering,' he is deputed to relieve the suffering Lucy Bertram. He
places a well-filled purse in her hand, which he clasps cordially
in his own, while she looks up in his face, her eyes brimming with
tears of gratitude at relief so unexpected. On the occasion alluded
to, a remarkable change was observed in Miss Bertram's face, when
the purse was handed to her. She shrank back, and struggled, as if
to liberate her hand from his grasp: and after looking imploringly
at his imperturbable face for a moment, she found relief in a sort
of hysterical laughter, which was very far from bespeaking the
emotion of the character she represented. Instead of a purse, LISTON
had placed in her hand a large _raw oyster_, as cold as ice, and
_pressed_ her acceptance of it in a way that was irresistible! There
ensues a comparison between those different but equally matchless
_artistes_, Mesdames SIDDONS and O'NEIL, which we have reason to
believe expresses the general verdict of the time:

     'FROM all my recollections of Mrs. SIDDONS, it would be absurd
     to attempt to draw a parallel between her performances and
     those of Miss O'NEIL; the unapproachable grandeur and dignity
     of the one and the feminine tenderness and endearment of the
     other exhibiting widely different expressions, not formed by
     the same code. You approached Mrs. SIDDONS with a feeling of
     awe, bordering on reverence. With Miss O'NEIL, all your hopes
     and fears were excited, and certain to meet with a response.
     Her bursts of agony and distress agitated every nerve, and
     would plunge her audience in tears; while the power of SIDDONS
     would choke your very utterance, and deny you all relief. What
     Miss O'NEIL required in strong expression, she made up in
     exaggeration. Every nerve was strained, and her whole frame
     convulsed; in short, her great fault was exuberance; yet nothing
     could be more quietly (though distressingly) beautiful, than her
     performance of 'Mrs. Haller.'

The reader should have _heard_ Mr. ABBOTT present the subjoined
'limning from life,' and _seen_ him imitate the snuff-taking of
the noble tragedian. The story loses much of its force in being
transferred to paper. The anecdote is of HARLOWE, who painted the
celebrated trial-scene of 'Henry the Eighth,' in which the KEMBLE
family figured so conspicuously:

     'HE had, by his ill conduct, lost the esteem of his great
     master, Sir THOMAS LAWRENCE, who was the intimate friend of JOHN
     KEMBLE; and the latter had in consequence resolutely refused to
     sit to him for his portrait as 'Cardinal Wolsey' in the picture
     alluded to. 'Mrs. SIDDONS and CHARLES and STEPHEN KEMBLE had
     sat to the artist, but the great tragedian was immovable. At
     length a friend of the painter (Mr. THOMAS WELSH, the celebrated
     singing-master,) who had received many marks of attention and
     kindness from Mr. KEMBLE, and who had great confidence in the
     force of his influence with him, waited upon Mr. KEMBLE at
     his residence in Great Russel-street. He was shown into the
     library, and was most cordially received: 'My dear TOM, to
     what am I indebted for the favor of this visit?' 'My dear Sir,
     I come a humble suppliant to you, and I really don't know how
     to commence.' 'Well, well; make excuses for your modesty: and
     then, my good friend, come to the point.' The commencement was
     auspicious; but the first plunge in a cold-bath is always hard
     to take. 'I assure you, Mr. KEMBLE, I feel most grateful for
     your kind reception; and if I could only hope the favor I am
     going to ask----' 'Pooh! pooh! you know, Tom, I always told you,
     from a boy, there was nothing you could ask of me that I would
     refuse you. Now say what it is you wish; consider it as done;
     and I really am very much occupied; so, to the point, to the
     point, TOM.' 'Oh, Sir, you have made me the happiest person in
     the world. Will you be kind enough to sit to Mr. HARLOWE for
     your portrait?' In an instant a deep cloud passed over the noble
     countenance of the great actor; and deliberately taking up his
     snuff-box, he applied a large pinch to his nose, and quickly
     replied: 'My dear TOM I'll see you d--d first!' Notwithstanding
     his denial, however, the Cardinal is one of the best portraits,
     and was caught only by occasional glances from the orchestra,
     during Mr. KEMBLE'S performance.'

At Edinburgh, Mr. ABBOTT would seem to have attained great
popularity. He mingled in the best circles of the Northern
metropolis, and was for some days a guest of Sir WALTER SCOTT. He
narrates many pleasant anecdotes connected with his engagements in
'Auld Reekie;' and among them is the following, which is capital:

     'I HAD no personal knowledge of STEPHEN KEMBLE, but I cannot
     refrain from mentioning a circumstance which happened when
     he was manager of the Edinburgh Theatre. The exiled family
     of the Bourbons were residing at the Palace of Holyrood, and
     great respect and attention were shown by the nobility in
     the neighborhood to the unfortunate descendants of a long
     line of kings. Mr. KEMBLE thought the patronage of the Comte
     D'ARTOIS, afterward CHARLES the Tenth, would be a source of
     great attraction. Application was made at the palace, and with
     success. His Royal Highness left the selection of the play
     to the manager, who fixed upon 'Henry the Fourth,' for the
     purpose of exhibiting himself in his own popular character of
     Sir JOHN FALSTAFF. One can scarcely conceive a duller play
     for a Frenchman, almost ignorant of the English language, and
     wholly unable to enter into the subtilties of such a being as
     the Fat Knight. The great desideratum, however, was obtained.
     The house was crowded, and the manager was satisfied. His Royal
     Highness bore the infliction in a most exemplary manner, and
     retired amidst the respectful greetings of the audience. A
     week had hardly elapsed, when KEMBLE (probably not from any
     selfish motive, but with the laudable view of affording some
     amusement to the illustrious exile,) again presented himself at
     Holyrood, and suggested another visit to his theatre. The Comte
     D'ARTOIS received him most graciously; indeed, it was not in his
     nature to do otherwise, for he was one of the most accomplished
     gentlemen in Europe. He declined the invitation, however, in
     nearly the following words: 'I am vara mosh oblige, Monsieur
     KEMBLE; it was vara nice, indeed; I laugh mosh; _bot von sosh
     fun, it ees enoff_!'

This dubious compliment of the Count is not unlike the praise
awarded by a polite French officer to a battalion of rather inferior
provincial volunteers in England. He was pressed for his opinion,
which he gave as follows: 'Gentlemens, I 'av seen de Garde-Royal and
de Garde-NAPOLEON; I 'av seen de Russ and de Pruss; _but by Gar!
I 'av nevare see such troops as dese!--no, nevare!_' With the two
passages annexed, the one describing an annoyance to which popular
actors are not unfrequently exposed, and the other the tricks of
which they are sometimes made the subjects, we take our leave of Mr.
ABBOTT'S 'experiences' at Edinburgh:

     'IN passing through the gallery at Holyrood, where the miserable
     daubs of the Scottish kings are exhibited, I was accosted by
     a legitimate cockney, whom I discovered to be a traveller
     for some furniture-maker's establishment. He had not been
     long enough in his vocation to acquire the shrewdness for
     which that class of persons are celebrated, but made up in
     unsophisticated simplicity what they possess in assurance. He
     recognized me immediately, having, as he said, 'frequently seen
     me at Covent-Garden Theatre;' and without any extra ceremony
     he fastened himself upon me. When he came to the portrait of
     MACBETH, he turned quickly round upon our cicerone, and said:
     'LORD bless you! that's not a bit like him; for I saw JOHN
     KEMBLE _do it_, and it isn't so much like him as the moon is
     like a Cheshire cheese.' But the climax of his sage remarks
     occurred when the old woman came to the spot where DAVID RIZZIO
     was murdered, and pointed out the stain of his blood, which
     still remains, and which neither time nor soap, she said, would
     ever efface. Our cockney rubbed his hands with delight, and
     said: 'Why, my good woman, _I'll give you some stuff that will
     take it out in half an hour_!' * * * One morning I lounged into
     the box-office, which was crowded with persons taking places;
     and on looking at the playbill of the night's performance, I saw
     the tragedy of Isabella announced, 'Carlos by Mr. ABBOTT, _with
     his celebrated hornpipe in fetters_, as performed by him at the
     Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden!' This was one of the practical
     jokes of my friend MURRAY, (who married a sister of THOMAS
     MOORE.) He had given the printer directions to strike off some
     half a dozen bills of _this_ stamp, for the purpose of raising a
     laugh against me!'

Soon after the retirement of JOHN KEMBLE from the London stage, a
great event, and well described by Mr. ABBOTT, that great tragedian
gave a memorable dinner to some eighteen or twenty of the most
distinguished members of the _corps-dramatique_ of Covent-Garden
Theatre. Among the guests, also, was TALMA, of whom we have this
graphic account:

     'ON this occasion we had a fine trait of the tragic powers of
     TALMA; not a bombastic display of French acting, but a grand
     and simple narrative of facts, connected with that frightful
     epoch, the French Revolution. He himself was suspected, watched;
     and his profession alone saved him from the blood-hounds who
     were on his track. During the most terrific period, he did
     not dare to sleep at his hotel, but lived in the outskirts of
     the metropolis; and when called in town by his professional
     avocations, he would steal like a culprit to the gate of his
     residence, and in an under tone inquire of the old Swiss porter
     the bloody news of the day. On one occasion he was told that
     some thirty or forty of his most intimate friends had that very
     morning perished by the guillotine. Feeling that the crisis of
     his own fate had arrived, he went tremblingly to the theatre;
     and during the performance the overwhelming anguish of his soul
     was relieved only by the tears coursing down his cheeks; and the
     very expression of which feeling every moment endangered his
     life. There was a cold, creeping chilliness about the hearts of
     all present as he spoke, which was perfectly thrilling; and not
     a sound was heard till he had ceased.'

Here is a brace of anecdotes of an absent-minded brother-actor,
which will perhaps 'agitate the risible organs' of some of our
readers:

     'HENRY,' in 'Speed the Plough,' was a character in which he had
     gained some reputation. At the closing scene of the play, he
     rushes into a wing of the castle, which is in flames, in quest
     of papers likely to disclose the secret of his birth. He returns
     in fearful agitation, with his right hand concealed in his
     bosom, and which in fact should contain the bloody _dénouement_
     of the plot, a towel dipped in blood, _alias_ rose-pink, and a
     knife, also properly stained for the occasion. The climax of
     his speech ran thus: 'In vain the angry flames flashed their
     vengeance around me! Among many other evidences of blood and
     guilt, I found _these_!'--producing his fingers and hand! He had
     entirely forgotten the essential accompaniments * * * His first
     appearance was before Mr. DIMOND had quitted the stage, and
     who enacted the part of 'Belcour' in 'The West Indian.' In the
     scene with his sister the debutant should say: 'Are you assured
     that Mr. BELCOUR gave you no diamonds?' The question however
     was rendered thus: 'Are you assured that Mr. DIMOND gave you no
     BELCOURS?'

Such errors, we believe, are not infrequent upon the stage. The
reader will perhaps remember the blunder of the Ghost in Hamlet, on
one occasion; who, instead of saying that the 'knotted and combinéd
locks' of the young prince would 'stand on end like quills upon the
fretful porcupine,' reversed the terms in this ludicrous manner:
'Your twisted and combinéd locks shall stand up straight, like forks
upon the _fretful quillcopine_!' A single passage more must close
our extracts from this delightful autobiography. It is a short
story, touching 'the immortal TOWNSEND, the first of Bow-street
officers, the favorite of Royalty, and the dread of all coachmen and
flambeau'd footmen:'

     'I THINK I see him now, with his flaxen wig, his low-crowned
     hat, long gaiters, and half-Quaker suit,' discoursing most
     eloquent music.' It was a source of great amusement to the young
     sprigs of nobility to extract from him in conversation some
     of his most characteristic slang expressions; nor did Royalty
     itself disdain to be amused at his expense. About the period of
     the connection between the Duke of Clarence and Mrs. JORDAN,
     public opinion was rife on the subject. His Royal Highness was
     at the opera, surrounded by the world of fashion; and when he
     encountered TOWNSEND, who was on duty there, he said, in his
     brusque, off-hand manner: 'Ah! Townsend, Townsend, how d' ye do,
     Townsend?' 'Why, your Royal Highness, pretty bobbish, I thank
     you,' replied the functionary. 'Well, Townsend, what news, what
     news?' 'Why, nothink, your Royal Highness, of any consequence.'
     'Oh, nonsense! nonsense! The people must have something to talk
     about.' 'Why then, if your Royal Highness pleases, the talk is
     principally about you and Mrs. JORDAN.' The sailor-prince was
     here a little thrown 'aback.' 'Never mind, never mind; let them
     talk; I don't care.' Observe the simplicity of the answer: 'Your
     Royal Highness is a d--d fool if you do!'

The foregoing is the result of a merely casual dipping, here and
there, into the teeming pages of Mr. ABBOTT'S manuscript volume.
Whoever the fortunate publisher of the work may be, he may calculate
with certainty upon its acquiring instant popularity.

