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  THE

  Knickerbocker,

  OR

  [Illustration: writer sitting]

  NEW-YORK MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

  VOLUME XXII.

  NEW-YORK:
  PUBLISHED BY JOHN ALLEN, NASSAU-STREET.
  1843.




  Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year eighteen
    hundred and forty-three.
  BY JOHN ALLEN,
  In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District
    of New-York.




INDEX.


  A.

  An Epitaph. By JAMES ALDRICH, Esq., 44

  A Contrasted Picture, 60

  A Night on Lake Erie, By PETER VON GEIST, 241

  A New Version of an Old Fable, 244

  An Old Man's Reminiscence, 298

  A Dream of Childhood. By Mrs. J. WEBB, 342

  Anecdote of a Bottle of Wine. By JOHN WATERS, 343

  Anacreontic. From the Irish, 360

  An Evening Hymn. By Miss H. J. WOODMAN, 402

  An Aspiration: 'This, to Thee, LUCY,' 466

  Abbottsford Edition of the Waverley Novels, 479

  A Lover's Recollections, 575


  B.

  Byzantium. By the 'American Opium-Eater,' 516


  C.

  Ca et La. By the FLANEUR, 45, 143, 261

  Commentary on Proverbs. By 'POLYGON,' 119

  Classical Studies: Ancient Literature, etc., 174

  Change for the American Notes, 267

  Chronicles of the Past. By an American Antiquary, 291, 428


  D.

  Donna Florida. By W. G. SIMMS, Esq., 265

  Death, or Medorus' Dream. By ROBERT TYLER, Esq., 375


  E.

  EDITOR'S TABLE, 69, 176, 270, 378, 480, 587

  Early Writings of the late R. C. SANDS, 69, 176

  Epigram from the Greek of PLATO, 259

  Exercises at the Albany Female Academy, 377

  Elements of a Religious Character. By Rev. GEORGE E. ELLIS, 440


  F.

  Forget-Me-Not. By F. G. HALLECK, Esq., 48

  Forest Walks in the West, 222

  Fiorello's Fiddle-Stick, or the Musical Amateur, 329


  G.

  Gossip from an American Lady in Paris, 76

  GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS, 81, 182, 280, 384, 492, 592

  Greek Epitaphs and Inscriptions, By H. C. LEA, Esq., 97

  Great-Britain and America. Thoughts at Niagara, 194

  Green Spots in the City. By Mrs. M. E. HEWITT, 341

  Gleanings from the German. By WILLIAM PITT PALMER, Esq., 347

  GEORGE WASHINGTON, the Father of his Country, 445

  Grave Thoughts on Punch. By JOHN WATERS, 467


  H.

  Harp of the Vale: a Collection of Poems, 268

  Hope. From the German, 297

  Her Name. From the French of VICTOR HUGO, 469

  Heart Compensations, 567


  I.

  Impromptu on receiving a Rose-bud from a Lady, 142

  International Copy-right. By 'HARRY FRANCO,' 360

  Imaginary Conversations. By PETER VON GEIST, 530


  J.

  JEFFREY and GIFFORD _vs._ SHAKSPEARE and MILTON, 270


  L.

  Lines to Pleasure. From the German, 5

  LITERARY NOTICES, 66, 168, 265, 580

  Lays of my Home, and other Poems. By J. G. WHITTIER, 68

  Lines to New-England. By E. B. GREENE, Esq., 107

  Lines to a Canary-Bird. By JOHN WATERS, 158

  Lines on the Death of a Classmate, 346

  Lines to FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, Esq., 364

  Letters from New-York. By L. MARIA CHILD, 372

  Lines to October. By H. W. ROCKWELL, Esq., 421

  Lines to a Fayre Personne, etc. By JOHN WATERS, 452

  Lines to a Humming-Bird. By H. W. ROCKWELL, Esq., 472

  Life and Times of the late WILLIAM ABBOTT, Esq., 480, 590


  M.

  Mohawk: a Cluster of Sonnets, 25, 197

  Memorials: a Fragment, 65

  Memoir of the Croton Aqueduct, 67

  Miseries of Human Life, 79

  Mens Conscia Recti: a Tale of Idleberg, 108

  Meadow-Farm: a Tale of Association, 159, 228

  Mrs. ELLIS'S 'Poetry of Life,' 181

  Memoirs of Count ROSTOPTCHIN: Written in Ten Minutes, 357

  Manifestation of Mind in Animals, 414, 507

  Memoirs of the Court of England, 487


  N.

  No'th-East by East. By G. W. MANSFIELD, 146

  New-York City and State in the Olden Time, 371

  Nature's Monitions: a Fragment, 467

  Notes on the Drama, 488

  Nemah and Numan. From the Turkish, 519


  O.

  OLIN's Travels in Egypt and Arabia, 66

  Ode to Beauty. By a New Contributor, 226


  P.

  Poetical Epistle to THOMAS CARLYLE, 62

  Portuguese JOE. By Mrs. M. S. B. DANA, 118

  Poetical Epistle to EDWARD MOXON, London, 246

  Poetical Epistle to WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, Florence, 367

  Poems: by JAMES G. PERCIVAL, Esq., 381

  Prose and Poetical 'Writings' of CORNELIUS MATHEWS, 473

  Poets of Connecticut. By Rev. CHAS. W. EVEREST, 479


  R.

  Rev. JOHN NEWLAND MAFFITT: Letter from Boston, 380


  S.

  Sketches of South Carolina, 1

  Sabbath in the Country. By PETER VON GEIST, 26

  Sonnet to June. By HANS VON SPIEGEL, 45

  Stanzas to Woman, 128

  Song: The Self-Condemned, 167

  Stanzas to a Young Lady. By W. H. HERBERT, Esq., 196

  Sketches of Florida: Officer of the Night, 323
  Sketches of Last Night on Guard, 446
  Sketches of St. Augustine: The First Look, 560

  Sunset: The Dying Christian. By T. W. STOCKTON, Esq., 332

  Song of the Western Steamboat Men. By F. W. THOMAS, Esq., 333

  Sunday at Plymouth, Massachusetts, 436

  Seed of Contentment. From the German, 451

  Sonnet to the 'Buds of the Saranac,' 528

  Stanzas to Winter. By D. H BARLOW, 529
  Sonnet to the Rev. H. W. BELLOWS. By MARY E. HEWITT, 576


  T.

  The Trysting-Hour. By Mrs. R. S. NICHOLS, 7

  The Quod Correspondence, 8, 129, 250, 348, 453, 569

  The Fountain of Helicon: a Philosophical Research, 31

  The Devil-Tavern: a Tale of Tinnecum, 32

  The Mail-Robber, 61, 245, 365

  The Illustrated Common-Prayer, 68

  The Irish Sketch-Book, 78

  Thales of Paris. From the French,  151

  The Spanish Student. By H. W. LONGFELLOW,  173

  The Inferno of Dante. By T. W. PARSONS, 175

  The Washington Monument, 180

  The Innocence of a Galley-Slave, 198, 299

  The Lost Heart. By Mrs. J. WEBB, 219

  The Death of a Gentle Maiden: a Fantasy, 220

  The Maiden's Burial. By Mrs. H. J. WOODMAN, 240

  The Printer: a Sketch from Life, 260

  The Dying Student. By E. B. GREENE, 264

  The Count of Paris: a Sketch, 322

  The Lessons of Autumn, 329

  The 'Empire State' of New-York, 335

  The Season of Death, 356

  The Crowning-Hour. By CHARLES JAMES CANNON,  377

  The Mysteries of Paris,  378

  The Attaché. By SAM SLICK,  382

  Thoughts on Immortality,  395

  The Rich-Poor Man: or, the Secret of Contentment, 401

  The Doomed Ship. By ROBERT L. WADE, 403

  The DEITY. By Miss MARY GARDINER, 412

  The Influential Man: a Sketch of Tinnecum, 422

  The Broken Vow. By JAS. T. FIELDS, Esq., 427

  The Top of New-York, 437

  The Birth-Day. By R. S. CHILTON, Esq.,    439

  The Exile's Song, 440

  The Story of ABUL CASSIM'S Shoes. From the Turkish, 470

  The Dial, for the October Quarter, 486

  Thoughts at Trenton-Falls. By R. S. CHILTON, Esq.,  535

  The Midnight Dream.  By Mrs. R. S. NICHOLS,  536

  The Venus of Ille. From the French,  537

  The Old Man. A Ballad,  559

  The Meeting at Sea. By A. C. AINSWORTH, 568


  W.

  WINES, on the Civil Government of the Hebrews, 168

  WASHINGTON, a National Poem,  192

  Widows, 576




THE KNICKERBOCKER.

VOL. XXII. JULY, 1843. No. 1.

SKETCHES OF SOUTH-CAROLINA.

NUMBER FIVE.


IT was as beautiful an evening as a lover could ask, the second day
of April, 1842, that I bade my friend Dana good-bye, and started
in my sulky for a tour over the land of Nullification. I left
Charleston in the evening, that the wearisome task of crossing the
river might be over, and the earlier start upon my journey be made
the following morning. Tarrying at the house of a fine old planter
during the night, who amused me until nearly cock-crowing with his
long stories of revolutionary days, I arose, after a very slight
refreshment from sleep, and was on my way toward Georgetown an hour
before sunrise. It was a toilsome way enough, the road running
parallel with the sea-shore the whole distance of sixty miles, just
far enough inland never to catch a glimpse of the water, and leading
you over a dreary pine barren, where neither house, cultivated
field, nor flowing streamlet occurred to divert your attention for
the whole day. It was pleasant enough at first to feel one's self
alone in those boundless forests of pine; and for an hour or two of
the early morning I was sufficiently amused by the novel sight of
some young alligator splashing into the water from the road-side,
as the noise of my wheels awoke him from his siesta, or of a huge
moccasin darting away beneath the dense reeds and lily-pads of the
swamp, or of the ever-varying, myriad-toned music of the mocking
birds who filled the air with their melody. But by degrees, as the
sun began to rise above the trees, and the heavens to assume that
brazen face which characterizes a southern sky, the never-changing
scenery about me grew dull and wearisome, and I found myself looking
forward in the hope of finding some place by the roadside where my
horse might slake his thirst. No such place, however, appeared; on
and onward we jogged over that apparently unending level of creaking
sand, without one sign of human industry or human life. As matters
began to grow serious, and my weary steed to manifest symptoms of
dissatisfaction which could not be mistaken, a kind Providence sent
a fellow-being along my path, in the shape of the most hideous,
tattered, and wo-begone negro I had ever seen--my first specimen of
a plantation servant. The poor fellow's face and garments, however,
sadly belied him; for upon my salutation of 'Boy, good morning; can
you tell me where I can find water for my horse?' he touched his
rimless hat and most civilly replied:

'Oh, yes, Massa! dere is fine water just back ob you!'