'THE DIAL' for the October quarter is a very excellent and lifeful
number of that greatly-improved journal. Among the articles which
most attracted our attention and admiration, are the 'Youth of the
Poet and Painter,' 'A Winter Walk,' an essay on 'The Comic,' and the
'Letter' of the Editor to his correspondents. The first of these
papers is characterized by several thrusts of a trenchant satire. We
should rather infer, from the recorded 'experiences' of the writer,
that when he first entered college, his bump of reverence for
collegiate institutions and men of learning could hardly have been
developed. Hear him, how he saith:

     'I SAW that in reciting our lessons to the conceited tutors, who
     think College is the Universe, and the President Jupiter, they
     had the impudence to give us marks for what we did, as if we,
     paying them for so much aid in our lessons, were therefore to be
     rewarded by them with a couple of pencil scratches. I found we
     were treated, not only as machines, but to be set up or down, at
     the discretion of these tutors, who had merely to scratch down a
     mark, and thus decide our fates. This foolery I felt I could not
     agree to.' 'I found here no scholars whatever. Some young men
     deficient in grace, were wearing out the elbows of their coats,
     in getting by heart some set lessons of some little text-books,
     and striving which should commit them the most perfectly to
     memory. This perfection lay in the point of a tutor's pencil,
     and was at last decided on by the votes of a band of professors,
     who loved wine and puddings better than literature or art, and
     whose chief merit lay in keeping their feet dry.'

Perhaps 'these be truths.' Certain it is, that the annexed passage
partakes of the veritable. It is a 'picture in little' of the
morning routine of a briefless lawyer; and the sitter has many a
counterpart in this metropolis of Gotham:

     'IN the morning, you enter your office at half-past eight,
     read the paper till nine, and then, if you feel able, walk as
     far as the court-house. There you are provided with a seat by
     the sheriff, and cold water by the deputy-sheriff. You next
     stare at the Court, consisting of one or more judges, twelve
     jurymen, a criminal or civil case, four baize tables, and a lot
     of attorneys. You next begin to make motions, which consists
     in getting a case put off, or put on, as you happen to feel,
     and run your eye over the docket, which is kept at the clerk's
     table, in a ledger, for the accommodation of the county, and the
     clerk's family. If it is your case which comes on, you open your
     eyes wide, talk a great deal about nothing, and dine with the
     bar. Occasionally you will feel sleepy after dinner, but awake
     yourself by smoking a cigar, or driving into the country.'

Here is an extract which will be appreciated for its graceful
diction, the love and observation of nature which it displays, and
the pensive train of thought which its tone engenders:

     'TO-DAY has been pure golden sun-shine since morning; and how
     the day-god played with the trunks of the trees, as if the
     forest were one great harp! In the morning, as I sat among
     golden-rods, under the shade of a pine, where on every side
     these sunny flowers grew, it seemed as if the sunlight had
     become so thickly knotted and intertwined with the roots and
     stems of the plants and grasses, that it could not escape, but
     must remain and shine forever; yet the pine tree's shadow, at
     sunset and before, fell long across the place, and the gay light
     had fled, like the few bright days of life, which fly so rapid
     by. The old tell us we are young, and can know nothing of life;
     to me it seems I have lived centuries, out of which I can reckon
     on my fingers the days of pleasure, when my heart beat high. I
     fancy there is a race of men born to know only the loss of life
     by its joys; to live by single days, and to pass their time for
     the most part in shadowy vistas, where there is neither darkness
     nor light, but perpetual mist. I am one of these; and though I
     love nature; the river, the forest, the clouds, she is only a
     phantom, like myself, and passes slowly, an unexplained mystery,
     like my own consciousness, which shows through a want of perfect
     knowledge. I see myself, only as what I do not know, and others,
     as some reflection of this ignorance, an iceberg among other
     icebergs, slowly drifting from the frozen pole of birth to the
     frozen pole of death, through a sunny sea.'

Well pleased should we have been to accompany our observant and
thoughtful essayist, when he fetched his 'Winter Walk.' Mark his
delicate appreciation of the little accessories of the season. We
thank him for awakening vivid glimpses of the past, that go strait
to the fresh scenes of boyhood:

     'THERE is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which
     never goes out, and which no cold can chill. It finally melts
     the great snow, and in January or July is only buried under
     a thicker or thinner covering. In the coldest day it flows
     somewhere, and the snow melts around every tree. This field of
     winter rye, which sprouted late in the fall, and now speedily
     dissolves the snow, is where the fire is very thinly covered. We
     feel warmed by it. In the winter, warmth stands for all virtue,
     and we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare
     stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods,
     with as much eagerness as rabbits and robins. The steam which
     rises from swamps and pools, is as dear and domestic as that of
     our own kettle. What fire could ever equal the sunshine of a
     winter's day, when the meadow mice come out by the wall-sides,
     and the chicadee lisps in the defiles of the wood? The warmth
     comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from the
     earth, as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our back
     as we are treading some snowy dell, we are grateful as for a
     special kindness, and bless the sun which has followed us into
     that by-place. This subterranean fire has its altar in each
     man's breast, for in the coldest day, and on the bleakest hill,
     the traveller cherishes a warmer fire within the folds of his
     cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A healthy man, indeed, is
     the complement of the seasons, and in winter, summer is in his
     heart.' * * * 'In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts
     are warm and merry, like cottages under drifts, whose windows
     and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke
     cheerfully ascends. The imprisoning drifts increase the sense
     of comfort which the house affords, and in the coldest days we
     are content to sit over the hearth and see the sky through the
     chimney top, enjoying the quiet and serene life that may be had
     in a warm corner by the chimney side, or feeling our pulse by
     listening to the low of cattle in the street, or the sound of
     the flail in distant barns all the long afternoon. No doubt a
     skilful physician could determine our health by observing how
     these simple and natural sounds affected us.'

We commend the following to those who seem to think that a thorough
love of the comic or the burlesque argues an ill-regulated mind
or a perverted taste. That there _are_ such persons, the reader
who has done us the honor to peruse our late confabulations with
correspondents, will not need to be informed:

     'A PERCEPTION of the comic seems to be a balance-wheel in our
     metaphysical structure. It appears to be an essential element
     in a fine character. Wherever the intellect is constructive,
     it will be found. We feel the absence of it as a defect in the
     noblest and most oracular soul. It insulates the man, cuts
     down all bridges between him and other men. The perception of
     the comic is a tie of sympathy with other men, is a pledge of
     sanity, and is a protection from those perverse tendencies and
     gloomy insanities into which fine intellects sometimes lose
     themselves. A man alive to the ludicrous is still convertible.
     If that sense is lost, his fellow-men can do little for him.'

In the subjoined, which we take from the 'Letter' of the Editor,
already alluded to, may be seen one beneficial result of the 'hard
times,' which, driving men out of cities and trade, forced them to
take off their coats and go to work on the land, which has rewarded
them not only with wheat, but with habits of labor:

     'SPECULATION is no succedaneum for life. What we would know, we
     must do. As if any taste or imagination could take the place of
     fidelity! The old Duty is the old God. And we may come to this
     by the rudest teaching. A friend of ours went five years ago to
     Illinois to buy a farm for his son. Though there were crowds
     of emigrants in the roads, the country was open on both sides,
     and long intervals between hamlets and houses. Now after five
     years he has just been to visit the young farmer and see how he
     prospered, and reports that a miracle has been wrought. From
     Massachusetts to Illinois, the land is fenced in and builded
     over, almost like New-England itself, and the proofs of thrifty
     cultivation every where abound.'

There is much less of the new style of verbal affectations in the
present than in preceding numbers of 'The Dial,' and it is just in
this proportion the more readable and attractive. We see something
indeed of 'externality.' 'reäction inward,' 'unitive ideas;' and
certain compound terms, which are meant to be forcible, but are only
foolish; such as 'flesh-meat' for meat, 'foot-tread' for tread, and
other the like words; but they are scarcely worth mentioning; the
infrequency of their occurrence being a sufficient proof of the
decadence into which they are already falling.

       *       *       *       *       *

'MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF ENGLAND.'--We have in three handsome
volumes, from the press of Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD, Philadelphia,
an accurate memoir of the Court of England, from the Revolution
in 1668 to the death of GEORGE the Second. The work proceeds from
the pen of JOHN HENEASE JESSE, author of 'Memoirs of the Court of
England during the Reign of the STUARTS.' There are numerous and
fruitful themes of instruction and warning in these volumes; lessons
which have not been lost upon the world, and which are of especial
interest to the citizens of a republic; aside from which, the
details of the private history of some score of eminent persons, who
left their impress on the eras in which they flourished, must needs
have attraction for the general reader, who may only peruse them
with an eye to lively entertainment. We observe, by the journals of
the day, that the work is heartily welcomed and duly appreciated by
the public.


THE DRAMA.

PARK THEATRE.--We congratulate the friends of the drama upon the
bright auspices under which this establishment has commenced the
present season. Those who have long predicted the downfall of things
theatrical, and the utter extinction of the legitimate drama, find
but little in the present aspect of affairs at this house to flatter
their spirit of prophecy. So long as we continue upon the civilized
side of barbarism, so long will a true taste for the drama remain
with us. It is the natural food of an intellectual society, and as
such will be cherished wherever that society exists; the vagaries
of fashion on the one hand, and the railings of fanaticism on the
other, to the contrary notwithstanding.

Mr. WALLACK.--The engagement fulfilled by this gentleman, after
an absence of some years, proved to his admirers that the vigor
and vivacity of his acting have lost none of their former
charms. In those personations which he has long since made his
own, he displayed the same excellence which ever characterized
his performance. To say that Mr. WALLACK stands at the head
of melo-dramatic actors, is not awarding him full praise. He
is immeasurably beyond all rivalry in this branch of the art.
Melo-dramatic performances by _other_ artists bear about the
same relation to the chaste acting of tragedy that the art of
scene-painting in water-colors does to that other art which embraces
alike the power of tracing upon canvass the most delicate as well as
the most magnificent works of nature, in the bold and imperishable
figures of a MICHAEL ANGELO or a CLAUDE LORRAINE. The outlines,
the sketchy prominences, of the landscape are what the best of
the melo-dramatic actors have delineated; but WALLACK has gone a
distance beyond them, and added a grace and a finish to the picture,
of which his subjects were before thought incapable of receiving.
And yet Mr. WALLACK is no tragedian. With the high regard which
we entertain for his talents, we have never seen them exerted in
tragedy, without lamenting their sad misdirection. In the enviable
station which he occupies as the first melo-dramatic actor of the
age, fearless of rivalry, he should be satisfied, and consider the
dignity of third-rate tragedian as entirely beneath his ambition.

Mr. MACREADY.--Sixteen years ago the American public were first
gratified by the performance of this great tragedian--great even
then; and those who remember the peculiar character of his style at
that time, have recognized it again with all its beauties improved
by long study and practice, and not entirely devoid of blemishes.
Mr. MACREADY'S acting presents the effect of great study; it shows
the result of sound judgment, and bears witness to the absence of
all feeling. Great as was EDMUND KEAN, and great as is the subject
of this notice, in the same department of the drama, never were two
artists, on or off the stage, more completely the antipodes of each
other. KEAN, all soul; reckless of art, and apparently despising
even the most common and long-received rules and usages of the
stage; rushed before his audience, embodying as he advanced the very
soul of the character which he had put on with his dress; warming
with it, _feeling_ the sensations which he expressed; with

    'A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
    With forms to his conceit.'

There was no study there; nothing farther than the mere committing
to memory of the words of his part. He identified _himself_ with the
character, and for the time _was_ that character, to all intents and
purposes; entering into its sensations, and actually feeling its
joys and its sorrows. And what are the effects of such _acting_?
Let those whose tears have flowed at his bidding, answer! KEAN did
not create _admiration_; he awakened _enthusiasm_. Mr. MACREADY
is so chaste and perfect, so artistical, to use a cant term, that
_admiration_ is the usual feeling which he creates. His acting is
like a beautiful piece of mechanism, where every wheel and spring
performs its perfect work. There is no jarring, no clog, to mar
the exquisite regularity of its movements. But it _is_ a piece of
machinery, after all. It is man's work, to say the best of it. The
power which KEAN possessed was no more a merit to the man, as being
the work of study, than the genius of BYRON was a creation of his
own. Nature made him an actor--a thing of feeling; and he could not
shut within himself the rays of that divine influence. It could
not be cribbed, narrowed down, or fashioned by study, but it shone
forth in all its native effulgence--dazzling and unshaded. Therefore
it is fairly maintained, that the high station which Mr. MACREADY
occupies as the first tragedian of his time is more to his honor
than would be the same position, if gained for him by nature alone.
The profession to which he belongs has reason to be proud of its
head. He has done more to elevate the drama to its true position
than any of his contemporaries, if JOHN KEMBLE alone be excepted.
We have observed during this engagement of Mr. MACREADY'S many new
and beautiful readings, many striking effects, and many bold points,
which together with the unusual care and fitness in the 'dressing'
of the stage, will form the subject of some future notice. We
can foresee much benefit that is to grow out of his visit to the
American stage. We can already perceive the good effects produced
both upon the actors and the stage-manager by Mr. MACREADY'S first
engagement at the Park; and we sincerely hope that any suggestions
which he may be induced to make, may be liberally and promptly acted
upon.

  C.

       *       *       *       *       *

APROPOS of the foregoing: Here is our friend the 'MAIL-ROBBER,' with
a most timely and apposite paper, in his


FIFTH POETICAL EPISTLE.

TO J. VANDENUOFF, ESQUIRE, OF COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, LONDON.

    MACREADY'S come! I met him, just at dark,
    Crossing the yard these Yankees call 'the Park:'
    Full on his figure gleamed th' obtrusive gas,
    As I beheld the 'great tragedian' pass;
    His decent person, neatly built and straight,
    His air abrupt and grenadier-like gait;
    His Irish face, which doth not much resemble
    The more expressive front of KEAN or KEMBLE,
    All for an instant, as my glance they caught,
    Brought you and either green-room to my thought.

    From him I turned my meditative gaze,
    Where through the trees the play-house lanterns blaze;
    But not the multitude that nightly throng
    To feast their ears with Ethiopian song,
    Nor all the gaudy neighborhood around,
    Where nuts and noise and courtesans abound,
    Nor all the glitter of the gay saloons
    Where oyster-lovers ply their midnight spoons,
    Nor all the crowd of coaches waiting nigh,
    Could check my mind's involuntary sigh.
    Alas! how dwindled from her brighter years
    The buskin'd nymph, the goddess-queen appears,
    Who deigned a little while in yonder dome
    To fix her throne, her altar and her home;
    Securely trusting in a land so young,
    Whose native speech was her own SHAKSPEARE'S tongue,
    To see restored the glories of her reign,
    And other GARRICKS born, _this side_ the main.

    Delightful dream! delightful as untrue;
    Poor DRAMA! this was no domain for you.
    Here never shall return that early time
    When the fresh heart can vulgar life sublime,
    And all the prose of our existence change
    By magic power to something rich and strange;
    Not here, among this bargain-making tribe,
    Whose tricks the Muse would sicken to describe,
    Shall the dull genius of a sordid age
    Bring an 'all hallow'n summer' of the Stage.

    They grossly err this thrifty race who call
    A youthful nation; 'youthful!' not at all!
    What though some trace of the barbarian state
    Betrays at times the newness of their date;
    What though their dwellings rose but yesterday?
    The mind, the nature of the land, is gray.
    Old Europe holds not in its oldest nook
    A race less juvenile in thought and look;
    There is no childhood here, no child-like joy;
    Since first I landed I've not seen a boy:
    For all the children in their aspect wear
    The lines of sorrow and corrosive care;
    Each babe, as soon as babyhood is past,
    Is a grown man, and withers just as fast.

    Oh my dear England! merry land! GOD bless you!
    Though taxes, corn-laws, fogs, and beer oppress you,
    Still, as of old, a jocund little isle,
    Still once a year at least allowed a smile;
    When, spite of virtue, cakes and ale abound,
    And laughter rings, and glasses clink around.
    Nor quite extinct is that robust old race
    (Autumn's last roses blooming on their face,)
    Whom, spite of silver hairs and trembling knees,
    At Christmas-time a pantomime can please.
    Still some bald heads adorn the lower row,
    Green, lusty lads of three-score years or so;
    Nor is the veteran yet ashamed to sit,
    Three times a year, with Tommy, in the pit.

    But vain your hope, ye gentle sisters twain,
    Who hold of Passion's realm the double rein!
    Mirth-moving maid! and thou who wak'st the tear!
    Vain was your hope to build an empire here:
    Not ev'n _your_ slaves will freemen deign to be--
    Fly to some region where the soul is free.
    Find some fat soil of indolence and rest,
    With some good-natured, easy tyrant blest,
    Who to himself the toil of ruling takes,
    And his own laws and his own blunders makes;
    Leaving his people only to obey,
    And sleep the noon and sing the night away.
    Or waste in tawdry theatres the hours
    Which here the service of the State devours.

    Here nobler cares enlightened man engage
    Than the poor fictions of a trifling stage.
    Perhaps her sons th' alarmed Republic calls
    To solemn _caucus_ in her council halls,
    Wherein her trembling destiny awaits
    The awful issue of their high debates.
    What time have they the ravings to endure
    Of any mad young Prince or horn-mad Moor,
    When Duty calls them to contrive a way
    To pay the nation's debt--or not to pay?
    Or when perchance upon a single voice
    Depends an alderman's defeat or choice?
    Why should they care to hear a greedy Jew,
    With cut-throat air, insisting on his due,
    When they, by far more naturally, play
    Shylock themselves, in Wall-street, every day?
    Yet should, by hap, a genial evening spare
    The flaming patriot from his country's care,
    Or Business loose his limbs and tortured brain
    From the long thraldom of her golden chain,
    Why then his tireless energies demand
    A dish of knowledge, sold at second-hand:
    With indefatigable ears and eyes
    To look profound in lecture-rooms he tries,
    And picks Philosophy's delightful scraps
    From fossils, gases, diagrams and maps.
    For Science now is easy grown, and cheap,
    Keeps modest hours, nor interferes with sleep;
    And much there is to wonder at and know
    In all the 'ologies, from _aer_ to _zo_.

    What power against such rivalry could stand?
    Farewell, poor DRAMA! seek another land.
    Fancy ev'n now anticipates the day
    When your last pageant shall have passed away:
    I see, I see the auctioneer profane
    Each inmost recess of your hallowed reign;
    While crowds of clergymen and deacons pour
    Your violated horrors to explore.
    Nightly no more the magic foot-lights rise,
    Nor oil-cloth moons ascend the canvass skies.
    BRAGALDIS'S brush, poor Queen! is dry for you,
    Doomed now to deck the pulpit and the pew.
    Yes; the same art which whilom could transport
    The lost beholder to king DUNCAN'S court,
    Or bid him stand upon the 'blasted heath,'
    Where the weird women, low'ring, hailed MACBETH,
    Is now your only cheap cathedral-builder,
    With some small aid from carver and from gilder:
    What masons cannot build, the painter paints
    In water-colors, to delight the saints.

    'Tis true: I've witnessed in the house of prayer
    Shows that had made a pious Pagan stare;
    A lie bedaubed upon the walls, forsooth,
    Where true believers come to worship Truth!
    Lo! Gothic shafts their taper heads exalt
    Arch above arch, and vault supporting vault;
    Around the chancel, marble to the eye,
    Seraphs and cherubs in distemper fly,
    While far beyond a seeming choir extends
    Whose awful depth a mimic window ends.
    Through the dim panes (so well the scenes are done)
    For ever streams a never-setting sun,
    And all appears the work of hands divine,
    Another Westminster--of varnished pine!
    Nor only so; the very violins
    Are now atoning for their ancient sins,
    By sweetly blending with the organ's roar,
    And winning souls as ORPHEUS did of yore.
    Sure, flutes and hautboys and Italian skill
    May with fresh crowds the 'anxious-benches' fill,
    And many a heart an orchestra may move,
    Past all the power of preaching to improve.

    Herein observe how modes and tastes recur,
    And all things _are_ precisely what they were;
    For all the changes of our history seem
    Infinite eddies in the sweeping stream,
    Down which, while gliding whither we are bound,
    Our course eternally is round and round;
    Or why life's progress may I not compare
    To a long passage up a winding stair;
    We turn and turn again, as we ascend,
    For ever climbing toward the unknown end,
    Where one impenetrable veil of clouds
    The aim and summit of our being shrouds;
    And on our state bestowing but a glance,
    We seem to move, but never to advance;
    Ev'n as old Earth, obedient planet! rolls
    Poised on the balanced spindle of her poles,
    Yet duly fills her more extended sphere,
    Circling the central orb with every year,
    Thus we our double journey still pursue,
    Revolving still, yet ever onward too.

    Think how the stage in piety began,
    When early players played the 'fall of man;'
    Or showed the Lord High Admiral of the Ark
    Eyeing the clouds, about to disembark.
    Now the Church borrows what it lent before,
    And the just actors all her own restore:
    Again Devotion asks the help of Art,
    And paint and music rouse the torpid heart.
    The self same vein which bade old bards rehearse
    The book of Exodus in tragic verse,
    Reveals itself in operas that mingle
    Religious hist'ry with dramatic jingle.
    'Moses in Egypt,' blazoned on the bill,
    Night after night the galleries can fill,
    While crowds of Sunday amateurs admire
    The tale of 'David,' chanted by a choir.
    Already, I foresee, the time is nigh,
    When concert-rooms our worship will supply,
    And sacred oratorios combine
    (To suit all tastes) the play-house and the shrine.

    But soft--the bell! the steamboat sails at noon;
    Rest thee, my goose-quill, till another moon.

  T. W. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. PLACIDE, the _universal_ favorite, who requires not a word of
praise from any one who has ever seen him upon the stage, leaves us
soon, we learn, for the South-west. As an actor and a gentleman,
we commend him to the especial regards of our play-going readers,
and editorial and personal friends, in that meridian. Gentlemen,
he is 'a trump!' Mr. CHIPPENDALE is cordially welcomed back to the
Park. In his rôle, by no means a limited one, he is not second to
any of his confréres. How admirably he personated the 'Intendant' in
'Werner!' It was a _faultless_ performance, by common consent of his
gratified auditors. The same may be said, and _was_ said, indeed,
and very unanimously, of his excellent representation of 'Col.
DAMAS' in the 'Lady of Lyons.' Mr. CHIPPENDALE has been greatly
missed, during his absence; and he 'can't be spared' again. We are
glad of an opportunity to pay a deserved tribute to the talents of
Mr. WHEATLEY. 'That first appeal which is to the _eye_' is most
satisfactorily sustained by the manly person and fine features
of this gentleman; and we know of no one in the profession whose
improvement has been more marked. To our fancy, his performance of
'Ulrick,' in 'Werner,' was a study. The last scene won the most
applause, perhaps; but the previous conception and execution of the
actor, though less _outwardly_ manifested, were certainly not less
felicitous. As 'Icilius,' in 'Virginius,' also, Mr. WHEATLEY won
golden opinions. Indeed, it seems quite certain, that with continued
study and attention to the _minutiæ_ of his characters, this young
gentleman is destined to attain a high rank in his profession. Mr.
VACHE, the new Charleston acquisition, seems a very self-possessed,
correct, and gentleman-like performer. All that we have seen him
essay, has been well sustained. His success is no longer doubtful.

       *       *       *       *       *

'AMERICAN THEATRE,' BOWERY.--We have nothing but abundant success
to chronicle of this spacious establishment. It has been crowded
nightly, we are informed, to its utmost capacity, by admiring
audiences, to witness the representation of SHAKSPEARE'S heroes and
heroines by Mr. HAMBLIN, and that gifted actress, Mrs. SHAW. This
_fact_ sufficiently bespeaks the _character_ of the personations of
these two popular performers.

       *       *       *       *       *

MITCHELL'S OLYMPIC.--Full, every night, of wide-mouthed laughers,
who go grinning homeward 'by the light of the moon' or the
gas-lamps. What could we say more? The only thing necessary to add
is, 'Go early, if you desire to enjoy with comfort the capital
acting of MITCHELL, in the amusing travestie of 'MACBETH,' the
charming voice of Miss TAYLOR, or the clever personations of
WALCOTT.'

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHATHAM.--'E'yah! yah! yah!--e'look-o'-'ere!' JAMES CROW,
Esquire, has recently delighted his 'friends and fellow-citizens'
at this commodious and well-appointed establishment, which
has partaken, during the month, of the general prosperity of
theatricals in the metropolis. Mr. BURTON, a low comedian, formerly
of Philadelphia, followed him in his round of characters, with
satisfaction to his admirers; and 'at this present writing,' YANKEE
HILL is amusing crowded audiences with his unique representations of
'down-east' life and manners.

       *       *       *       *       *

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--It is many years since
we first perused the thoughtful '_Vision of Mirza_.' We have been
pondering it again this wailing autumn evening; and as we read,
we remembered how many companions, who went hand-in-hand with us
through the valley of youth, had entered upon the bridge which
spans the stream of time, and one after another disappeared in the
ever-flowing tide below. Amidst the beating of the 'sorrowing rains'
against the window-panes, and the fitful sighing of the night-wind,
we thought of _One_ who held with Nature an affectionate fellowship,
and who loved this melancholy season as a poet only could love
it; of one who stepped upon that bridge at the same moment with
ourselves, but who, while yet in the first stages of his journey,
growing weary and faint with the toil and strife, reached with
gradually-faltering pace one of the concealed pit-falls, and was
'lost for ever to time;' leaving his companion _alone_, to press on
toward the dark cloud which ever broods over the onward distance.
Strange power of memory!

    'In thoughts which answer to our own,
      In words which reach the inward ear
    Like whispers from the void Unknown,
      We feel his living presence here!'