'Back of me?' I replied. 'Strange I did not see it!' and turning my
horse to retrace the path, the negro discovered my greenness, and
laughing, said:

'Why, Massa, you 'ab no bucket to water de horse!'

'Bucket?' I inquired in astonishment! 'Bucket? What do you mean,
boy? What _do_ you mean?'

The poor fellow could scarcely contain his gravity, while he
replied, pointing to the bottom of the sulky: 'Sure, Massa 'ab no
bucket! Massa no bin long in Carolina to tink water he horse widout
bucket! Every body hab bucket on he carriage in Carolina!'

Here was indeed a perplexity of which I had never dreamed, and to
extricate myself from which more than surpassed my share of even
Yankee shrewdness. I could not think of driving fourteen long miles
back to my morning resting-place in the heat of that torrid sun,
nor of going forward the twelve miles to my first stopping place on
the Georgetown road; and yet, from all the information I could gain
from the negro, these seemed the only conditions upon which horse
or driver were ever again to meet with the proprieties of civilized
existence. In utter despair I looked up to my informer, with a
respect I had never bestowed upon tattered garments before, and
asked: 'Boy, what _am_ I to do?'

'Don' know, Massa! Neber see a carriage wid'out bucket afore! Don'
know, Massa!'

Though my informant had hitherto evidently been greatly amused at
my perplexity, the despair of my countenance, or his pity for the
jaded beast, now awakened his sympathies; and after scratching his
head--a manipulation which the negro invariably performs when he is
in trouble--he suddenly rolled the whites of his great eyes up to
me and said with quickness, 'Me tink now, Massa! Me tink how Massa
water he horse!' and plunging into the woods, presently returned
with his _hat_ filled with water. It was a capital thought, and the
promptitude of its execution would have done honor to a Connecticut
pedler. My dilemma was over; the negro's hat of water was a goblet
of ambrosia to my steed; and the tattered son of Ham became in my
eyes fair as a messenger of the gods.

Between the Ashly and Santee rivers, a distance of more than
thirty miles, there are upon the main thoroughfare but three
dwelling-houses. Upon the banks of the latter, one begins first to
see something of the wealth of the Carolina rice-plantations. For
many miles up and down the North and South Santee rivers, which
are here separated but a single mile, are cultivated those deep,
rich bottoms, annually flowed and inexhaustible in resource, which
are the glory of the State. The lordly owners of these manors pass
the winter months in superintending the affairs of the homesteads,
gathering about them all those luxuries which minister to ease and
pleasure, of which none better understand the value, or select with
more taste, than do these descendants of king Charles's cavaliers,
and entering with a zeal and alacrity into those rural sports which
are the zest and glory of a southern country life. Finer horsemen,
more skilled marksmen, on the plain or in the forest, hardier frames
for pugilistic feats, or a quicker eye and prompter hand for a game
at fence, the world cannot produce. They are generally men also of
liberal learning and generous dispositions; frank, hospitable, and
courteous; and, bating a tithe of that hot-blood chivalry upon which
they are too apt to pride themselves, noble and humane in all their
impulses.

One marks every where at the South the eminently kind relations
which exist between master and servant. To every man born and bred
upon the plantation, the negro seems essential, in a thousand
respects with which a northerner can have no sympathy. I saw nothing
of what we call prejudice against color in all my travels. In
infancy the same nurse gives food and rest to her own child and to
her master's; in childhood the same eye watches and the same hand
alternately caresses and corrects them; they mingle their sports in
boyhood; and through youth up to manhood there are ties which link
them to each other by an affinity that no time or circumstances
can destroy. An illiterate, rough planter, who was by no means
remarkable for the kindness he showed his servants, said to me one
day: 'I travelled last summer all over Iowa territory, and I didn't
see a nigger in two months. To be sure I felt kind o' badly, but it
couldn't be helped; so I made the best of it, thinking all the time
I should be home again bye and bye. Well, Sir, I got back again as
far as Zanesville in 'Hio, where there was a gineral muster and a
heap of people; and pretty soon I heard a banjo; thinks I, there's
some of _our folks_, I know; and sure enough there was two niggers
and a wench going it powerful; and the way I went up to 'em and got
hold of their hands, and says I, 'How are you, my good fellows? how
are you, girl?' and the way I shook and they shook, was a caution to
abolitionists, I tell you?'

Georgetown _District_ is the wealthiest portion of the State; but
a more miserable collection of decayed wood domicils and filthy
beer shops than are clustered together to make up the _town_, it
would be difficult to find. Indeed, unlike the free States, the
wealth of the South lies almost entirely in the country; the towns,
unless Charleston form an exception, being made up of artizans and
traders. The historical associations of Georgetown District are of
great interest; and many of the localities, rendered famous by feats
of valor during the war of our Revolution, are still pointed out.
An old soldier, whom I met by accident at the ferry-house on the
banks of the Pedee, conducted me to the spot where General Marion
invited the British officer to dinner--a scene immortalized by
the pencil of White. Marion had long contended against the enemies
of his country at fearful odds, and though the poverty and daily
diminution of his troops were not known to the British, yet to
himself, through the whole of the first campaign in South Carolina,
they were sources of great disquietude and alarm. He managed,
however, by celerity of movement and a perfect knowledge of the
country to keep the enemy's forces in constant fear, and now and
then to obtain over detached bodies of troops a signal victory. It
was after one of these sudden dashes upon a foraging party whom
the British colonel had sent into the country, in which Marion had
been even more successful than usual, that an officer was sent to
his camp with a flag of truce to propose an exchange of prisoners.
Marion received him in the woods, negotiated the terms upon which
the exchange should be made, passed the writings necessary for the
purpose, and, after concluding all the preliminaries, invited the
officer to dine with him. The invitation was accepted, and Marion,
leading the way still farther into the forest, took his seat upon a
log near which a watch-fire was burning, and invited the officer to
do the same. Presently a negro appeared, and, raking open the ashes,
uncovered a batch of roasted potatoes, which he presented upon a
board, first to the stranger, and then to his master. No apologies
were offered for the meagre fare, and after the dinner was over, the
officer departed with his flag. It is said that upon regaining his
own lines, he forthwith threw up his commission, on the ground that
it was hopeless to contend with an enemy who required no shelter but
that of the forest trees, and no food but roasted potatoes.

As you advance inland from Georgetown, and begin to enter the
cotton country, the scenery is completely changed. The huge live
oaks, draperied with moss, the peculiar characteristic of the
sickly lowlands, all disappear, and with them depart nearly all the
evidences of wealth or taste or refinement. Instead of princely
mansions surrounded by old parks and highly cultivated plantations,
one sees nothing but low, piazza'd domicils, in fields bare of
vegetation, and the appendage of miserable hovels scattered at short
distances here and there for the field-hands. In the low country
the rank growth upon the marshes affords some compensation for the
want of green fields of grass; but in the up country every shade of
greenness is lost in the interminable red clay-fields which spread
out every where around you. It was new to me that the upland grasses
could not be cultivated below Virginia, but so it is. Every where,
by the road side, in the court-yard, over the fenced fields, and in
the forest, the bosom of mother earth is bared before you; and to
one accustomed to the green mantle with which she robes herself in
New England, the sight is almost shocking. Equally so was another
sight, with which, however, I soon became familiar, but which at
the outset startled my sense of decency to a degree; I refer to the
nudity of the young negroes. Up to ten and eleven years of age,
the colored children of both sexes run about entirely naked; and
in the more secluded plantations they may be seen at even a later
age, without a fig-leaf of covering to their jetty limbs. I beg my
friends, the abolitionists, will not set this down as a new instance
of the cruelty of the masters, as I had repeated and indubitable
evidence of its being a habit of such determinate choice upon the
part of the children, as to defy every effort to break it up. That
it manifests the state of utter degradation to which the slaves are
reduced, I do not deny; for every where, in lowland and highland,
country and city, nothing is more evident than the mental and moral
degradation of the negro.

As the value of the lands and the wealth of the inhabitants
decrease, while you journey toward the back country, so also does
the intelligence of the people. I never met in my whole life with
so many white persons who could neither read nor write, who had
never taken a newspaper, who had never travelled fifty miles from
home, or who had never been to the house of God, or heard a sentence
read from his Holy Word, as I found in a single season in South
Carolina. Like the inhabitants of Nineveh, many of them could not
discern between the right hand and the left. What wonder then that
the hosts of Yankee pedlers, until driven out by the sumptuary
laws, fattened upon the land! 'What do you think I gave for that?'
asked an ignorant planter in Sumpter district, while pointing to a
Connecticut wooden clock which stood upon a shelf in the corner of
the room. 'I don't know,' was my answer; 'twenty dollars, or very
likely twenty-five!' '_Twenty-five dollars_, stranger!' replied the
planter; 'why, what do you mean? Come, guess fair, and I'll tell
you _true_!' I answered again, that twenty-five dollars was a high
price for such a clock, as I had often seen them sold for a quarter
of that sum. The man was astonished. 'Stranger,' said he, 'I gave
one hundred and forty-four dollars for that clock, and thought I got
it cheap at that! Let me tell you how it was. We had always used
sundials hereabout, till twelve or fourteen years ago, when a man
came along with clocks to sell. I thought at first I wouldn't buy
one, but after haggling about the price for a while, he agreed to
take sixteen dollars less than what he asked, for his selling price
was one hundred and sixty dollars; and as I had just sold my cotton
at thirty-four cents, I concluded to strike the bargain. It's a
powerful clock, but I reckon I gave a heap of money for it!'