_Something_ there is in the autumn season which reaches back into
those recesses of the spirit, where lie the sources whence well out
the bitter or the sweet waters; recollections of the hopes, the
fears, the sorrows and the happinesses, of our incomprehensible
being! Enter with us, reader, upon MIRZA'S Bridge, and listen to
the teachings of this matchless allegory of the mysterious shepherd:

     'CAST thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou
     seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious tide
     of water rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,'
     said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that
     thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.' 'What is the
     reason,' said I, 'that the tide and sea rise out of a thick
     mist at one end, and again lose themselves in a thick mist at
     the other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of
     eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and
     reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation.
     Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is thus bounded with
     darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in
     it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the midst of the
     tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life;
     consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I
     found that it consisted of three-score and ten arches, which,
     added to those that were entire, made up the number about an
     hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that
     this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that
     a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the
     ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me farther,' said
     he, 'what discoverest thou on it?' 'I see multitudes of people
     passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each
     end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the
     passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that
     flowed underneath it; and upon farther examination, I perceived
     that there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the
     bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell
     through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These
     hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the
     bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the
     cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner toward
     the middle, but multiplied and lay close together toward the end
     of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons,
     but then their number was very small, that continued a kind of
     hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after
     another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

     'I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful
     structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented.
     My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several
     dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and
     catching at every thing that stood by, to save themselves.
     Some were looking toward the heavens, in a thoughtful posture,
     and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of
     sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that
     glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often, when
     they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing
     failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I
     observed some with cimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro
     upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which
     did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have
     escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them.'

The misty expanse which was spanned by this bridge opened at length,
it will be remembered, at the farther end; where, thronging the
Islands of the Blessed, that were covered with fruits and flowers,
and 'interwoven with shining seas that ran among them,' were seen
'innumerous persons, dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon
their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of
fountains, or resting on beds of flowers;' and there was a confused
harmony of singing-birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical
instruments. 'Gladness,' exclaims the rapt dreamer, 'grew in me,
upon the discovery of so delightful a scene! I longed for the wings
of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats!' But there
was no passage to them, except through the gates of death, that were
opening every moment upon the bridge. Happy are they who can say, in
the fullness of faith and hope, 'Come the hour of reünion with the
loved and lost on earth! and the passionate yearnings of affection
shall bear us to that blessed land! Come death to this body!--this
burthened, tempted, frail, failing, dying body!--and to the soul,
come freedom, light, and joy unceasing!--come the immortal life!'
* * * THE '_Tale_' of our Zanesville (Ohio) friend is too long for
our pages. It is well written, however; and especially the third
chapter, which describes the progress of a Yankee pedler through
the 'Buckeye State,' thirty-five years ago. But for the injunction
of the writer, we should have ventured to appropriate this chapter
entire. The ''cute trick' upon the _honest_ farmer was capital,
and a fair _quid pro quo_. It was not better, however, than the
following, which is equally authentic. A gentleman from New-York,
who had been in Boston for the purpose of collecting some moneys
due him in that city, was about returning, when he found that one
bill of a hundred dollars had been overlooked. His landlord, who
knew the debtor, thought it 'a doubtful case;' but added, that if
it _was_ collectable at all, a tall raw-boned Yankee, then dunning
a lodger in another part of the room, would 'annoy it out of the
man.' Calling him up, therefore, he introduced him to the creditor,
who showed him the account. 'Wal, 'Squire, 'tan't much use tryin', I
guess. I _know_ that critter. You might as well try to squeeze ile
out o' Bunker-Hill monument, as to c'lect a debt o' him. But any
how, 'Squire, what'll you give, s'posin' I _do_ try?' 'Well, Sir,
the bill is one hundred dollars. I'll give you--yes, I'll give you
_half_, if you can collect it.' ''Greed!' replied the collector;
'there's no harm in _tryin'_, any way.' Some weeks after, the
creditor chanced to be in Boston, and in walking up Tremont-street,
encountered his enterprising friend: 'Look o' here!' said he,
''Squire, I had considerable luck with that bill o' your'n. You see,
I stuck to him like a dog to a root, but for the first week or so
't wan't no use--not a bit. If he was home, he was 'short;' if he
_wasn't_ home, I couldn't get no satisfaction. By and by, says I,
after goin' sixteen times, 'I'll fix you!' says I; so I sot down on
the door-step and sot all day, and part o' the evenin'; and I begun
airly _next_ day; but about ten o'clock, he g'in in. _He paid me my
half, an' I 'gin him up the note!_' * * * WE invite the attention
of our readers to the following spirited lines. We shall be glad
to hear again from the writer, when he returns to his 'several
places of abode.' He tells us that his physician, 'after giving him
a little of every thing in his shop, and doubly jeopardizing his
life by a consultation, has advised a change of air.' We shall less
regret his temporary indisposition, if we can be made the recipient
of his pleasant letters from the Southern Springs. In the stanzas
annexed, not unmixed with one or two infelicities, are several fine
pictures. The chant pealing from the choir of the North Winds; the
fierce armies of the pole issuing from their battlements of snow to
ravage the fair fields of the temperate regions; the hail-stones
beating the march of Winter on the hollow trees; the snow falling
silently in the garden of the dead; all these are poetical
conceptions, graphically expressed:


WINTER.

BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

      AND art thou coming, Winter!
        In thy wild and stormy might
      To cast o'er all earth's lovely things
        Thy pale and withering blight?
    Ay, here he comes o'er the dreary wold;
    I feel his breath--ah me! how cold!
      He wears the same wild, haggard brow
        Which he wore when in his prime;
      And he singeth the same shrill, wailing song,
        Which he sang in the olden time;
    The same hoarse moan o'er field and fell--
    Ah! ha! old WINTER! I know thee well!

      Thou art coming, icy Winter!
        To tell the same sad tale,
      Of bright things passing from the earth,
        With sigh and moan and wail;
    Of fair flowers fading, one by one,
    As thy sable banners cloud the sun:
      A chant from the polar choir peals out,
        Wildly, and full of wo,
      As march thy fierce escadrons forth
        From their battlements of snow:
    A requiem 'tis o'er pale Summer's form,
    Or the deep war-cry of the gathering storm!

      Thy cohorts with their night-black plumes
        Shut out the bright blue sky;
      All nature mourns the fast decay
        Of Summer's blazonry:
    Now murmuring low, now shrieking wild,
    She sorrows o'er her dying child.
      The lips of the prattling brook are sealed,
        And the singing birds have flown
      Away, away to some bright land
        To thee and thine unknown;
    And even man in his pride grows pale,
    And trembles at thy fierce assail.

      Thy trumpet rings through the mountain pass,
        With a fitful, wild halloo;
      And the hail-stones drum on the hollow trees,
        With a mournful rat-tat-too!
    Oh spare, in thy fearful marches, spare
    The fruitful field and the gay parterre!
      But the fierce battalions, filing on,
        Nor heed nor hear my cry;
      And a dirge for the fair and flowery field
        Swells through the darkened sky:
    And showers of icy javelins fall,
    The only answer to my call!

      But ho! a flag of truce hangs out
        In spotless folds on high;
      And the snow-flakes wheel in light platoons
        Through the dark and troubled sky:
    And now, like the ghosts of murdered flowers,
    They seek the earth in countless showers;
      They fall on the mountain's giddy height,
        In the dark ravine they fall,
      And o'er the distant city's domes
        They spread their radiant pall;
    That beauteous snow, like a winding-sheet,
    Is spread over forest and field and street.

      On the storied monument it falls,
        Blots out the studied verse,
      And covers all the high and low
        With one unsculptured hearse.
    Methinks it lies more lightly on
    The grave of the broken-hearted one.
      The folds of a Paynim turban now
        The village spire doth hide;
      And see! it dresses the old yew-tree
        As gay as a bonny bride;
    With an ermine-cloak it wraps the plain,
    And shuts the blast from the growing grain.

      Come on! come on! old Winter!
        Spring wears a winning smile,
      And Summer has a lulling art
        To charm and to beguile;
    And Autumn is in beauty drest;
    But thy rough form I love the best!
      Thou tellest me 'of long ago,'
        Of childhood's spotless day;
      Of boyhood's freaks by th' old fire-side--
        Of friends now passed away:
    Albeit to me thy accents drear
    Tell that LIFE'S winter draweth near!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE '_Tribune_' daily journal finds the October number of the
KNICKERBOCKER 'well filled with readable and pleasant papers, upon
a gratifying variety of topics;' its 'Literary Notices extended and
interesting;' and 'its Editor's Table admirably filled, as usual,
with whatever is light, graceful, and pleasing.' We hold ourselves
bound to be duly grateful for praise so much beyond our deserts; but
we cannot permit the young associate-editor of that print, howsoever
prompted, to misrepresent us, as he has done, in the notice from
which we derive the encomiastic tributes we have quoted. We are
accused of 'going out of our way' to attack the writings and the
fame (Heaven save the mark!) of the author of '_Puffer Hopkins_;'
and of being actuated in this by a spirit of malevolence and
personal pique. We choose, for the nonce, to occupy space which we
could much better employ, in opposing a _point-blank denial_ to this
charge. Such a course is not the wont of the KNICKERBOCKER; a fact
no better known to our readers themselves than to the absent senior
editor of the 'Tribune,' with whom for ten years and upward we have
walked hand-in-hand in the support and encouragement of such native
literature as was worthy of the name. Were this Magazine accustomed
to be swayed in its judgments by private pique, its adverse opinions
would need no corrective; its 'sneers' would be impotent; its
'satire' unavailing. No; our sin consists in exposing, without fear,
favor, or hope of reward, the literary pretensions of one who has
no claim to be regarded as an 'American author;' who has foisted
upon the community such works as we have elsewhere considered; and
whose efforts to establish a literary reputation are of a kind to
heighten rather than to lessen the effect of his uniform failures.
We are gravely told, that this writer has 'just conceptions of
what an American literature _ought_ to be; of _the mission_ of the
American writer,' and so forth. We have had and have nothing to say
of his 'conceptions' of what our literature should be, nor of his
ideas of literary 'missions;' but we _have_ had something to say
of his _performances_, and of the manner in which they have been
presented to and received by the public; and for this reason, and
this alone, are we accused of being actuated by private prejudice.
But so it has always been. 'Tell these small-beer littérateurs,'
says CHRISTOPHER NORTH, 'that they are calves, and sucking calves
too, and they low against you with voices corroborative of the truth
they deny.' We should like to know whether _all_ who hold our own
opinions touching 'Puffer Hopkins' and the other 'writings' of its
author are _also_ actuated by 'personal pique.' If so, there is a
goodly number of us! ''Fore Heaven,' as DOGBERRY says, 'we are all
in a case;' for we can truly say, that we never heard an individual
speak of these productions, who did not agree with us _entirely_ in
the estimate we had formed of them. 'Personal pique!' Was it this
which led the kindly 'Boston Post' to pronounce 'Puffer Hopkins'
'about as flat an affair as it ever tried to wade through?' and
the 'Poem on Man' a 'mere pile of words,' in which even poetical
thoughts were 'completely spoiled by verbiage?' Was it this which
prompted our own lively 'Mercury' to say that Mr. MATHEWS had 'no
more humor than a crying crocodile,' and that his short-lived
_Arcturus_ 'died of a lingering 'Puffer Hopkins?'' Was it this which
caused a monthly metropolitan contemporary to declare, that his
writings were 'characterized by an air of pretension, and an eternal
succession of futile attempts at humor, which at once disposed the
reader to dislike him and his works?' Was it 'malevolence' which
prompted the publishers of 'Behemoth,' (over whom the writer had
'come the evil eye,') when they saw his proposals for a '_new_
edition,' to advertise _their's_--'four years old and complete'--at
half the money? Was it 'personal pique' which caused the house
whose name appears as publishers on the title-page of his last
work, to complain that it had previously been used by him without
their consent, and to object to its being again employed?--on the
ground, too, that they did not desire their names to appear upon
any of his productions? Was it 'malevolence' which suggested a new
title-page, at the publisher's expense, from which their names might
be omitted? As well might 'the disaffected' upon whom a humorous
'work' of the author had been inflicted abroad, be accused of acting
from 'personal pique' in deciding that for them at least 'one such
fun, it was enough!' ÆSOP is dead, but his frog is still extant;
and if we were not at the end of our tether, we could 'illustrate
this position' to the satisfaction of every body save Mr. MATHEWS
himself. As it is, we take our leave of him, with no fear that he
will write less creditably, and no hope that he will print less
frequently, than heretofore; for such is his _cacoëthes scribendi_,
that we verily believe he would be an author, if he were the only
reader in the world. Indeed, we even hear of _another_ edition of
his writings, 'at the risk of the owner,' to be sent forth from
his stereotype-plates, by our friends the HARPERS! We had intended
a word or two touching Mr. MATHEWS'S position in the 'Copy-right
Club'--for we hear there are two sides to _that_ matter--but we wish
well to a cause of which this Magazine was the earliest, and has
been a constant advocate, and to Mr. MATHEWS'S efforts in it; and if
he _is_ to prepare an address to the public, we earnestly hope that
it may be clear, simple, and direct, as becomes the plain truths it
should present; and that 'giants, elephants, '_tiger-mothers_,' and
curricles, angels, frigates, baronial castles, and fish-ponds,' will
be carefully excluded from its arguments and its expostulations.
By the by: this reminds us that we have an error to correct, alike
unintentional and immaterial. It was at the Society Library, _not_
the Tabernacle, that Mr. MATHEWS'S great lecture on copy-right was
delivered. On this point, the following passage from an editorial
paragraph in the 'New World' may be deemed pertinent by many
readers, and _impertinent_, perhaps, by one or two: 'The 'Tribune'
accuses the KNICKERBOCKER of mistaking the Tabernacle for the
Society Library, as the place where Mr. MATHEWS delivered his
lecture on copy-right to a beggarly account of empty benches, last
winter, after placarding the town with the fact that 'the author
of '_Puffer Hopkins_' was to be heard and seen at that place. But
is the _fact_ altered by this trifling error? Was there not a
'capacious edifice' almost empty, and tickets numbered as high as
twelve hundred, and not fifty persons in the room?--and half of
those 'dead heads?'--as dead as the lecturer's? If _this_ is denied,
it can easily be _proved_.' * * * WE are obliged for the kind wishes
and intentions of our friend and correspondent 'F.;' but he must
allow us to say, that his '_Sketch of Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell_'
embodies many anecdotes of that learned and eccentric person, which
are already familiar to the public. The story of the semi-black
man is 'as old as the hills.' The following, however, which we
segregate, is quite new, at least to us: 'JARVIS, celebrated no less
as an artist than as a pleasant social companion, walking one sultry
summer morning with a friend down Murray-street, encountered the
Doctor, with a pound of fresh butter upon a cabbage-leaf. 'I'll lay
you a small wager,' said he to his companion, 'that I'll cross over
on the sunny side, and engage the doctor in conversation, until his
butter has melted completely away!' No sooner said than done. JARVIS
entertained him with _inquiries_ upon abstruse themes, which Dr.
MITCHELL took great delight in answering in detail, as well as the
objections which JARVIS occasionally urged against the correctness
of his conclusions. Meanwhile, the butter dripped slowly away upon
the walk, until it was utterly wasted. The waggish painter then
took leave of the Doctor, who now for the first time glanced at his
cabbage-leaf, exclaiming: 'You've almost made me forget my errand,
JARVIS; I started to get some fresh butter from WASHINGTON-market!'
* * * WE shall venture to hope that in declining the '_Stanzas to
my Boy in Heaven_' we shall give no pain to the bereaved author.
The _feeling_ of the lines is itself eloquent poetry; but their
_execution_ is in certain portions marked by deficiences in rythm
and melody. Will the writer permit another to express for her the
very emotions which she evidently depicts with her 'heart swelling
continually to her eyes?'

    'THE nursery shows thy pictured wall.
        Thy bat, thy bow,
    Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
        But where art thou?
    A corner holds thy empty chair.
    Thy playthings idly scattered there
    But speak to us of our despair.

    'Even to the last thy every word,
        To glad, to grieve,
    Was sweet as sweetest song of bird
        On summer's eve;
    In outward beauty undecayed.
    Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade.
    And like the rainbow thou didst fade.

    'We mourn for thee, when blind blank night
        The chamber fills;
    We pine for thee, when morn's first light
        Reddens the hills:
    The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
    All, to the wall-flower and wild pea,
    Are changed--we saw the world through thee!

    'And though, perchance, a smile may gleam
        Of casual mirth,
    It doth not own, whate'er may seem.
        An inward birth;
    We miss thy small step on the stair;
    We miss thee at thine evening prayer;
    All day we miss thee, every where.

    'Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair.
        Fond, fairest boy!
    That heaven is GOD'S, and thou art there.
        With Him in joy;
    There past are death and all its woes;
    There beauty's stream for ever flows;
    And pleasure's day no sunset knows.

    'Farewell, then--for a while farewell--
        Pride of my heart!
    It cannot be that long we dwell,
        Thus torn apart;
    Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
    And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
    Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee.'

THE '_Lines to Niagara Falls_' are very far from being worth
double-postage from Buffalo. They are termed '_descriptive_;'
but they afford about as much of an idea of the Great Cataract
as the 'magnificent model' of the Falls which was 'got up at an
enormous expense' at the American Museum last winter. _That_ was
a sublime spectacle! We saw it, it is true, under very favorable
circumstances. The whole hogshead of water had just been 'let
on,' and the wheezing machine that represented the 'sound of many
waters' was in excellent wind. Indeed, so abundant was the supply
of cataract, (as we were afterward informed,) that a portion of the
American fall, to the amount of several quarts, leaked down into the
barber's-shop below. A lisping young lady present was quite carried
away with the exhibition. Some one inquired if she had ever seen
'the _real_ falls, the great original?' She had not, she said, 'but
she _had heard them very highly thpoken of_!' They _are_ clever,
certainly; and if their real friends would occasionally 'say a good
word for them,' they would doubtless soon become very 'popular!'
* * * WE were struck (and so we recorded it at the time) with the
felicitous remarks of Mr. Consul GRATTAN, on 'Saint PATRICK'S Day in
the' evening. He said he could not help wondering sometimes how the
dear old country looked in her new temperance dress; remembering as
he did how becoming to her was the flush of conviviality and good
fellowship. 'When I picture to myself,' said he, 'the Irishman of
the present day seeking for his inspiration at the handle of a pump,
I cannot help thinking of the Irishman I once knew, who couldn't
bear cold water at all, unless the half of it was whisky; without
which they considered it as a very depreciated currency; a sort of
liquid _skin-plaster_, in comparison with the healthful circulating
medium of grog and punch.' This is both lively and witty; and we do
not wish to derogate from either quality; but if the reader will
permit us, we will ask him to glance at the following passage from
CHARLES LAMB'S '_Confessions of a Drunkard_:'

     'THE waters have gone over me. But out of the black depths,
     could I be heard, I would cry out to all those who have but set
     a foot in the perilous flood. Could the youth to whom the flavor
     of his first wine is delicious as the opening scenes of life,
     or the entering upon some newly-discovered paradise, look into
     my desolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it
     is when a man shall feel himself going down a precipice with
     open eyes and a passive will; to see his destruction, and have
     no power to stop it, and yet to feel it all the way emanating
     from himself; to perceive all goodness emptied out of him, and
     yet not be able to forget a time when it was otherwise; to bear
     about the piteous spectacle of his own self-ruin; could he
     see my fevered eye, feverish with last night's drinking, and
     feverishly looking for this night's repetition of the folly;
     could he feel the body of the death out of which I cry hourly
     with feebler and feebler outcry to be delivered; it were enough
     to make him dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the
     pride of its mantling temptation; to make him clasp his teeth,

                    ----'and not undo 'em
    To suffer WET DAMNATION to run through 'em.'

     'Oh! if a wish could transport me back to those days of youth,
     when a draught from the next clear spring could slake the heats
     which summer suns and youthful exercise had power to stir up in
     the blood, how gladly would I return to thee, pure element, the
     drink of children, and of child-like holy hermit! In my dreams I
     can sometimes fancy thy cool refreshment purling over my burning
     tongue. But my waking stomach rejects it. That which refreshes
     innocence, only makes me sick and faint.'

How many thousands in Great Britain, whose experience is here
described as with a pencil of light, has FATHER MATTHEW rescued from
'slippery places,' and placed once more within the charmed circle
of sobriety and virtue! * * * THE grammatical blunder recorded by
'S. T.,' and 'suggested by the sixth _claw_ of the constitution,'
reminds us of a clever anecdote which we derive from Mr. ROBERT
TYLER. The old negro who receives and ushers visitors at the
President's mansion is always very precise in his announcements. On
one occasion a gentleman named FOOT, with a daughter on each arm,
was shown into the drawing-room with this introduction: 'Mr. FOOT
and _the two Miss Feet_!" * * * 'CRY you mercy!' gentlemen of the
long robe and of the bar; we have neither 'abused the law' nor yet
'the lawyers,' though by your wincing you would seem to say so; at
least some score of law-students would, if we may judge from the
communications which have thickened upon us since our last. Saving
the sordid and obscure tricksters of abused law; such, for example,
as may be seen any day in the week, holding their sanhedrim of
babble around or within the miscalled 'Halls of Justice;' and the
undignified personal bickerings of the members of the bar; nothing
of a _local_ character, in a legal point of view, deserves the
whip and the branding-iron. The latter matter, too, is generally
understood, we believe, by the public. A pair of lawyers, like a
pair of legs, may thoroughly bespatter each other, and yet remain
the best of friends and brothers. Our allusion to courts implied no
reflection upon _Judges_. We hold in proper respect and reverence
these sacred depositories of the people's rights. 'The criminal, and
the judge who is to award his punishment, form a solemn sight. They
are both men; both the 'children of an Universal FATHER, and sons
of immortality;' the one so sunken in his state as to be disowned
by man; the other as far removed by excellence from the majority of
mankind.' _No_ function can be more honorable, more sacred, or more
beneficial, than that of an upright judge. With his own passions
and prejudices subdued; attentive to the principles of justice by
which alone the happiness of the world can be promoted, and by
the rectitude of his decisions affording precedent and example to
future generations; he presents a character that must command the
reverence and love of the human race. * * * THE 'London Charivarri,'
or 'Punch,' maintains its repute--for which it is partly indebted
to the high indorsement of the 'Quarterly Review,' 'Examiner,'
'Spectator,' etc.,--undiminished. It really _overflows_ with genuine
humor, not unmixed, certainly, with many failures. We condense from
it a few items of metropolitan intelligence, commencing with an
office-seeker's 'begging letter' to Lord LYNDHURST: 'MY LORD: I am
an Irishman, in the direst distress. To say that I am an Irishman,
is I know a passport to the innermost recesses of your soul. I
want something of about three hundred pounds per annum; I will
not refuse four hundred. At present, however, I am destitute, and
terribly out of sorts. You will have some idea of my condition,
when I tell you that I have not tasted food these six weeks, and
that I am so disastrously off for clothing, that the elbows of my
shirt are hanging out of the knees of my breeches! P. S. Don't mind
the hole in the bearer's trowsers; he is trustworthy.' To this
missive the 'noble lord' replied: 'SIR: That you are an Irishman,
is a sufficient passport to my fire-side, my purse, my heart. Come;
never mind the shirt. With or without that conventional ornament,
you will be equally well received by your devoted LYNDHURST.' The
writer 'went very often to the house of his lordship, but as often
as he went, just so often was his lordship not at home!' Curious,
wasn't it? The plan of the '_Joke Loan Society_' reminds us of
SANDERSON'S joke-company for the _Opera-Comique_ in Paris, several
members of which, with due economy, managed to live for an entire
quarter upon the 'eighth of a joke' which they had furnished to the
management! 'The object of the institution is, to supply those with
jokes who may be temporarily distressed for the want of them. The
directors invite the attention of barristers to a very extensive
stock of legal jokes, applicable to every occasion. The society
has also purchased the entire stock of a retired punster, at a
rate so low that the jokes--among which are a few that have never
been used--can be let out on very moderate terms. Damaged jokes
repaired, and old ones taken in exchange. Dramatic authors supplied
on easy terms, and a liberal allowance on taking a quantity. Puns
prepared at an hour's notice for large or small parties!' Under the
'Infantry Intelligence' head we find the following: 'The Twelfth
Light Pop-guns acquitted themselves very creditably, and discharged
several rounds of pellets with great effect and precision. The First
Life Squirts also highly distinguished themselves, and kept up a
smart fire of ditch-water for upward of a quarter of an hour; and
the Hop-Scotch Grays went through their evolutions in admirable
order.' A 'commercial problem' must close our excerpts: 'How can a
junior partner be taken into a house over the senior partner's head?
By the senior partner sitting in the shop, and the junior partner
being taken in at the first-floor window!' * * * THE eulogy entitled
'_Mr. Webster's Noble Speech at Rochester_' is from the pen of an
Englishman, or we have for the first time in our life mistaken the
'hand-write' of JOHN BULL, Esq. The _spirit_ of the paper is not in
the main unjust to this country; yet it touches with severity upon
those culprit States of our Republic, that abroad are considered
remarkable for their 'swaggering beginnings that could not be
carried through; grand enterprises begun dashingly, and ending in
shabby compromises or downright ruin;' and for their treasuries,
filled with evidences of 'futile expectations, fatal deficit, wind,
and debts.' Cruel words, certes; but are they wholly groundless?
'Guess not!' But Sir Englishman, pr'ithee, don't despond--don't be
scared! Look at the progress of our western States, as evinced in
the growth of their towns. Louisville, in three years, has gained
eight thousand additional inhabitants; Saint Louis twelve thousand;
Pittsburgh nearly the same amount; Cincinnati has erected within
that period nearly three thousand houses, and gained seventeen
thousand inhabitants. Four western cities have added to them nearly
fifty thousand inhabitants in three years; and the adjacent country
has kept pace with the towns. And the like progress is visible
elsewhere. Truly, this _is_ 'a great country!'

                ----'WHO shall place
    A limit to the giant's unchained strength.
    Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
    Far, like the comet's way through infinite space,
    Stretches the long untravelled path of light
    Into the depths of ages: we may trace.
    Distant, the brightening glory of its flight
    Till the receding rays are lost to human sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

                ----'seas and stormy air
    Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where,
    Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well,
    Thou laugh'st at enemies; who shall then declare
    The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell
    How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell?'