In fact, during those years when the staples of Carolina sold
for nearly thrice their intrinsic value, and wealth flowed in
an uninterrupted stream through every channel of industry, the
plantations of the South became the legitimate plunder of Yankee
shrewdness. It was no meeting of Greek with Greek in the contest
of wits, but a perfect inrush of shrewd, disciplined tacticians
in the art of knavery, upon a stupid and ignorant population. The
whole country was flooded with itinerant hawkers. There is scarcely
an article in the whole range of home manufactures upon which
fortunes were not made during those times of inflated prices of the
southern staple products. Through the mountain passes of Buncombe
county there flowed a stream of pedlers' carts, wagons, carry-alls,
and arks, which inundated the land. Indeed, so great at length
became the evil, and so overmatched in the contest of wits were the
planters of the uplands, that the legislature passed laws forbidding
a Yankee pedler to enter the State.

It is this deplorable ignorance, which is prevalent over a large
portion of South Carolina, that constitutes the most insuperable
obstacle to the removal of slavery. Among the more wealthy and
intelligent of the population, juster sentiments prevail in regard
to that great evil; but their opinions and wishes are greatly
overbalanced by the masses of the middling classes. They, wedded
to the customs of their fathers beyond all hope of improvement;
vegetators upon the soil cleared and prepared by their ancestors;
ignorant, idle, and overbearing; driven by thriftless modes of
agriculture, and the impoverishing system of slave-labor, to
penurious economy, and scouting every suggestion of manual toil as
servile and degrading; _they_ compose the great barrier around the
institution of negro servitude, which the tide of public sentiment
never reaches, and which the advancing intelligence of other
portions of the world cannot soon affect. To them, hedged in by the
antiquated prejudices of a barbarous age, alike unfitted to know
and unwilling to receive the new truths of humanity and religion,
the negro seems the connecting link between man and the brute. Of
their own origin and destiny they know and care little; of him who
toils for them, less; and it is vain to hope, until the States
between them and the free people of the North shall have broken
down the system which curses alike the owner and his soil, that the
intelligence of an independent and virtuous people can ever reach
them.

In these Sketches, which are now brought to a close, I have
endeavored to represent the condition of South Carolina as I saw it.
Of slavery I have said what I believe, and of its white population
what I know to be true. There, as elsewhere in a world tainted by
evil, injustice too often embitters the cup of life. But it is not
the slave only, bending to his irksome task, nor he who toils under
the heat of a southern sky alone, who drains it to its dregs. The
chalice is commended to the lips every where. And deeply has the
writer drank, from the hands of those who profess to be guided
by the divine precepts of Christ, banded as they were to subvert
oppression and wrong in southern institutions, a draft of injustice
more poisonous than the bitterest potion of slavery.




TO PLEASURE.


    LIST a mortal's guest, sweet Pleasure!
      Why so fleeting, answer, pray?
    Lost as soon as found, thy treasure!
      None can thy dear presence stay.

    Thank thou Fate, she cried, whose minions,
      All the gods, love me alone;
    Were I fashioned without pinions,
      They would keep me for their own!

  W. P. P.




THE TRYSTING HOUR.

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.


I.

    BESIDE my casement's trailing vines,
      By meditation led,
    I sit, when Sleep his pinion waves
      Above each drooping head:
    When all the shadowy forms that haunt
      The bright abodes on high,
    Steal softly forth, in silvery troops
      From chambers of the sky.

II.

    As down the midnight air they float
      Upon celestial cars,
    I turn me to a steady light
      That gleams among the stars;
    A prophet-light it is to me,
      And shadows forth the hour
    That calls my spirit there to meet
      A seraph in its bower.

III.

    Beside my casement still _I_ sit,
      When goes my _spirit_ forth,
    With waving plume, and rustling wing,
      Up toward the blazing North:
    While solemnly the stars look down,
      And solemnly they seem
    To shed a fair and brilliant light
      On this, my waking dream.

IV.

    And high each everlasting hill
      Lifts up its crownéd head,
    Like some tall, stately cenotaph
      For nations of the dead!
    The broad, blue river rolls as free
      As waters in that clime
    Which bends above these waves, that flow
      Like some subduing rhyme.

V.

    Beside my casement's trailing vines
      The zephyr finds me still,
    When matin-hymns are gushing forth
      From bird, and bee, and rill;
    For not until the morning star,
      That herald of the dawn,
    Has flashed upon the eastern skies,
      Are my sad eyes withdrawn.

VI.

    I weary of the brilliant day,
      The warm, sunshiny air.
    And cling unto the solemn night,
      When nature kneels at prayer;
    For then my spirit wanders forth,
      With a resistless power,
    And, with its kindred spirit, holds
      The midnight Trysting-Hour.




THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.


CHAPTER NINTH.


IN the same room which has been already described, in Harry
Harson's dwelling, and in one of the stout, plethoric chairs before
mentioned as constituting a part of its furniture, and beneath the
superintendence of the busy clock, and under the watchful eye of
that respectable dog Spite, sat Jacob Rhoneland, with his elbow
resting on the table, his cheek leaning on the palm of his hand, and
his eyes half shaded by his long blanched locks, listening with deep
anxiety to Harson, who occupied a chair opposite, and was speaking
with an earnestness which showed that the subject on which he
discoursed was one in which he felt no slight interest.

The manner of old Rhoneland would have attracted the notice of even
a casual observer. He seemed restless and nervous; and at times even
frightened. Occasionally he smiled faintly, and shaking his head,
half rose from his seat, but sat down, scarcely conscious of what
he did; and leaning his forehead on the palm of his hand, seemed
to listen with breathless attention, as if dreading to lose a word
of Harson's remarks, which were occasionally strengthened by his
pressing his hand gently on Rhoneland's, as it rested on the table.
At last, Harson, in conclusion, said in an earnest tone: 'Now tell
me, Jacob, on your honor, do you love her?'

'Do I love her?' repeated Rhoneland; 'do I love my own little Kate,
who slept in my arms when a child, and who, now that she has become
quite a woman, and I am gray, and feeble, and broken down, still
clings to me? Others found me a querulous, troublesome old man,
and fell away from me; but she never did. Don't ask me if I love
her, Harry, don't ask _that_ again,' said he, shaking his head, and
looking reproachfully at Harson. 'Do I think of any one else, or
care for any one else? Dead and frosty as this old heart is, she has
the whole of it; and she deserves it; God bless her! God bless her!
It's not a little matter that would make me forget Kate.'

The old man raised his head; and his eye lighted up with an
expression of pride, as he thought of his child. It was transient,
and as it passed off he seemed to be absorbed in deep thought; and
sat for some time with his eye resting on a small speck of blue sky
which looked cheerily in at the open window. What strange things
peopled those few moments of thought; for each moment in the memory
of the old is teeming with phantoms of hopes and dreams, which once
crowded about them; familiar things, part of themselves, of their
very being, but now melted into air; faded and gone, they cannot
tell when or whither; and of faces and forms long since shrouded
in the tomb. And in the dim fancy of age, in faint whispers,
speak voices whose tones are never to be heard again; awakening
old affections for those at rest, subdued indeed by time, but yet
unextinguished, and slumbering in hidden corners of memory, and
appealing to the heart of the living, and begging still to be
cherished there. Rhoneland sighed as he turned his eyes from the
window, and looked down at his withered hands. 'They were not so
when Kate was a child. He was far from young, even then, but not
so old and shattered as now. Kate's mother was living too; she was
much younger than he was; and he had hoped that she would have
outlived him; but he had followed her to the grave, and he was left
alone with his little girl.' His lip quivered; for he remembered
her watchful kindness; her patience; the many marks of affection
which had escaped her, showing that he was always uppermost in her
thoughts; and that amid all other occupations, she never forgot
him. They were trifling indeed; perhaps unnoticed at the time; but
he missed them when she was in her grave, and they came no more.
She had begged him to cherish and guard their child when she should
be gone, and there would be none to love her but him. Had he done
so? Ay! with heart and soul; with heart and soul,' muttered he,
rising and walking across the room, to conceal the working of his
countenance, and the tears which started in his eyes.

'Oh Harry!' said he, turning to Harson, 'if you knew all, you
wouldn't ask if I love Kate. She's every thing to me now. All are
gone but her; all--all!'

He returned, and seated himself, with a deep sigh. His lips moved
as if he were speaking, though no sound escaped them; but after a
moment he said: 'It's all that I can do for one who's dead.'

'I _do_ believe that your child is dear to you, Jacob; I never
doubted it,' said Harson; but there is another question which I must
ask. 'Have you observed her of late? Have you noticed her drooping
eye, her want of spirits, and failing strength?'

Rhoneland moved restlessly in his chair, and then answered: 'No, no,
Harry, you're jesting. Kate's eye is bright, and her cheek full and
round; her step elastic and firm. I watch _that_, Harson. Oh! Harry,
you don't dream how anxiously I watch her. Her life is mine; her
heart's blood is _my_ heart's blood. She's in no danger, no danger,
Harry,' said he, taking Harson's hand between his, and looking
appealingly in his face. 'Is she in any danger? Don't deceive me. Is
any thing the matter with her?'

'No, not just now,' replied Harson. 'But suppose you should see her
becoming thin, and her looks and health failing; and even though she
should not die, suppose her young heart was heavy, and her happiness
destroyed--and by you?'

The old man looked at Harson with a troubled, wistful eye, as he
said: 'Well, Harry, well; I 'm old--very old; don't trifle with me,
I can't bear it. What do you mean? Is Kate ill?'

'No, not exactly _ill_,' replied Harson, much at a loss how to
introduce his subject. 'Suppose, in short, that she should fall in
love, some day--for young girls _will_ do these things--and suppose
that the young fellow was a noble, frank-hearted boy, like--like Ned
Somers, for instance--would you thwart her? I only say _suppose_ it
to be Somers.'

'Kate doesn't think of these things,' said the old man, in a
querulous tone. 'She's a child; a mere child. It will be time enough
to talk of them years hence. God help me!' muttered he, pressing
his hands together, 'Can it be that _she_, my own little Kate, will
desert me? I'll not believe it! She's but a child, Harry; _only_ a
child.'

'Kate is nearly eighteen, Jacob,' replied Harson, 'and quite a woman
for her years. She's beautiful, too. I pretend to no knowledge of
women's hearts, nor of the precise age at which they think of other
things than their dolls; but were I a young fellow, and were such a
girl as Kate Rhoneland in my neighborhood, I should have been over
head and ears in love, months ago.'

Jacob Rhoneland folded his hands on the table, and leaned his head
upon them, without speaking, until Harson said, after the lapse of
some minutes, 'Come, Jacob, what ails you?'

Without making any reply to this question, Rhoneland sat up, and
looking him full in the face, asked, in a sad tone: 'Do you think,
Harry, that Kate, my own child, has turned her back upon me, and
given her heart to a stranger? And do you think that she will desert
her father in his old age, and leave him to die alone?'

'Come, come, Rhoneland, this is too bad,' said Harson; 'this is mere
nonsense. If the girl _should_ happen to cast a kind glance at Ned,
Ned's a fine fellow; and if Ned should happen to think that Kate had
not her equal among all whom he knew, he would be perfectly right.
And then if, in the course of time, they should happen to carry
matters farther, and get married, I don't see why you should take it
to heart, or should talk of desertion, and dying alone. I'll warrant
you Ned is not the man to induce a girl to abandon her friends. No,
no; he's too true-hearted for that.'

'Well, well,' said the old man, rising and gazing anxiously about
him, 'God grant that it may never happen. It will be a sad day for
me when it does. I'd rather be in my grave. I cannot tell you all;
but if you knew what _I_ do, perhaps you'd think so too. Indeed you
would, Harry. There's one who knows more about Somers than either
you or I; much that's bad, _very_ bad. I can't tell his name.'

'I know it already,' replied Harson: 'Michael Rust.'

'Ha!' ejaculated Rhoneland, in a faint voice, his cheek growing
ghastly pale; 'You know Michael Rust, do you?'

'I know something of him, and but little in his favor. What he says
against Somers is not worth thinking of. Let him clear his own name.
Perhaps he may be called on to do it some day, and may find it no
easy matter. And now, my old friend,' said he, taking Rhoneland by
the hand, 'since we have spoken of this Rust, let me caution you
against him. Listen to no tales of his respecting Kate, or Ned, or
any one else. Beware of all connection with him. Above all, give him
no hold on yourself; for if you _do_, depend on it, you'll rue it.
I've made inquiries about him; and you may rest assured that I do
not speak unadvisedly.'

Rhoneland had risen to go; but as Harson spoke he sank feebly in his
chair, and buried his face in his hands, his long hair falling over
them, and shrouding them and it from view; but no sound of emotion
escaped him; although Harson could see that he trembled violently,
and that there was a great internal struggle going on. At last he
said: 'It's very hard, Harry, to feel, that you are in the power
of a man who would not hesitate to sacrifice even your life to his
own ends; and yet to know that it must be so; that, hate and loathe
as you may, your fate is linked with his, and that he and you must
sink or swim together. But so it is, God help me! a poor, bewildered
old man! Oh! Harry, could I but die; with none to molest me, or see
me, but my own dear child; with no one to haunt my death-bed, and
torture me; and threaten me and _her_; and could I but know that
when I am gone she at least will be happy, I'd _do_ it, Harry, I'd
do it! Life is not to me what it once was. It's dull enough, now.'

'And who is this who has such power over you?' inquired Harson,
placing his hand on his shoulder; 'Come, be frank with me, Jacob;
who is it? Is it Michael Rust?'

Rhoneland started up, looked suspiciously about the room, and said
in a quick, husky voice: 'Did I say it was Rust? I'm sure I did
_not_, Harry. Oh! no, not Rust. He's a noble, generous fellow; so
frank, and free, and bold. Oh! no, _not_ Rust; he's my best friend.
I wouldn't offend Rust, nor thwart him, nor cross his path, nor even
look coldly on him. Oh! no, no, no! Don't speak of him. I don't
like to talk of him. Let's speak of something else; of yourself, or
Ned, or Kate--of Kate, my own dear little Kate. She's a noble girl,
Harry, is she not? Ha! ha! _that_ she is!' and the old man laughed
faintly, drew a deep sigh, and turned abruptly away.

'Harry,' said he, after a pause, 'Will you make me a promise?'

'If it is one which a man may honestly keep, I will,' replied Harson.

'When I am dead will you be a father to Kate?--love her as I have
loved her--no, no that you cannot--but _love_ her you _can_, and
will; and above all,' said he, sinking his voice, 'let no evil tales
respecting her father be whispered in her ear; let her believe that
he was all that was virtuous and good. It's an honest fraud, Harry,
a deceit without sin in it, and I know you'll do it; for when I'm
in my grave, her heart will be the last hold I shall have on earth.
When the dead are swept from memory, too, the earth is lost to them
indeed. Will you promise, Harry?'

'I will,' said Harson; 'as my own child, will I guard her from all
harm.'

'That's all; and now, God bless you! I've lingered here too long.
Don't forget your promise. I feel happier for it, even now.'

Jacob Rhoneland, however, was not doomed to reach his home in the
same frame of mind in which he then was; for he had not gone a great
distance from Harson's house, when a voice whose tones sent the
blood rushing to his heart, exclaimed: 'Ha, Jacob! my old friend
Jacob! It makes my heart dance to see you walking so briskly, as if
old age and the cares of life left no mark upon you. You're a happy
man, Jacob.'

Rhoneland started; for in front of him, bowing, and smirking, and
rubbing his hands together, stood Michael Rust, his eyes glowing
and glittering, with a glee that was perfectly startling. Rhoneland
muttered something of its being a fine day, and of the pleasant
weather, which had tempted him abroad, and then stopped abruptly.

'You acted unwisely, my friend, very unwisely, in being from home
at such a moment,' said Rust, 'for I just came from there; and
such doings, Jacob! such plots! such contrivances! such intrigues,
and love-making, and billing, and cooing, and whispering! and such
conspiracies against old dad! Not that I believe little Kate has any
thing to do with it. Oh, no! but she's young, and Ned Somers is--no
matter what. _I_ know what he is; and others know too. But I never
make mischief, nor meddle. _I_ say nothing against him. No! he's a
noble fellow--very noble; so open and candid! Ha! ha! ha! I hope
you won't go to your house some day and find your daughter flown,
and with _him_; and I hope if it _is_ with him, that it will be to
the church; that's all--that's all. Good-bye, Jacob; I'm in a vast
hurry,' said he, bustling off, as if recollecting some important
engagement. 'Dear me! I've lost a world of time. Good-bye, good-bye.
If you should happen to get home soon, you'll surprise them both.'

As he went off, he turned back, and muttered to himself: 'I've sown
the seeds of suspicion in his heart against his own child. _Let_ him
hate her, if needs be; and let him think her the vilest of the vile.
It will favor my ends.'

The old man stood for a long time where Rust had left him, with his
hands clasped, looking about him with a bewildered air. He seemed
like one stunned by some heavy and overpowering blow. He took one
or two steps, tottering as he went, and then leaned feebly against
a house. The words 'my child! my child!' once or twice escaped him,
in a low, moaning tone; he passed his fingers over the buttons
of his coat, unconsciously twitching and jerking them; he looked
on the pavement, and seemed endeavoring to regain some train of
thought which had passed through his mind; and then shaking his
head, as if disappointed at his want of success, scarcely knowing
what he did, he commenced counting the cracks in the bricks. A
few small stones were lying on the sidewalk, and he went to them,
and idly kicked them off, one by one: his thoughts wandered from
one subject to another, until he began to watch the smoke, as it
escaped from the chimneys of the houses opposite. Some was dark and
brown, and some blue and bright, and circled upward, until it and
the sky became one; while the other floated off, a dark lowering
mass, as long as he could see it. People were passing in various
directions; and he wondered whither they were going, and how many
there were; he commenced counting them; he made a mistake; he had
got to twenty, when three or four passed together; so he wiped the
score from his memory, and commenced afresh. At last a man jostled
him, as he stood, and told him to get out of the way, and not to
occupy the whole walk. This recalled him to himself; and he set out
for home. As he went on, the recollection of what Rust had told
him again crossed his mind; and his feeling of indifference gave
place to one of fierce excitement. With his teeth hard set, his
eyes flashing fire, his long hair streaming in the wind, his step
rapid, yet tottering and irregular, and with an expression of bitter
anger mingled with intense mental anguish on every line of his
face, he bent his steps toward his own house. It was a bright day,
and the warm sunshine was sleeping on roof and wall; on cellar and
house-top, warming many a sad heart; lighting up many a heavy eye,
and calling forth all that is happy and joyous in earth and man.
Strange was it! that under such a sky, with such a glad world about
him, an old man, hanging over the grave, should dare to utter curses
and imprecations against his fellow man. Yet such was the tenor of
his words:

'Curses on them! curses on them!' muttered he; 'the false ones!
When I was striving like a very beast of burden, yielding body and
soul to torments, for her sake, to play me false! It was bitter,
but it was human. Whenever troubles thicken about a man; when he
is blighted and crushed to the earth; when his heart is bruised
and bleeding, and yearns for the love and sympathy of those about
him; when a mild word, a kind look, are of more worth than gold or
jewels, _then_ friends drop off. Suffering and trouble drive off
friends, like a pestilence. I was in drivelling dotage, to think
that _she_ would be aught else than the rest of them. What though I
did give her life, and fondle her on my knee in infancy; and hang
over her when she slept; and pray, come what might to me, that she
might be happy? What though I did cherish and protect her, and love
her, when this old heart was warped against all the rest of the
world, until every fibre of it was entwined with hers; until every
thought was for her; and how I should plot, and plan, and contrive
to preserve the accumulations of a hard life, so that when the earth
covered me, she might live luxuriously, and think kindly of me?
What though I did all this? I became in her way; for I had gold,
and she wanted it! That's it! Oh! what a fool I was,' continued he,
bitterly, 'to imagine that she would prove true, when all others
have proved false; and that gratitude would bind her to me, so that
when I should become decrepid, and so that I could not totter about,
but must mope out the remnant of my life, like a chained prisoner,
that she would be near me, with her bright face and cheerful voice;
and would cheer me up; and would tell me that I had watched over her
childhood; and that she loved me for it. Happy dreams they were!'
said he, mournfully; 'happy dreams! Ah, Kate! my own little child!
you should not have forgotten your old father; indeed you should
not. But no, no!' he added, checking himself, 'it could not have
been _her_; I'll not believe it. It was not her--poor child; she
never did harm in her life. She was always good tempered, and kind,
and patient. I have tried her patience sadly. As my faculties desert
me, and my mind becomes feebler, I grow more and more peevish, and
I want her more and more. Oh, no! she must not leave me--she must
not. I'll go to her, and kneel to her, and pray to her not to turn
me off. I am too old now to find a new friend. I'll beg her to stay
with me until I die. I'll not live long, now, to trouble her; and
perhaps she will bear with me till then; she must not go; oh, no!
she must not. _Go_,' muttered he, his mood changing, and his eyes
beginning to flash; 'go where? with Somers? with Somers! Can it
be that he has been all this while scheming to rob me of her? Go
with Somers? with Ned Somers? _He_ said he hoped it would be to the
church. What _did_ he mean? what could he mean? But I'll soon know,'
said he, hurrying on; 'I'll soon know!'