We sometimes wish that we had been born fifty years later than it
pleased Providence to send us into the world, that we might behold
the ever-increasing glory of our native land. * * * The reader
will be struck, we think, with the paper upon '_Mind in Animals_,'
elsewhere in the present number. The writer 'has firm faith in every
conclusion he has drawn. He has considered the ultimate tendencies
of his doctrine in many different points; and the result is, an
additional confidence in the correctness of his conviction, that
one principle of intelligence is bestowed upon all created beings;
modified, like their physical structure, to adapt them to different
spheres.' Time is an abstract term; and as touching the faculty of
abstraction in animals, the writer has a curious calendar which he
kept of the time of the crowing of the roosters in his neighborhood.
Having observed that they gave their midnight signal at about the
same hour for several nights in succession, the following record was
preserved:

  AUG. 30,               11.25 P. M.              Pleasant.

   " 31,                 11.22   "                   "

  SEPT. 1,               11. 7½  "                 Cloudy.

   " 3,                  11.27   "                 Pleasant.

   " 4,                  12.24   "                 Moonlight.

   " 6,                  11.30   "                 Rainy.

   " 7,                  11.29   "                 Cloudy.

   " 9,                  11.20   "                 Moonlight.

As a new style of _crow-nometer_, this is a curiosity; but we
cannot perceive that it proves any thing very conclusively. If it
were in our power, however, to watch the operations of animals as
carefully as our own, one could very soon place the whole question
above controversy. * * * THACKERAY, the exceedingly entertaining
author of '_The Yellowplush Correspondence_,' has in a late number
of 'FRAZER'S Magazine' some judicious advice in relation to the
_modus operandi_ of novel-reading. 'Always look,' says he, 'at the
end of a romance to see what becomes of the personages before you
venture upon the whole work, and become interested in the characters
described in it. Why interest one's self in a personage whom one
knows must at the end of the second volume die a miserable death?
What is the use of making one's self unhappy needlessly, watching
the symptoms of LEONORA, pale, pious, pulmonary, and crossed in
love, as they manifest themselves, or tracing ANTONIO to his
inevitable assassination? No: it is much better to look at the end
of a novel; and when I read: 'There is a fresh green mound in the
church-yard of B----, and a humble stone, on which is inscribed
the name of ANNA-MARIA,' or a sentence to that effect, I shut the
book at once, declining to agitate my feelings needlessly. If you
had the gift of prophecy, and people proposed to introduce you to a
man who you knew would borrow money of you, or would be inevitably
hanged, or would subject you to some other annoyance, would you not
decline the proposed introduction? So with novels. The book of fate
of the heroes and heroines is to be found at the end of the second
volume: one has but to turn to it to know whether one shall make
their acquaintance or not. I heartily pardon the man who brought
CORDELIA to life. I would have the stomach-pump brought for ROMEO at
the fifth act; for Mrs. MACBETH I am not in the least sorry; but as
for the General, I would have him destroy that swaggering MACDUFF,
or if not, cut him in pieces, disarm him, pink him, certainly; and
then I would have Mrs. MACDUFF and all her little ones come in from
the slips, stating that the account of their murder was a shameful
fabrication of the newspapers, and that they were all of them
perfectly well and hearty.' * * * IT has pleased some late English
writer to laud the conduct of Sir HUDSON LOWE, at Saint Helena,
while NAPOLEON was under his 'treatment,' and as BYRON says, 'stood
unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.' The least said on _that_
point, the better. 'He was England's greatest enemy, and _mine_, but
I forgive him!' said that notorious military martinet, when informed
that his renowned captive was no more. This is rather rich; and
almost justifies the remark of NAPOLEON, in exhibiting to an English
visitor, in a copy of ÆSOP'S Fables (which Sir HUDSON had sent him,
among other English books) the fable of the sick lion, which, after
submitting with fortitude to the insults of the many animals who
came to exult over his fallen greatness, at length received a kick
in the face from an ass. 'I could have borne every thing but this!'
said NAPOLEON; and pointing to the wood-cut, he added: 'It is me
and your governor!' A friend of ours once informed us, that at a
_table d'hôte_ at which he was seated in a German inn, soon after
BONAPARTE'S death, Sir HUDSON LOWE was announced; when nearly every
person arose from the table, and 'left him alone in his glory.'
* * * IT is somewhat remarkable that so little attention is paid to
the _clearness_ of expression. Every body remembers the geographer
who, in describing ancient Albany, represented it as having 'two
thousand houses, and ten thousand inhabitants, _all standing with
their gable-ends to the street_!' A similar error was made not
long since by a western journalist, who in publishing a clever
poem, remarked that it 'was written by an esteemed friend, who had
lain in the grave many years, _merely for his own amusement_!' A
scarcely less ludicrous _misstatement_ occurred very lately in one
of our popular daily journals. In describing the explosion of a
brig, near the Narrows, and certain accidents which resulted from
the disaster, the editor, among other items, had the ensuing: 'The
only passengers were T. B. NATHAN, who owned three thousand dollars'
worth of the cargo, _and the captain's wife_!' * * * BRYANT, our
most eminent American poet, has entirely 'satisfied the sentiment'
of our correspondent 'SENEX'S' stanzas on '_Old Age_,' in his fine
lines commencing, 'Lament who will, with fruitless tears,' etc. A
modern English poet, too, has recently reëxhausted the theme, in an
extended string of six-line verses, from which the subjoined are
derived:

    'To dark oblivion I bequeath
    The ruddy cheek, brown hair, white teeth,
      And eyes that brightly twinkle;
    Crow's feet may plough with furrows deep
    My features, if I can but keep
      My heart without a wrinkle.

    'A youthful cheer sustains us old.
    As arrows best their course uphold
      Winged by a lightsome feather
    Happy the young old man who thus
    Bears, like a human arbutus,
      Life's flowers and fruit together.'

       *       *       *       *       *

WE should be bound to dissent from the conclusions of 'T. R.' on the
Hudson, were we to give his paper a place (which we _shall_ do, with
his permission,) in the KNICKERBOCKER. His _pecuniary_ conclusions
are right, no doubt; but his _natural_ deductions are, in our poor
judgment, decidedly wrong. 'Oh! mad world!' exclaims one who knows
it well; 'oh! incomprehensible, blind world! Look at the rich! In
what are they happy? In what do they excel the poor? Not in their
greater store of wealth, which is but a source of vice, disease,
and death; but in a little superiority of knowledge; a trifling
advance toward truth.' * * * WE do not know who drew the following
'picture in little' of fashion's changes, (changes alike of person
and apparel,) but to our mind it has the 'veritable touch and
tint:' 'There is something awful in the bed-room of a respectable
old couple, of sixty-five. Think of the old feathers, turbans,
bugles, petticoats, pomatum-pots, spencers, white satin shoes,
false fronts, the old flaccid, boneless stays, tied up in faded
riband, the dusky fans, the forty-years' old baby-linen; FREDERICK'S
first little breeches, and a newspaper containing the account of
his distinguishing himself in the field; all these lie somewhere
damp and squeezed down into glum old presses and wardrobes.' * * *
WE have observed going the rounds of the press a paragraph which
speaks of 'excitements' of all kinds as prejudicial to longevity;
and citing, among other examples, the constant whirl of the stage,
as a reason why theatrical persons are generally so short-lived.
But the _premises_ in this particular instance are _wrong_. As a
class, actors attain to more than common longevity. Call to mind
those who in our own era have nourished in England and in this
country, in proof of the correctness of this position. And it was
thus in a previous age. Look at MACKLIN. He performed the part of
'Sir Pertinax MacSychophant' in his own Comedy of 'The Man of the
World,' consisting of thirty-six 'lengths' or nearly sixteen hundred
lines, including 'cues,' with a vigor and spirit that astonished
every beholder, when he was in his one hundredth year! How old was
GARRICK when he was seen for the last time as Macbeth, marching at
the head of his troops (in a modern court-suit, and a well-powdered
peruke!) across the blasted heath? We do not exactly remember his
age, but he was 'no chicken.' * * * THERE is great beauty as well
as truth in the annexed brief synopsis of the characteristics of
the author of 'The Spectator.' ADDISON, says the writer, seemed at
the same moment to be taken by the hand by Pathos and by Wit, while
Fiction enrobed him with her own beautiful garments which Truth
confined with her cestus, and Imagination put her crown upon his
head, and Religion and all her band of Virtues beckoned him along
the path to immortality, both in the life of the genius and the
life of the soul. All the lineaments of beauty wake into splendor
in his prose. It is in his essays that his muse beams out upon the
reader, and calls forth all the sleeping wonders of her face. His
true tragic energy is exhibited in his earnest panegyric of virtue;
his true comedy is contained in the history of Sir ROGER DE COVERLY,
and his true fancy in the 'VISION OF MIRZA.' He was an essayist, a
tale-writer, a traveller, a critic. He touched every subject, and
adorned every subject that he touched.' Do we seek for the opinions
of a man of letters upon the aspect and the antiquities of the
most famous country in Europe? We have his 'Remarks on Italy.' Are
we fond of examining the aids which history derives from some of
the obscurer stores of antiquity? We can turn to his 'Dialogues on
Medals.' Are we charmed with the stateliness of Eastern fiction and
the melancholy grandeur of Eastern allegory? We find it in all the
allegories and visions of this charming writer. Or do we seek to be
withdrawn from the cares of our maturer life into the thoughtless
sports and pleasures of our youth? Who so good a guide as ADDISON,
in those papers which unlock all the gentler and purer emotions of
the heart? * * * AMONG the pleasant papers of the late ROBERT C.
SANDS, which we intended to have included in our late series of his
'Early and Unpublished Writings,' was the following extract from a
burlesque imitation of the literary-antiquarian 'researches,' so
common some years ago. The poem was 'edited' by a celebrated cook
in London, and was 'intituled '_Kynge Arthour, his Puden_.' It
purported to have been derived from the MS. which 'contained the
original Welsh, as well as the version.' It throws great light on
the gastrology of the olden time:

    'Ys KYNGE for Sonday mornenge bade
      Hys cooke withoute delaie
    To have a greate bagge-puden made,
      For to dyne upon yt daie.

    'Ye cooke yn tooke hys biggeste potte,
      Yt 90 Hhds. helde,
    And soon he made ye water hotte
      Wyth which yt potte was fyllede.

    'Hys knedynge-troughe was 50 yds
      In lengthe, and 20 wide;
    And 80 kytchen wenches stode
      In ordere bye its side.

    'Full 60 sakes of wheaten floure
      They emptyed in a tryse,
    And 15 Bbls. of melases,
      & 7 casks of Ryse!'

This really seems somewhat common-place, just at this period; but
twenty-five years ago it was a 'gem of one of the old English school
of metrical writers!' * * * WITH perhaps as strong sympathies in
behalf of the great philanthropic moments of the age as most of our
readers possess, we are nevertheless sometimes inclined to wish
that the liberal patrons of the great benevolent societies could
now and then have a glance behind the curtains at the chief actors
there. In many of these institutions true Christian principle is
doubtless paramount, and the managers men of exalted piety and
worth; but there are _others_ of them which, while the _names_ of
good men are paraded upon the 'Boards' to inspire confidence, are
really directed by a set of individuals who would have done honor to
the Spanish Inquisition in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
Some facts have recently come to our knowledge in regard to the
doings of the directors of a _soi-disant_ charitable institution,
which operates in this city and State for the ostensible benefit
of a transatlantic colony, which, were they known to the public,
as without doubt they soon will be, would pretty effectually set
the seal of condemnation upon all their efforts toward collecting
moneys from the benevolent, for many years to come. A friend and
correspondent of ours, whose character stands above reproach, fell
by chance into the hands of some half a dozen of these directors,
who, among a body of thirty for the most part honorable men,
usually form the quorums and do the business; and the treatment he
received (these same half-a-dozen sheltering themselves the while
under the sanctity of their religious body) would have disgraced
a band of King PHILIP'S warriors in the old Pequot war. We are no
Abolitionists, technically so called, as our readers well know;
nor do we take sides with either of the two great societies whose
professed object is the benefit of the colored race; so that we
cannot be charged with speaking from prejudice. But we _do_ go for
justice, for truth, for fair-dealing, and Christian principle; and
when any body of men, whatever may be their standing or professions,
outrage these; and worse than all, when they commit this outrage
under the garb of pharisaical sanctity, we know of no reason why
they should be screened from public rebuke. * * * SOME kind-hearted
and affectionate female correspondent, an integral portion of
the girlery of New-York, on the strength of some remarks in our
last upon the universality of the tender passion, has sent us a
love-tale, with this motto:

                ----'ALL things seem
    So happy when they love; the gentle birds
    Have far more gay a note when they unite
    To build their simple nest; and when at length
    The 'anxious mother' watches o'er her young.
    Her mate is near, to recompense her care
    With his sweet song.'