Impetuous the old man had always been, though age had in a great
measure subdued his spirit; but now the recollection of Rust's words
lashed him into fury; and when he reached his house, he dashed into
it without pausing to reflect what he should say, or how he should
act. He flung the door open; and, as if to justify the very tale of
Michael Rust, there stood Kate, with her hand in Ned's, and her head
resting against his shoulder.

'Ha! ha! taken! taken!' shouted the old man, with a kind of frenzied
glee; 'taken in the very act! Plotting treason! plotting treason! It
was a glorious conspiracy, was it not, Ned Somers? to steal into a
man's house, and, under the garb of friendship, to endeavor to wean
away his child, and to carry her off? Oh! how some men can fawn!
what open, frank faces they can have! how they can talk of love,
and honor, and generosity! what friendly smiles they can wear! And
yet, Ned, these very men are lying, and all the while the Devil is
throned in their hearts, and sits grinning there!'

Somers stared at him in undisguised astonishment; for he was fully
convinced that the old man had lost his reason; and under that
impression he placed himself between him and Kate, lest in his fury
he should injure her.

This movement did not escape Rhoneland. 'Good God!' said he, raising
his clasped hands to heaven, 'he already keeps me from my child!
Shall this be? Out of my house! out of my house!' shouted he,
advancing toward him, and shaking his fist.

'Never,' returned Somers, 'until I am convinced that you will not
harm your daughter.'

'_I_ harm her! _I_ harm her!' repeated Rhoneland. 'God of heaven!
what black-hearted villains there are! The very man who would by
false oaths and protestations decoy her from her own hearth, and
when she had deserted all for him, would cast her off, a branded
thing, without name or fame, he, _he_ talks of protecting her from
her own father! No, no, Ned Somers,' he said, in a voice of bitter
calmness, 'you may go; I'll not harm her.'

His words had given Somers a clue to the cause of his conduct; and
pale as death, but with a calm face, he said, 'Will you hear me, Mr.
Rhoneland?'

'Hear you! Have I not heard you and believed you? Ay, I _have_. I
was in my dotage; and you too, Kate, you listened and believed, did
you not? Ah! girl, girl! a serpent charmed in Eden! But it's past
now. I'll love you, Kate, though he do not. They said that gold was
my God. They said that for gold I would barter everything; but they
didn't know me. _He_ told you so too, Kate, did he not?--he told you
that I'd sell you for _that_. He whispered tales of your father in
your ear, until you became a renegade at heart; and _you_, my own
child, plotted with a stranger to desert your home. _He_ told you
that he loved you; and would make you his wife; did he not? Poor
child! poor child! God help her! she knows no better! Ned Somers,'
said he, turning to the young man, 'you must leave this house, and
come here no more. My daughter is all I have to bind me to life, and
I cannot spare her. You must go elsewhere to spread your web. For
your vile designs upon her, may God forgive you--I never will!'

'Jacob Rhoneland,' said Somers, 'I have borne more from you than I
would have taken from any other man. You are not now in a state to
listen to reason, nor perhaps am I able just now to offer it; but
you have said _that_ of me which I should be false to myself not to
answer; and which I declare to be utterly untrue. I _do_ love your
daughter; and love her well and honestly; and I would like to see
the man, excepting yourself, who dare say otherwise. Some one has
been lying to you; and can I but find him out, he shall pay for it.
_You_, Kate, don't believe it?' said he, turning to the girl, who
stood by, with blanched cheek, and the tears in her eyes.

'No, no, Ned; I do not; nor will father, when he's calm,' said she,
taking the old man's hand. 'Some person has been slandering you to
him; but he'll get over it soon.'

Rhoneland drew his hand hastily from her, and turning to Ned, said:
'Leave the house! I have already told you to do so. Will you wait
until you are thrust from it? Begone, I say!'

'Go, go, Ned, for _my_ sake!' exclaimed Kate, pushing him toward the
door. 'He'll never be right while you are here. Go, _dear_ Ned, go.'

'I can't go before I've told your father how matters stand.'

'No matter for that now,' said Kate, earnestly; 'I'll make all
right; go, go!'

Half pushing, half persuading him, she finally induced him to leave
the house.

'Friend Ned seems in a hurry,' said a voice in his ear, when he
had gone but a hundred yards. 'Has sweet little Kate been unkind?
Has she told you that she loved Michael Rust? Ha! ha! Or has old
dad been crabbed? Ha! ha! A queer old boy that dad of hers, Ned; a
queer old fellow; full of freaks! Do you know he hinted to me that
he thought you had an eye on Kate, and wanted to run off with her?
Wasn't that a good one, Ned? Ha! ha! It makes me laugh to think of
it. He didn't know that Michael Rust was the fellow; that _he_ was
the one to guard against.'

'I believe you,' said Ned, bitterly; 'I believe that Michael Rust is
the one to guard against; and Jacob Rhoneland will find it out some
day.'

'To be sure he will, to be sure he will!' said Rust. 'Yet the old
fellow was afraid of you; _you_ Ned, _you_! He even hinted that
your purposes were not _honest_. Some kind friend had been at work
and filled his head with queer tales about you. And all the time he
did'nt dream of me; and didn't know that it was _me_ that Kate was
dying for. He'll find me his son-in-law yet, some day. I wish you
would keep away from his house, Ned. To tell the truth, I'm jealous
of you. For in confidence, Ned, I _do_ believe that Kate is a little
of a coquette at heart; and I have often said to myself: 'Although
I see nothing particularly kind in her manner to Somers, who knows
what it may be when they're alone? I'm sure there's nothing in her
actions, when others are present, to betray how kind and coaxing
she is to me when we are alone. Ah! Ned; she is all tenderness in
our moments of privacy. The last time I saw her she said that she
respected you, but swore that she did not care the snap of a finger
for you. God bless her for that! how happy it made me! how charming
she looked! Ah! she's an angel! upon my soul I must go back and kiss
her!'

Somers, chafing with fury at being thus beset, had walked on with a
rapid step, while Rust kept pace with him, hissing his words in his
ear; but as he uttered the last sentence, Rust turned away. As he
did so, Somers caught him by the collar, and drawing him close to
him, said:

'Michael Rust, I believe that every word you have just uttered is
false, and a vile slander against as noble a girl as ever lived.
I will not punish you as you deserve, because I promised Kate
Rhoneland that I would not; but before you go let me tell you this:
A greater liar and villain than yourself, never walked. Things are
oozing out about you, which will make this city ring with your
infamy. Tongues which have been tied by gold have found fear more
powerful, and have spoken; and there are those tracking out Michael
Rust's course, for the last few years, who will not let him rest
till they have run him down. You're fond of figures of speech;
there's one. Now go and kiss Kate Rhoneland, with what satisfaction
you may!'

He flung him from him; and, without looking at him, turned off in a
by street.


CHAPTER TENTH.

THE few words uttered by Somers, as he flung his tormentor from
him, threw Michael Rust into a fit of profound abstraction.
Pondering over his schemes, and wondering which particular one
was about to fail; and yet so confident in his own sagacity
and clear-sightedness, that he felt disposed to think failure
impossible; he took his way to his own house. There, assuming the
same costume which he usually wore when in his office, and which,
in age, certainly added ten years to his appearance, he locked the
door of his room, put the key in his pocket, and sallied into the
street.

'If what he said be true,' muttered he, 'there must be a traitor.
Him I can put my finger on; and first of all, _him_ will I punish;
and now, for a trial of that new animal Kornicker. Bah!'

Had Mr. Kornicker overheard this allusion to himself, it is scarcely
probable that his gratification would have been extreme; for
admitting himself and all the rest of the human race, zoologically
speaking, to be animals; even then, there was much in the tone of
Michael Rust to indicate that Mr. Kornicker belonged to a genus
distinct from and inferior to the human species in general; and
this was a position against which there is little doubt that Mr.
Kornicker would have contended manfully. Without pausing to reflect
upon the justice or injustice of his observation, and in truth
forgetting that he had made it, Rust took the shortest route to his
office, whither, to explain what will follow, it may not be amiss to
precede him.

From the day on which he had taken Kornicker into his service, he
had not been at his office, nor had he met his new clerk, or seen
him, or heard from him. In truth, many other matters pressing upon
him, prevented his calling there; and although he did not forget
that Kornicker was almost a stranger to him, for he forgot nothing,
yet knowing that he could do no harm where he was, and that there
was little to embezzle or steal, except the door-key, he in a
great measure dismissed him from his thoughts, until he required
his services. Although this matter dwelt thus lightly on the mind
of Rust, it was the source of much profound thought and intense
abstraction on the part of Kornicker. He had endeavored to learn
something respecting Rust; and even formed an intimacy with 'the
desperadoes,' for that purpose; and what little he learned there
certainly did not make him more at ease; for even the most desperate
of _them_ shook his head, and gave him a friendly caution 'to look
sharp;' at the same time adding, though in less refined language,
that Rust was 'a small colored man, but hard to masticate.' It was
observed, however, that by degrees Mr. Kornicker's abstraction grew
less and less, and his spirits rose. At times, unnatural sounds,
such as loud laughter, and even songs, were heard to emanate from
Rust's hitherto silent room; and in the dusk of the evening, dim
figures were seen skulking to and from it; and in the day time,
shabby-genteel men loitered carelessly through the entry, and after
listening at the key-hole, gave a shrill whistle, which being
answered from within, they dove into the room, and disappeared. At
times, too, the clinking of knives and forks against crockery was
heard from within; and on such occasions, the phantom of the small
boy with a white cap on his head was seen to flit up and down the
stairs, with a dish in his hand, or a bottle under his arm, always
vanishing at Rust's office, or disappearing in the bowels of the
refectory below.

But notwithstanding all these symptoms of returning vivacity, Mr.
Kornicker's mind was far from tranquil on the subject of the mystery
of his present situation.

'Fallen into the toils of a little old man,' said he to himself,
as he sat, on the morning on which we open this chapter, in front
of the fire, with his legs stretched at full length in front of
him; the toe of one foot, supporting the heel of the other; of a
little old man, with a red handkerchief tied round his head, a
broad brimmed hat on the top of that, and a camblet cloak over his
shoulders. 'It's too deep for me. I can't fathom it. The victim of
a hideous compact, whereby I am decoyed into his service, to sit in
a room eight feet by twelve, on a chair without a cushion, a yellow
wooden chair, with four legs, and a back made of the most uneasy
kind of timber, probably lignum-vitæ, and yet with no cushion; to
wait for people who never come, eat without drinking, and submit
to divers other small inconveniences; such as bringing up coal in
a pail without a handle; kindling my own fire with damp wood, and
snuffing sixpenny dips with a pair of tongs, one of whose feet is
absent. There's something very mysterious about it--very. All I hope
is, that this Mr. Rust is not the 'Old Boy.' That's all. I don't
wish to speak disrespectfully of him: but I _do_ sincerely hope,
for his own sake, that he isn't the 'Old Boy.' It would be bad for
him, if he was. As for myself,' said he, drawing out his snuff-box,
and snuffing with great absence of mind, 'it makes no difference;
I'm used to it. I've been brought up in trying circumstances. I
slept in a grocery sand-bin on the north corner of a street for
a week. Not such a bad place either, in warm weather; but I was
ousted by a tipsy gentleman, whom I found there one night. The tipsy
gentleman was sick, too; and when tipsy gentlemen get sick, most
people know what follows. The place was untenantable afterward. But
_that_ was nothing to _this_; positively nothing. I knew what I was
about then; _now_ I don't. I never met but one case in point with
mine. It was that of the fellow who fell into the clutches of forty
unknown women, and remained with them, feasted with them, and all
that--they paying the shot, as in my case--until one morning they
all came weeping, and wailing, and gnashing their teeth, to tell
him that they were off by the first boat; and that he must stay
there until they came back, and might do whatever he liked, and go
wherever he chose, except into the stable. There 's no stable here,
but I'm restricted in liquors; _that_ carries out the simile. The
house-keeper handed him the keys, and he went jingling about, for
forty days, with the keys hanging at his button-hole; his hands in
his breeches pockets, whistling and yawning; locking and unlocking
doors, and smelling flowers; eating apples, and pea-nuts, I suppose,
although they were not specially mentioned, and poking his nose into
all the odd corners. There the simile fits again; only it's soon got
through with here, seeing that there 's only under the table and
up the chimney to look, and I've done both. No matter; that chap
wound up by having an eye knocked out; and I hope the joke won't be
carried so far with me.'

Mr. Kornicker cut short his reflections and remarks; and sitting
upright, pulled up his vest, and felt in the neighborhood of his
watch-pocket. Suddenly recollecting, however, that he had left the
article which belonged there in the safe-keeping of a friend, who,
with a kindness worthy of all praise, not only took charge of it
for him, but actually paid for the privilege of doing so; he pulled
down his vest and said, 'he supposed that it was all right, and
that _they_ would be here presently.' If his last remark applied to
guests whom he expected, he was apparently correct in his surmise;
for he had scarcely uttered it, when there was a single sharp knock
at the door.

'Who's there?' demanded he, without starting.

'Open the door!' replied a voice from without.

'It isn't locked,' said Kornicker; and it might have been observed
that there was a remarkable abatement of firmness in the tone of his
reply.

In pursuance of this hint, the door opened, and in walked Michael
Rust!

Mr. Kornicker, in the course of his checkered existence, had
frequently found himself in positions in which he was taken
dreadfully aback; but it is doubtful whether he had ever detected
himself in a situation which threw him into a state of such utter
and helpless consternation as his present one; for, relying on
the continued absence of his employer, he had that day invited
four particular friends 'to drop into the office,' and, as he had
carelessly observed, 'to take potluck with him--a trifle or so;
anything that should turn up.' This was the very hour; and here was
Rust.

He made an unsuccessful effort to welcome his visiter. He got up,
muttered something about 'unexpected pleasure,' looked vacantly
round the room; rubbed his hands one over the other; made an attempt
to smile, which terminated in a convulsive twitching of his lips;
and finally sat down, with his intellect completely bewildered, and
without having succeeded in any thing, except exciting the surprise
and suspicion of Rust.

'There'll be hell to pay!' said he, communing with his own thoughts,
'there positively _will_; I know it; I see it, I feel it; I'm done
up; no hope for me! _There_ comes one of them,' thought he, as a
step deliberately ascended the stair; but it passed to the flight
above. There was some relief in that; but it was only a respite.
_Come_ they must! He wrung his hands, snuffed spasmodically,
returned the box to his pocket, and took it out again instantly.
'What shall I do? What _shall_ I do? What the DEVIL shall I do?'
exclaimed he, mentally.

Rust had spoken to him three times, but he had not heard a word.
'This is all very strange,' muttered Rust, looking about the room
as if to seek some explanation. The first thing which attracted his
attention was the fact that the two chairs which he had left in the
office had by some odd process of multiplication increased to six.

'There are six chairs here,' said he, addressing his clerk, in a
stern tone; 'where did they come from? Who are they for?'

Mr. Kornicker looked round, and smiled helplessly. 'Six? Oh, ay;
one, two, three, four, five--six. So there _are_ six,' said he.

'Well?'

'Well; oh, _well_? Oh, yes, quite well, I thank you; very well,'
said Mr. Kornicker, whose ideas were rapidly becoming of a very
composite order, and who caught only the monosyllable, without
exactly taking in its meaning.

'I'm afraid that Mr. Kornicker is lonely in the absence of his
friend Michael Rust,' said Rust, with his usual sneer; 'that he
finds this dull, dingy room too dreary for him; and has invited six
chairs to keep him company, and cheer up his spirits.'

Kornicker made no reply; he could not, for he was stupefied by
hearing another step ascending the stairs. This time it paused at
the door, as if the visiter were adjusting his collar, and pulling
down his wristbands; after which, a thinnish gentleman, dressed in
a green coat, with wide skirts; white at the elbows, and polished
at the collar, and pantaloons tightly strapped down, gray and
glistening at the knees, and not a little torn at the pockets,
sauntered carelessly in.

'Servant, Sir; servant, Sir;' said he, nodding to Rust, at the same
time, advancing with a familiar air, and swinging in his hand a
particularly dingy handkerchief. 'This, I suppose, is one of us.
He's an old chip; but he may be come of a prime block.' The latter
part of this remark was addressed to Kornicker; and terminated with
a request, that he would 'do the genteel, and present him to his
friend.' Kornicker, however, sat stock-still, looking in the grate,
and evincing no signs of life, except by breathing rather hard.

'Ha! ha! Ned's gone again--brown study!' said the gentleman, winking
at Rust, touching his own forehead, and at the same time extending
his hand. 'It's his way. I suppose you're one of our social little
dinner-party to-day?'

'Yes, oh, yes!' said Rust, quietly; for these words, and the six
chairs, afforded an immediate solution of his difficulties. 'I
dropped in; and being intimate with Ned, thought I'd stop.'

'So I supposed,' said the other. 'As Ned _won't_, I _will_. My
name's Sludge, Mr. Thomas Sludge,' said he, extending his hand to
Rust. 'Happy to make your acquaintance. Your name is--eh? eh?'

'Quite a common one; Smith; Mr. Smith,' replied Rust.

'Ha! ha! you're joking; but no--you _don't_ belong to that numerous
family, though, do you? Eh? well; I thought from the cut of your
eye, that you were an old quiz, and supposed, of course, you were
joking.'

At the announcement of the name, Kornicker looked round with a vague
hope that _he_ might have been mistaken; and that it was not Michael
Rust who had thus interrupted his plans; but _there_ he stood. 'He's
a dreadful reality!' thought he, shaking his head. 'He's no Smith.
He's Michael Rust. God knows what he's going to do, I don't. If they
come, I pity them. That's all I can do for them; but it's their
affair; they must trust to their own resources, and the care of an
overruling Providence. I suppose they'll survive it. If they don't,
Rust will have to bury them.'

He was too much overwhelmed by what had already occurred, and
by what was to come, to attempt to extricate himself from his
difficulties. They had fallen upon him with a weight which was
insupportable; and now, a ton or two more would make but little
difference. They might mash him flat if they chose; he should not
resist them.

In the mean time, Rust and Sludge became exceedingly sociable. They
conversed on all topics, cracked their jokes, and were exceedingly
merry on the subject of Kornicker and his employee, and of the
tricks which were played upon that respectable personage.

'Ha! ha!' said Mr. Sludge, 'wouldn't he kick up a rumpus if he did
but know what was going on here? The very idea of Rust arriving at
this stage of knowledge, seemed so absurd that they laughed until
the room rang.