Our fair correspondent has exalted the attractions of her heroine
'to a degree,' as the English cockney novelists have it: 'Every
look of her beaming eyes penetrated to the heart; every motion
of her moist coral lips gave ecstasy; and every variation of her
features discovered new and ineffable beauties!' Good 'eavens!--how
'THEODORE' _must_ have felt, as he 'gradually recovered from the
hurt of his fall,' (_was_ his 'limb' amputated?) and found that
angel 'lifting his head from his pillow, and touching his eye-lids
with awakening light!' * * * THANKS to the kind '_Incognita_,' to
whom we are indebted for a beautiful worsted butterfly, destined to
a 'literaneous' sort of destiny! Verily, it is a beautiful fabric;
so vivid and life-like in its brilliant colors, that it seems, while
hanging by the thin ear of our iron gray-hound, as if about to
rise and float a living blossom of the air. How deftly the Ettrick
Shepherd ('the d--d HOGG!' as BALLANTYNE called him,) has limned its
counterpart: 'Perhaps a bit bonny butterfly is resting wi' folded
wings on a gowan, not a yard from your cheek; and now, awakening out
of a summer-dream, floats away in its wavering beauty; but as if
unwilling to leave the place of its mid-day sleep, comin' back and
back, and round and round, on this side and that side, and settling
in its capricious happiness to fasten again on some brighter
floweret, till the same breath o' wind that lifts up your hair sae
refreshingly catches the airy voyager, and wafts her away into some
other nook of her ephemeral paradise!' Answer us, all ye that ever
_saw_ a summer butterfly in the country, is not that a _perfect_
picture? * * * WE have a prospectus of a new series of the '_New
Mirror_,' which can now be obtained in _complete_ sets, weekly, or
in monthly parts, 'with four steel-plates, and sixty-four pages of
reading matter.' When we add, that the MIRROR has many of its old
corps of writers, with several new ones, and that General MORRIS and
N. P. WILLIS are also diligently laboring at the oars, we have said
all that is necessary, to indicate the claims of the work. Success
to ye, gentlemen! By the by: the first number of the new series
had a full-length portrait, by _the_ JOHNSTON, of the eminent and
deeply-lamented painter-poet, WASHINGTON ALLSTON. If it is at all
like the original, we can well believe the statement of an indignant
writer in the 'Boston Post,' who avers that 'the engraving from
BRACKETT'S beautiful bust of Mr. ALLSTON, in the last 'Democratic
Review,' bears no resemblance whatever to the bust itself, and might
as well be called a likeness of one of the numerous JOHN SMITHS, as
a portrait of the great artist.' Speaking of likenesses: we would
venture to ask, what is the thing at the end of the right arm of
a figure in one of the Philadelphia 'pictorial' monthlys intended
to represent? Is it a hand, (no, _that_ it isn't!) or the end of a
tri-pronged beet or radish? It is 'a copy' from the end of _some_
diverse-forked vegetable, _that_ is quite clear. * * * IT is a very
interesting work, the History of ELIZABETH of England, recently
published by Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD, Philadelphia. Proud,
powerful, and haughty as that imperial potentate finally became, her
infancy was distinguished by the want of even comfortable clothing.
An uncommon intellect she certainly possessed, and she had her
wrongs, no doubt; but who can think of her without at once reverting
to poor MARY of Scotland? After an imprisonment of nineteen years,
that unhappy Queen was left alone, without counsel and without
friends; betrayed by those in whom she had trusted, and confronted
by the representatives of the power and majesty of England. 'But
she evinced in the last sad scene of her mournful life the spirit
of the daughter of a long line of kings, and exposed to the
wondering world the spectacle of a helpless woman, enfeebled by long
confinement, 'gray in her prime,' and broken down by sickness and
sorrow, contending single-handed against the sovereign of a mighty
realm, who sought her blood, and had predetermined her death.'
* * * OUR entertaining correspondent, the '_American Antiquary_,' has
given elsewhere some account of the stalwart citizens of a portion
of New-Hampshire. They _are_ 'good men,' no doubt, and 'honest as
the skin atween their brows;' but 'where two men ride a horse, one
must go before.' Our friend should see a specimen or two of our
western and southwestern noblemen of nature. We should like to place
his hand in that of ALBERT PIKE, for example, the Arkansas poet,
politician, and lawyer. His first impression would be, that in his
BLACKWOOD 'Hymn to the Gods' he had been lauding his own kith and
kin. We consider it a great pleasure to have encountered so fine
an illustration of the '_mens sana incorpore sano_.' Having seen
him once, one could not soon forget him. We should know him now, if
we were to 'come across his hide in a tan-yard!' * * * OUR Salem
(Mass.) friend, who complains that we 'are leagued with the Quakers
against the memory of the pious Puritans,' is 'hereby respectfully
invited to attend' to the following hit at old COTTON MATHER and
his fellow-persecutors of that era, from the pen of a true 'Son
of New-England:' 'We can laugh now at the Doctor and his demons:
but little matter of laughter was it to the victims on Salem hill;
to the prisoners in the jails; to poor GILES COREY, tortured with
planks upon his breast, which forced the tongue from his mouth,
and his life from his old palsied body; to bereaved and quaking
families; to a whole community priest-ridden and spectre-smitten;
gasping in the sick dream of a spiritual night-mare, and given over
to believe a lie. We may laugh, for the grotesque is blended with
the horrible, but we must also pity and shudder. GOD be thanked that
the delusion has measurably vanished; and they who confronted that
delusion in its own age, disenchanting with strong, clear sense, and
sharp ridicule, their spell-bound generation, deserve high honors
as the benefactors of their race. They were indeed branded through
life as infidels and 'damnable Sadducees,' by a corrupt priesthood,
who ministered to a credulity which could be so well turned to their
advantage; but the truth which they uttered lived after them, and
wrought out its appointed work, for it had a divine commission and
GOD-speed.' * * * TO 'X. L.' of Hudson we say, 'By no means!' He
is _another_ 'rusty, fusty, musty old bachelor,' who lacks that
'company' which Misery is said to love. 'If love,' he commences,
'were not _beneath_ a man, he couldn't '_fall_ into it,' as he is so
often said to do. Borrowed, dear Sir, 'to begin with!' Learn wisdom
of one of your aged fraternity, whom we have the pleasure to know,
who was married within a twelvemonth, in the fiftieth year of his
age. He has lately been heard to observe: 'If I had known as much
about matrimony twelve years ago as I do now, I should just as lieve
have been married then as not!' * * * WHEREVER you are, reader, if
you have an opportunity to see MACREADY in BYRON'S 'Werner,' fail
not to enjoy that rich intellectual repast. It is a matchless piece
of acting. A friend of ours, whose experience in dramatic excellence
embraces all the great standards usually referred to, tells us
that EDMUND KEAN'S 'Othello,' JOHN KEMBLE'S 'Coriolanus,' TALMA'S
'Britanicus,' and MACREADY'S 'Werner,' in their several styles of
merit, are the most admirable performances he ever beheld. * * *
A CORRESPONDENT inquires if there is 'any more of such charming
scenes' as the one we quoted from the '_Mysteries of Paris_,' in
our last number. 'It was very beautiful,' she adds. Yes; there
is an account of a joyous country excursion made by RODOLPHE and
'FLEUR-DE-MARIE' in the Autumn, from which we take a short passage:

     'OH! I am very happy, it is such a long time since I have been
     out of Paris! When I saw the country before, it was spring; but
     now, although we are almost into winter, it gives me just as
     much pleasure. What a fine sunny day! Only look at those little
     rosy clouds, there--there! And that hill! with its pretty white
     houses gleaming among the trees. How many leaves remain! It is
     astonishing, in the month of November, is it not, Monsieur? But
     in Paris the leaves fall so soon. * * * _And down there--that
     flight of pigeons! Look! look! they are settling down on the
     roof of the mill!_ In the country, one is never tired of
     looking; every thing is attractive.'

     'It is a pleasure, FLEUR-DE-MARIE,' said RODOLPHE, 'to see you
     so delighted with these nothings which make the charm of the
     country.' The young girl, contemplated the peaceful and smiling
     landscape which was spread out before her, and once more her
     face assumed its soft, pensive expression.'

     'There!' she exclaimed; 'that fire from the stubble in those
     fields; see how _the beautiful white smoke ascends to heaven_!
     And this cart, with its two fat grays! If I were a man, how
     I should love to be a farmer!--to be in the midst of a large
     field, _following the plough, and seeing at a great distance
     immense woods_. Just such a day as to-day, for instance! Enough
     to make one sing songs, melancholy songs, to bring tears into
     the eyes, like 'Genevieve de Brabant.'

There is in this artless description a fine love and perception of
the beautiful in nature. * * * '_Absence of Mind_' is too _scrappy_.
Its 'examples' seem collated from sundry files of old newspapers,
of various dates. The man however who, in his hurry (at a late hour
on a rainy day) to pay a note, took up in place of an umbrella
an _old broom_, and rushed through Wall-street to the bank, with
the besom over his head, reminds us of the 'absent' clergyman,
who started one winter-Sunday for his church; and having nearly
reached it, the wind blew his cloak open; upon which he turned
about, that it might be blown close around him again: forgetting
this fact, however, he continued to travel in the direction which
he faced, until he arrived at his own door. Here he inquired for
himself; and being told by a waggish servant that he was _not in_,
he departed, with the remark that he should 'call again soon!'
* * * '_The Exile's Song_,' in the present number, was enclosed
in a letter from its author, A. M'CRAW, of Scotland, to the late
lamented Dr. TIMOTHY UPHAM of Waterford, by whose wish it is now
published. It was written in this country, several years since; and
was occasioned by the statement that two persons had been found in a
cave in a forest on the bank of the Kennebeck river, who had sought
seclusion and safety in that wild retreat. Dr. UPHAM was a gentleman
of a highly distinguished family in New-Hampshire, whose mind led
him to appreciate talent whenever and wherever he encountered it.
Scientific and literary honors were tendered him from high sources,
previous to his demise; but it pleased GOD to summon him to that
heaven which is constantly enriching itself with the spoils of earth:

    'Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus
    Tam cari capitis.'

THERE is just now quite a passion for _French Literature_ in this
country, and translations have not only become frequent, but very
indiscriminate. Much that we see is not amiss in its moral tendency,
but more is positively pernicious in its effect upon society. 'What
a strange opinion the world will have of French Society a hundred
years from now! 'Did all married people,' they will say, 'break a
certain commandment? They all do in the novels. Was French society
composed of murderers, of forgers, of children without parents,
of men consequently running the daily risk of marrying their
grandmothers by mistake; of disguised princes, who lived in the
friendship of amiable cut-throats and spotless prostitutes; who
gave up the sceptre for the _savate_, and the stars and pigtails
of the court for the chains and wooden shoes of the galleys?' It
has been well said of BERNARD, (author of '_The Innocence of a
Galley-Slave_,' in our last two numbers,) that 'he is full of fine
observation and gentle feeling; has a gallant sense of the absurd;
and writes in a gentlemanlike style.' * * * HERE is a clever and
characteristic anecdote of 'RANDOLPH of Roanoke,' related by
Mr. HARVEY, a spirited (and he must allow us to add improved)
_racconteur_: ROBERT OWEN told JOHN RANDOLPH that he should live to
see the day when mankind would discover the principle of vitality,
and of course learn to live for ever. 'Are you not aware,' said he,
'that in Egypt, by artificial heat, the people create thousands of
chickens?' 'Yes,' replied RANDOLPH; 'but you forget to tell us who
furnishes _the eggs_. Show me the man who can _lay an egg_, and
I'll agree to your 'parallel case.' The proposition was a poser!
* * * Mr. PEABODY, in his excellent Address at Dartmouth College,
speaks of the tendency of our lighter literature to 'aim primarily
at _impression_,' without much reference to the means adopted to
secure that end. What must he think of Mr. J. H. INGRAHAM'S last
infliction upon the public?--his 'Frank Rivers, or the Dangers of
the Town,' the hero and heroine of which are RICHARD P. ROBINSON
and ELLEN JEWETT? How captivating to tastes kindred with the
author's, will be the headings of the different chapters: 'The two
fine gentlemen; the Meeting with ELLEN; the Consequences;' or, 'The
Naval Officer; the Kept Mistress,' etc. Can there be but one opinion
concerning such shameless '_literary_' expositions as this, among
all right-minded persons? * * * MANY a reader of the KNICKERBOCKER,
residing in the smaller villages of our country, will recognize
'_The Influential Man_' among their 'fellow-citizens.' Our friend
at Tinnecum has drawn from life the sketch in preceding pages, and
with all his accustomed faithfulness. 'Uncle BILLY PINE' reminds
us of the 'influential man' who, when Rip VANWINKLE came back from
the mountains, after his twenty years' sleep, made his way through
a wondering crowd of his Dutch neighbors, with his arms akimbo, and
after gazing at him for a moment, shook his head; 'whereat,' says
our renowned historian, 'there was a general shaking of the head
throughout the whole assemblage.' * * * PARIS has always borne away
the palm in cosmetics, perfumery, fancy toilet-soaps, etc.; but we
suspect that Mr. EUGENE ROUSSEL, late of the French metropolis, but
now of Philadelphia, has the means, by importation and manufacture,
to bring 'nigh us, even to our doors,' the best specimens in this
kind to be found in the gay capital. His stores, at the late fair
of the American Institute, were the admiration of visitors; and
_almost_ outvied the collections of our own artizan, Mr. LLOYD, of
Prince-street, near the Bowery, whose perfumery, for excellence and
cheapness combined, has 'won all suffrages' from the ladies. * * *
WE are glad to learn that the '_American Athenæum_' at Paris is
so well appreciated. Its condition is already flourishing, and its
usefulness and popularity gradually increasing. American books,
newspapers, etc., may be sent free of expense, through the care of
Mr. R. DRAPER, Number fifty-one, Beaver-street, New-York. * * *
JUST one word to 'F.' Do you remember the lord-mayor, who when told
at his first hunting that the hare was coming, exclaimed: 'Let it
come, in Heaven's name!--I'm not afraid on 't?' Have the goodness
to make the application. * * * IT was our intention to have offered
a few remarks upon '_The Embarkation of the Pilgrims_,' the great
national picture, by that distinguished American artist, WEIR, which
is now open for exhibition at the Gallery of the Academy of Fine
Arts, corner of Broadway and Leonard-street. We are _compelled_,
however, to forego this duty, until another occasion. Meanwhile, we
invite the attention of our metropolitan readers to the exhibition,
as one well calculated to repay the most careful examination. * * *
WE receive at a late hour, from a friend in the French capital, the
'Proceedings of a Meeting of the Citizens of the United States in
Paris, at the Royal Athenæum, in March last; embracing an Address
upon the Literary Exchanges recently made between France and
America, by ALEXANDER VATTEMARE.' We shall probably have occasion
to allude more particularly to this pamphlet hereafter. * * *
CRICKET, one of the fine manly games of Old England, is getting
quite in vogue in this country, and excites not a little emulation
between several antagonistic cities and towns. At a dinner which
closed a recent spirited match in Philadelphia, our contemporary,
Mr. PATERSON, of the '_Anglo-American_' weekly journal, gave the
following felicitous 'sentiment:'

    'The bat and the wicket,
    And the good game of cricket
    Till we come to the bucket.
    When all must kick it!'

       *       *       *       *       *

WE find on our table a fervent, heart-full 'Discourse, preached
before the Second Church and Society in Boston, in Commemoration
of the Life and Character of their former Pastor, Rev. HENRY WARE,
Jr., D. D.; by their Minister, CHANDLER ROBBINS.' We shall share
with our readers, in our next issue, the enjoyment we have derived
from contemplating, with our friend and correspondent, the many
virtues whose memory his predecessor has left in vivid greenness
and freshness behind him. * * * WE have lost the letter of our
New-Orleans correspondent, who asked certain questions touching a
foreign correspondence with the KNICKERBOCKER. We liked the tone
of his epistle very much. Write us again. Who are you? what are
you? whence are you? whither are you going? and what have you got
to say for yourself? * * * WE hope our readers will appreciate the
motives, not vain-glorious altogether, we suspect, which impel us
to announce that our TWENTY-THIRD VOLUME will eclipse any previous
volume of the series, _we think_. Looking at our literary stores,
(embodying papers from all our old and favorite contributors, and
embracing articles, beside, from the Dutch and the Turkish, by our
correspondents at Constantinople and Rotterdam,) we acknowledge a
glow of satisfaction, which we hope in due time to transfer to our
readers. As for _matter_, we were never more abundantly prepared;
and for the _manner_, that is to be 'in keeping.' The work is to be
presented upon _entirely new type_, in all its departments; and some
of the _very_ fine type heretofore employed in the editor's portion
of the work will give place to characters more easily perused by
old and young. But 'enough said.' Wait; and 'you shall see what you
shall see.' * * * AMONG many other articles filed for insertion,
or awaiting examination, are the following: 'The White-House, or
the Money-Ghost; a Tale told in the Chimney-corner of a Village
Public-House,' from the Dutch; 'Imaginary Conversations,' by PETER
VON GEIST; 'Mind _vs._ Instinct in Animals,' Number Two; 'Ninah and
Numan,' from the Turkish, etc. 'P. G.'s favor _is_ reserved for
publication, when we can find a place for it. We shall appreciate
his communications. * * * SEVERAL notices of new publications,
(including '_The Rose of Sharon_,' a beautiful and interesting
annual, Barry Cornwall's Poems, 'Nature and Revelation,' 'The
Mysteries of Paris,' and 'The Professor and his Favorites,') omitted
from the present number, will appear in our next.




LITERARY RECORD.


GREENWOOD CEMETERY.--A desideratum is timely supplied by a small
pamphlet before us, containing the rules, regulations, etc., of the
_Greenwood Cemetery_, on the beautiful Heights of Gowanus, near this
city. It contains the names of the officers of the corporation, the
trustees, terms of subscription, rules concerning improvements,
interments, graves, tombs, visitors to the grounds, etc., with a
description of some of the principal monuments already erected. It
is to be regretted that the person who furnished the inscription for
the monument to the beautiful Indian wife, DO-HUM-ME, did not quote
the admirable verse of BRYANT more correctly. In riding through the
grounds the other day, we observed that two words were added to the
last line, which entirely destroy its measure and melody. The four
lines in question are from that exquisite poem, '_The Indian Girl's
Lament_' at the grave of her lover. We cannot resist the inclination
to preserve the following stanzas in these pages, for the admiration
of our readers:

    'I'VE pulled away the shrubs that grew
      Too close above thy sleeping head,
    And broke the forest boughs that threw
      Their shadows o'er thy bed,
    That shining from the sweet southwest
    The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

    It was a weary, weary road
      That led thee to the pleasant coast,
    Where thou, in his serene abode.
      Hast met thy father's ghost:
    Where everlasting autumn lies
    On yellow woods and sunny skies.

    'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,
      That shod thee for that distant land;
    'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid
      Beside thy still, cold hand:
    Thy bow in many a battle bent,
    Thy arrows never vainly sent.

    With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,
      And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,
    And laid the food that pleased thee best,
      In plenty, by thy side,
    And decked thee bravely, as became
    A warrior of illustrious name.

    Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed
      The long dark journey of the grave,
    And in the land of light, at last,
      Hast joined the good and brave;
    Amid the flushed and balmy air,
    The bravest and the loveliest there.

    Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid
      Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,
    To her who sits where thou wert laid.
      And weeps the hours away,
    Yet almost can her grief forget,
    To think that thou dost love her yet.

    And thou, by one of those still lakes
      That in a shining cluster lie,
    On which the south wind scarcely breaks
      The image of the sky,
    A bower for thee and me hast made
    Beneath the many-colored shade.

    And thou dost wait and watch to meet
      My spirit sent to join the blessed,
    And, wondering what detains my feet
      From the bright land of rest,
    Dost seem, in every sound, to hear
    The rustling of my footsteps near.'

In the fourth line of the fifth stanza, thus far transferred to
the marble, the words '_the fair_' have been interpolated, in the
inscription to which we have referred. The error is attributable
to one of two causes; an ambition to 'gild refined gold,' or
unpardonable carelessness.


'THE SLEEP RIDER, OR THE OLD BOY IN THE OMNIBUS.'--If the 'Man in
the Claret-colored Coat' had kept his promise, we should not have
been compelled to dismiss this amusing work with a few words of
commendation; but it is 'all along of him,' and we wash our hands
of any thing 'short-coming' in the way of duty. We have read enough
to know that there is an abundant sprinkling of lively, sententious
wit, and shrewd observation of men and things in the volume, and
that it is as replete with contrasts and _abruptions_ as any thing
of LAWRENCE STERNE'S. Lieutenant WHITE, one of the Mesmerised
tale-tellers of the Omnibus, unwinds an exceedingly graphic 'yarn'
which was once 'reeled off' in these pages by a lamented and most
gifted kinsman of the 'Man in the Claret-colored Coat;' and there
are sundry 'scenes, events, and things' recorded in a way peculiar
to the writer, whose productions our readers have often laughed at,
with the fullest exercise of their cachinnatory powers. The terse
hieroglyphical epigraphs at the heads of the chapters have a world
of meaning, most likely; but they require study! Buy the little
book, and read it. It is both '_cheap_ and good.'


THE USE OF CLASSICAL LITERATURE.--We have only space to commend
warmly to the acceptance of our readers a little pamphlet from
the press of Messrs. JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY, Boston, containing
an Address delivered before the United Literary Societies of
Dartmouth College in July last, by ANDREW P. PEABODY, Esq. It is
a spirited defence of classical literature against the attacks of
those short-sighted persons, the utilitarian or other 'reformers'
of the time, who undervalue the advantages for which they offer
no equivalent. The writer's remarks upon the tendency of modern
literature, and of the taste for which it caters, are worthy of
heedful note.


MR. HILLARD'S DISCOURSE.--We have before us, from the publishers,
Messrs. LITTLE AND BROWN, Boston, 'The Relation of the Poet to his
Age: a Discourse delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of
Harvard University,' in August last, by GEORGE S. HILLARD. We agree
in the main with the verdict of the North-American Review upon this
discourse. Its diction is soft and beautiful, the style nicely
polished, and marked by pictured words, glowing images, and fanciful
expressions; yet, as a whole, the discourse 'lacks precision and
definiteness, in the statement of the leading idea in the mind of
the speaker, and a consequent defect of unity and method.' We would
go as far as Mr. HILLARD, or any other American, in inculcating a
love of, and reverence for, the poetical in our country; its early
struggles, its scenery, and its history as a nation; but with
deference, it seems to us that the Merimac _may_ fail to kindle
the emotions, in ever so patriotic a heart, which the associations
connected with the Tiber might naturally inspire; nor are
'Westminster Abbey, the Alps, or the Vatican,' to be excluded from
a kindred place in the mind of the true poet. We must be permitted
also to doubt whether 'SRUMFRY DAVY,' as Mr. YELLOWPLUSH terms the
great scientific discoverer, could have '_chosen_' to be equally
distinguished as a poet; or whether 'the whistle of a locomotive'
has in it, _per se_, much poetry! The 'Discourse' is executed with
great _neatness_, whether we regard it in a literary or external
point of view, and will be found richly to reward the perusal to
which we cordially commend it.


NORTH-AMERICAN REVIEW.--The last issue of this 'ancient and
honorable' Quarterly is a very good one, although less various
in the style of its papers than one or two of its immediate
predecessors. The 'articles' proper are nine in number, and are
upon the following themes: 'The Military Academy' at West-Point;
'Our Commercial History and Policy;' 'TALFOURD'S Miscellaneous
Writings;' 'Early Laws of Massachusetts;' 'RACZYNSKI'S Modern Art
in Germany;' 'The Independence of the Judiciary;' 'Autobiography
of STEFFENS;' 'Despatches of HERNANDO CORTES;' and 'Dr. OLIN'S
Travels in the Holy Land.' The closing article contains the usual
collection of brief notices of new publications, and opens with a
review of Mr. PARSON'S translation of DANTE'S 'Inferno.' We are glad
to find our own opinion of this excellent performance confirmed by
the liberal praise of the North-American. Passages are given from
CARY'S version, in contrast with that of Mr. PARSONS, and the palm
of superiority, in poetical merit, awarded to our countryman. The
poems of Friend WHITTIER are noticed with approbation; and also, in
one or two instances, rather hypercritically, as it strikes us. The
praise, however, is not scant: 'Mr. WHITTIER commands a vigorous and
manly style. His expression is generally simple and to the point.
Some passages in his poems are highly picturesque; and at times his
imagery is bold and striking.' 'The Norsemen,' written for this
Magazine, 'Raphael,' and 'Massachusetts to Virginia,' are pronounced
'musical, almost without fault; and the imagery and expression noble
and spirit-stirring.'


'COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!'--Poultry merchants and 'cultivators' will have
occasion to thank Mr. MICAJAH R. COCK (_nom de plume_) for his
'American Poultry Book,' a practical treatise on the management
of domestic poultry. It bears the high commendation of the Board
of Agriculture of the American Institute, as 'a work supplying
a deficiency which has long been felt in this department of the
agricultural library, and which should find a place in every
farm-house.' The book originated in an attempt, for the compiler's
behoof, to collect and embody in a methodical form all the various
notices respecting the treatment of poultry in America, scattered
through our various periodical publications. Scarcely any thing pays
the farmer a better profit than poultry, fowls requiring little
attention save at a season of the year when he has comparatively
little to do; they are 'amenable' also to the attention of women,
their best protectors indeed, in case the 'men-folk' _are_ employed.
HARPER AND BROTHERS, publishers.


THE 'ILLUSTRATED COMMON-PRAYER.'--Mr. H. W. HEWET has brought these
excellent numbers to a close, and a very beautiful volume will be
the result. The deserved success which has attended the work, we may
presume, has led the publisher to commence an '_Illustrated Sacred
History of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ_, as recorded in the
Four Gospels; arranged in chronological order; with an appendix and
explanatory notes.' The whole will be embellished with numerous
engravings on wood, illustrating the principal events from the
Annunciation to the Ascension. So far as the internal character
of the work is concerned, it is only necessary to say, that it is
confided to the competent care of the Rev. Dr. WAINWRIGHT, while
the previous publications of Mr. HEWET give assurance that his own
department will not be neglected.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's note:

Minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed.

Mismatched quotes are not fixed if it's not sufficiently clear where
the missing quote should be placed.

Page 452: "If it's deep glories prove untrue"-the transcriber has
changed "it's" to "its".

Page 469: "limitless in it's application"-"it's" changed to "its".

The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the
transcriber and is placed in the public domain.





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