It was not long before their number was increased by the addition
of a short, square-built gentleman, with round cheeks and green
spectacles, who was introduced by Mr. Sludge as 'Mr. Steekup, one of
us.' He was followed by a thin fellow in elderly attire, and with
a very red nose. This latter person was supported by a friend with
very large whiskers, and a shaggy great-coat with huge pockets. The
first of these two was presented as Mr. Gunter, and the last as
Mr. Buzby. Each of these gentlemen, as they respectively entered,
went up to Kornicker, and slapped him on the shoulder, at the same
time saluting him with the appellation of 'my tulip,' or 'my old
buck,' or 'my sodger,' or some other epithet of an equally friendly
character; to all of which they received not a word in reply. But
though Kornicker's bodily functions were suspended, his thoughts
were wonderfully busy.

He felt that he was done for; completely, irremediably done for.
He had an earnest wish, coupled with a hope, a very faint hope; a
hope so vague and indefinable that it seemed but the phantom of
one; that his guests would be suddenly seized with convulsions of
an aggravated character, and die on the spot, or jump out of the
window, or bolt up the chimney, or cut each other's throats, or melt
into air. He did not care what, or which, or how, or when, or where.
All his thoughts and wishes tended to one particular end; that was,
their abrupt departure, in some sudden and decisive manner. But
they evinced no disposition to avail themselves of either means of
getting out of his way, of which he left them so liberal a choice.
And to increase his misery, amidst them all sat Rust, with his head
bound in his red silk handkerchief, bowing and smirking, and passing
himself off as one of themselves; drawing out their secrets, and
quizzing old Rust, and occasionally casting on his clerk an eye
that seemed red-hot; cracking double-sided jokes, which made _them_
laugh, and took the skin off _him_; and calling him 'Ned,' and
asking why he was dull, and why he didn't make himself at home as
_he_ did; and whether he didn't think that old Rust would make 'a
flare up,' if he should happen to drop in; and why he didn't ask old
Rust to his dinners sometimes; and all in so pleasant a tone, that
the guests swore he was a diamond of the first water, and Mr. Sludge
hugged him on the spot.

Mr. Kornicker wondered if he was not dreaming; and whether Rust was
in reality there, and whether he himself was not sitting in front
of the fire sound asleep. It would be pleasant to wake up and find
it so; but no, it could not be; people in dreams didn't laugh like
these fellows. How _could_ they laugh as they did, when _he_ was in
such a state! How little they understood the game that was going
on! How they'd alter their tone, if they did! It was ridiculous;
it was exceedingly ridiculous. He ought to laugh; he felt that he
ought; but he wouldn't yet; the dinner was to come, and perhaps he
might _then_; he didn't know; he couldn't say; he'd see about it.
Hark! There was a thump against the wall below, and a jingling of
spoons, and knives and forks, against crockery. Now for it! Another
thump; another, accompanied by another jingle. He wondered whether
the boy had spilt the gravy. He hoped he hadn't; but supposed he
had. It made no difference. He wondered whether he'd brought the
brandy; supposed he had; of _course_ he had. It only wanted _that_
to damn him! and of course he would be d--d. He always had been,
and always would be; it was his luck. The person who was bringing
the dinner stumbled again; but he didn't fall. 'No such good luck!
If he had fallen, if he _only_ had fallen, and broke his neck, or
smashed the dinner, or any thing, to prevent his reaching that door;
but no; he was too sure-footed for that; any _other_ boy would have
done so; but _he_ didn't. He reached the door, and saluted it with
a hearty kick; at the same time informing the company that if they
were hungry, he rather guessed they'd better open it, as his hands
were full. Kornicker thought that _his_ hands were full too; and
even had a faint idea of laughing at this play upon words; but the
inclination passed off without his doing so. Michael Rust opened
the door, and the boy came in. Kornicker knew it. He neither looked
round nor moved; in fact, he closed his eyes; yet he _knew_ it--he
_felt_ it. He had an innate perception that the boy was there,
within three feet of him, bearing in his hands a large tray, with
dishes, and a brandy bottle on it. And now the clattering commenced;
and he was conscious that the boy was setting the table. What would
be the end of all this; what _could_ be? After all, Michael Rust
might be a jolly fellow, and he hadn't found it out; and perhaps
he wanted to make him at home, and keep up the joke, to save his
feelings. He would be glad to think so; but he didn't; no, no, he
was certain that there was some devil's play going on.'

The only person who seemed fully to appreciate his situation was
the boy from the refectory, who, with the instinct peculiar to boys
of that class, had detected it on the spot; and abruptly placing a
dish on the table, retired to a corner, with his face to the wall,
where he laughed violently in private. A warning look from Rust put
a stop to his mirth; nor did he again indulge it, until the table
being set, and being informed that the guests were not proud, and
could wait on themselves, he retreated to the entry, where he became
exceedingly hilarious.

'Come Ned, my boy, be seated,' said Rust, going up to Kornicker, and
slapping him on the shoulder. 'Wake up; you know we must be merry
sometimes; and when could there be a better opportunity than when
that old fool Rust is away? He'll never find it out. Oh, no; come,
come.'

Kornicker made a faint effort to decline; but a look from Rust
decided him, and he rose, went to the table, and mechanically seated
himself in the lap of Mr. Sludge, who reminded him that he was not
a chair, but that there was an article of that description vacant
at his side. Kornicker smiled feebly, bowed abstractedly, and took
a seat. He could not eat. He attempted to sip a little brandy, but
choked in swallowing it. The dinner, however, went on merrily. The
knives and forks clattered against the plates; the roast beef grew
smaller and smaller; the vegetables skipped down the throats of the
guests as if by magic; and the bottle knew no rest. In fact, the
only article on the table which stood its ground, was a sturdy old
Dutchman in a cocked-hat, who had been metamorphosed into a stone
pitcher; and sat there, with his stomach filled with cold water,
and his hands clasped over it. Lord! how merry they were! And as
the dinner went on, and the bottle grew low, and another was called
for by Rust, how uproarious they became! How they sang, and howled,
and hooted! What a din they created in the building! By degrees the
entry became filled with the 'desperadoes' from the upper stories,
who, attracted by doings kindred to their own, accumulated there
in a mass, and enlivened the performances, by howling through the
key-hole, and echoing all the other cries, from the bottom of their
lungs. But loudest and merriest, and as it appeared to Kornicker,
most diabolical of all, was Michael Rust; helping every one; passing
the bottle, and laughing, and yet constantly at work, endeavoring
to worm out of his companions something against Kornicker which
might render him amenable to the law, and which he might hold over
his head; a rod to bend him to his purposes, should he ever prove
refractory.

As the dinner advanced, and the bottle declined, the guests grew
humorous. Mr. Buzby in particular, who after several unsuccessful
efforts succeeded in describing the painful situation of a pig, in
whose ear a dog was whispering some confidential communication. He
also attempted to imitate the remonstrating scream of the animal;
but failed, owing to his utterance having become somewhat thick.
Mr. Gunter then rose to offer thanks to Mr. Kornicker; but sat down
on discovering that Mr. Buzby was terminating his communication by
an address of a similar character; and that Mr. Steekup was engaged
in restraining Mr. Sludge, who was bent on performing an intricate
hornpipe on the table, which he guaranteed to do without breaking a
plate or discomposing a glass; but which Mr. Steekup resisted, being
of opinion that his guarantee was but doubtful security. Mr. Sludge,
however, was not to be thwarted. He grew animated; Rust encouraged
him; he discussed the matter vehemently; he addressed every body, on
all subjects; he struggled; he fought, and was finally removed from
the room, and cast into the arms of the desperadoes, in the entry,
to whom he protested manfully against this treatment; and one of
the skirts of his coat, which had been torn off in the debate, was
ejected after him. This occurrence, together with the fact that a
third bottle had become empty; and that no more was called for by
Rust; and that it was growing dark, which was the hour for deeds
of chivalry among choice spirits like themselves, seemed to be the
signal for a general break-up. After shaking hands affectionately
with Rust, and telling him that he was 'a potatoe of the largest
kind,' and slapping Kornicker kindly but violently on the back, and
saying that they were sorry to see him so 'd--d glum,' they all
spoke on promiscuous subjects at once, and departed in a body, each
trying in a very earnest manner to impress upon the rest something
which he forgot before he uttered it, but which he supposed he would
remember presently.

Rust waited until the silence showed that the guests and the
'desperadoes' had departed together; and then turning to Kornicker,
and rubbing his hands together, said:

'A very pleasant little party we've had, Mr Kornicker; a
_very_ pleasant little party. Michael Rust is much obliged to
you for dispelling the gloom of his office, and making it the
gathering-place of such select society. He can't express his thanks
in terms sufficiently strong. He feels grateful, too, for your
strict adherence to the terms of the agreement between us. Twenty
dollars a month, meals for one, liquor for none. These were the
terms, I think; but Michael Rust is growing old, and his memory
may have failed him. Perhaps, too, brandy isn't a liquor; he isn't
certain; it used to be, when he was a boy; and he doesn't think that
it has changed its character; but it may have done so, and he may
have forgotten it; for you know he's old and childish, and even in
his dotage.'

Mr. Kornicker shook his head. 'I knew it must come!' thought he.
He muttered something about his 'standing the shot for the brandy
himself.' He made a futile effort to get at his snuff-box, but
failed; said something about 'apology to offer,' and was silent.

'Well, Sir,' said Rust, after a pause, altering his manner, 'I have
found _you_ out. You haven't yet discovered what _I_ am. Get these
things removed; for I have that on hand which must be attended to.
I'll overlook _this_, but it must never be repeated.'

'Kornicker, glad to escape thus easily, and yielding, partly to that
ascendancy which Rust invariably acquired over those whom he made
use of, and partly cowed by the consciousness of guilt, and the fear
of losing a comfortable situation, slunk out of the room in search
of the boy from the refectory.




MOHAWK.

A CLUSTER OF SONNETS TOUCHING THAT VALLEY.

BY H. W. ROCKWELL


I.

    FULL many a glorious image have I caught,
      Sweet valley! from thy gentle scenery;
      Brooks blue with the June heaven; white cliff, and sky,
    And forest-shaded nooks; nor less, the Thought
    That stirs in Nature's hushed solemnity,
      The boundless Thought which fills the solitude
      And holy twilight of the pathless wood,
    With its perpetual and present mystery.
    How like a passion it pervades these deep,
      Dark groves of hemlock, while the sultry noon
      Fills the green meadows with the heats of June,
    And hangs its haze upon the mountain-steep!
    It is the breath of GOD, who here hath made
    Meet worship for Himself, amid the thickest shade.

II.

    BENEATH this roof of maple boughs, whose screen
      Of thick, young leaves is painted in the brook,
      The golden summer hath a pleasant look,
    Caught from blue, stainless skies, and hill-tops green
    With field and forest. Deep within this nook
      Of bright, smooth waters, where the lace-like fern
      Is pictured with the wild-flower's crimson urn,
    And thickets by the winds of noontide shook:
    Amid the twinkling green and silver, lies
      His glorious image; clouds that sweep the vale,
      White wood-hawks breasting the sweet August gale,
    Inverted forests, and serenest skies
    Scooped out below the loose and glittering sand,
    With many a glimpse of town and sunny mountain land.

III.

    THERE is a romance mingled with this sweet,
      Wild forest scenery; this cool, deep glade,
      Whose nooks at noon are dark with thickest shade,
    These gulfs where boughs of beech and maple meet
    And mingle in the sultry mid-day heat;
      Dark hollow, and green bluff, all teem with wild
      And glorious legends. From this cliff up-piled
    With moss-stained rocks, where mid his green retreat
    In the dense thicket the brown wood-thrush sings,
      Far through the landscape's mild and mellowing haze
      I mark the battle-fields of other days,
    Fields trod of old by the red Mohawk kings,
    And misty valleys golden with the blaze
    Which Summer from the heaven of August flings.

    _Utica_, (_New-York_,) 1843.   H. W. R.




SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY.

BY PETER VON GRIST.


IT is Sunday in our pleasant village, and the very air seems to
feel it. It is lighter and purer than it was yesterday, and moves
stealthily, as though afraid of breaking the general stillness by
its rustling. The shops are all shut, but there is no gloominess
about them: they too are enjoying the season of rest. And three or
four venerable cows are stretched on the green common, lulled to a
state of philosophic calmness, and sunk in sober meditation. What
delicious music the church-bell makes! It rings out, _sotto voce_;
and the still, charmed air modulates with a gentle motion, like
unbroken ripples on the surface of a sleeping pond. First comes a
single, heavy peal; then a vibration, like a distant echo; then
another, fainter and more distant still; and another, and another,
each fainter and quicker than the preceding; till in the course
of a few seconds nothing is heard but a confused jingling; and
while we are thinking whether this jingling is not that which we
sometimes hear in our ears at the dead of night, and which we then
decide to be fairy-bells, afar off, another heavy stroke sends down
another clear, sweet wave of sound, and the process of vibrations is
repeated.

But now the people from the country around begin to come in. Huge
lumber-wagons, containing farmers and their sons, in Sunday coats
and stiff collars, with their wives and daughters in straw bonnets
and pink ribands, and calico dresses, come rattling through the
streets, and deposit their loads on the church-steps. The villagers
too come out of their houses and walk slowly over toward the
meeting-house. It is easy to distinguish the great men of the place;
(what place has not its great men, on one scale or another?) the
lawyer, the physician, and those older inhabitants, who came here
first, and have grown rich through age. They wear finer clothes,
their boots are polished, and perhaps their faces are ornamented
with spectacles. It is easy to distinguish them, too, by their
demeanor. Their walk shows their consciousness of possessing
superior importance; and a very pleasant thing that consciousness
is, on any scale. Arrived on the steps, they accost each other with
affability; nod to the farmers with benignity, and say, 'How do you
do, Mrs. Johnson?' in an open tone of voice, that the standers-by
may see how friendly they are to all. The young men and maidens
look on them with silent veneration: for from their earliest youth
they have been accustomed to regard Doctor Brown and 'Squire White
as among the greatest in the land; men who had a care over the
whole country, and whose dignity of bearing was the consequence and
indication of that elevation of mind which was necessary in order
to take in such wide views. They are men whose knowledge knows no
bounds; they are the ones who make speeches on the Fourth of July;
are officers of the temperance society, and the regiment of militia;
and therefore the young men and maidens reverence them, and the
old men make way for them, in the assembly of the people. It is a
natural feeling, natural and pleasant to all parties; and I cannot
tell to which it is the most pleasant, the admirer or the admired.
But they are going in: I enter with them, and walk down the aisle
with a sedate step and slow.

One of those of whom I have spoken last, the doctor, I should judge
from his appearance, has given me a seat in his slip, near the
centre of the church. What a holy repose steals over the spirit, as
we sit down in the house of worship! The strife and turmoil of the
world never obtrude themselves into this sacred place; all are for
a while forgotten. The oil of awe, and yet of gladness, is poured
on the bubbling waters of passion, and they sink to rest. The faint
heart, 'wounded, sick, and sore,' is revived and healed by the very
breath of the sanctuary; for within these walls the air itself
seems consecrated. A solemn and reverential feeling settles down on
the mind of the worshipper; and he involuntarily assumes a serious
deportment. The people come in, one by one, and take their seats
noiselessly, as though they had put off their shoes from their feet
on this holy ground. The light rustle of a lady's dress, and the
occasional slam of a pew-door, in opening or shutting, alone are
heard; and these interruptions only serve to make the succeeding
silence more deeply felt.

I look around on the assembly, and among so many men, who for the
past week have been digging in the earth, or hammering incessantly
on the anvil or the lap-stone, or engaged in the most mean and
unintellectual employments, there is not one careless or vacant
face. Every heart is elevated, and every face is refined in its
expression, by the associations of the place. The humble are
exalted, as it is in man's nature to be, when his eyes and thoughts,
from being fixed on the earth, are lifted up, and hold communion
with things above the earth. Ambition of honor or wealth is shamed;
the world is but a little thing, when, as now, we look down on it;
and here pride finds no place. Care smooths his rugged brow, and
over the sunny face of the maiden steals a shade of deeper thought.
Therefore we are all alike; the barriers of ice which during
the week have separated man from his fellow, are to-day broken
down; and we feel, sitting here worshipping together, that we are
fellow-pilgrims; that we are indeed of the same family.

Anon the minister comes in, with reverend countenance and careful
step. Every eye is bent on him, with affectionate respect, as he
places his hat on the bright little table under the desk, and
mounts up to, and shuts himself in, the pulpit. Instinctively we
all rise when _he_ does, and invoke the divine presence; though
we are conscious that that presence has been with us, and around
us, ever since we entered the house. When the rustle of re-seating
ourselves, like that of many dry leaves shaken by the wind, has
subsided, how calmly and soothingly the voice of the speaker falls
on our ears, reading out of the holy book! It is a familiar passage;
a passage which I had heard often and often before I could read it,
or understand all the words; one which I learned by heart almost as
soon as I could learn any thing; which I have heard repeated week
after week for many years; and yet now every syllable is sounded
so distinctly that the picture comes up as vividly as ever, and I
cannot help listening. I forget for the time all that is to come;
submit myself to follow slowly along with the words of the speaker,
and feel my quiet heart overflowing, as it receives the beautiful
story, with its simple and sublime moral.

While I sit and suffer these thoughts, like the spontaneous images
of a dream, to pass over my mind, the hymn has been read, and
my reveries are broken by music from the choir, floating softly
down. I am in no mood to criticise, and it is not difficult to
imagine that the sounds do not proceed from mere human lips; but
that beings who take a deeper interest in man's welfare than he
himself takes, are clothing their words of exhortation or comfort
in melody, and speaking at once to our heart and understanding. If
this was not fully imagined before, it becomes almost real when
the last long-drawn note dies away, as though the sweet minstrels
had accomplished their mission to this earthly tabernacle, and had
departed toward their own abode.

And now rises the preacher, severe and grave. Every glance is
directed toward him, and every ear is open to catch the first,
long-coming accents. I do not wonder that they love to gaze on
him; even I do now. He is a man past the prime of life; gray hairs
are plentifully sprinkled over his head; his face is somewhat thin
and worn, as though with long watching and study; but his frame
is upright, and the look which he slowly casts over the expectant
congregation, is full of import and solemnity. There is a mild,
affectionate light in his eye, and love to God and to all God's
creatures beams out from every lineament of his countenance.
Calmly he displays, after the good old fashion, his handkerchief
of spotless white, and calmly deposits it under the right lid of
the book before him. There is such an air of quiet dignity about
the movement, that I love him for it. But the preparations are all
gone through with; a routine which we would not miss, and which he
would be lost without. He reads his text with emphatic enunciation,
and begins his heart-felt address. It is evident that he does feel
it. I cannot doubt it for a moment, when I look on his face. I can
_see_ that it is heart-felt; and therefore it is not strange that it
should be heart-felt by his hearers too.

What a luxury to hear those plain truths! There is no mystery about
them, no darkness. The mind is not led off into futile speculations
concerning things infinitely above its reach, or so subtle as for
ever to elude its grasp; but the grandest principles--and there are
none but what are grand--appear on their natural level, the level of
the humblest comprehension. While we are least thinking of it, the
good man turns some general remark, in the truth of which we have
just acquiesced, toward us, personally, as individuals; meanwhile,
by his eye, making every hearer feel that _he_ is meant. I cannot
divert my attention; I am compelled to think only as he wills,
and am startled by the conviction which forces itself on me, so
personally does he speak to me, that he is looking strait into my
heart. The chapel becomes a hall of justice; my evil motives, and
passions, and actions, in long array come thronging up, and I must
perforce sit in judgment on them. No excuses or shiftings avail;
in the twinkling of an eye, I see the character of the motive or
action, and, in spite of myself, decide justly respecting them. It
is humbling, truly, and it ought to do me good.

In fact, it _has_ done me good already, as well as the rest who
hear. For now, when the speaker comes to tell of love, and goodness,
and mercy, how much sweeter sound the words than ever they did
before! The house itself seems lighter, and the faces of all in
it are brightened, like the faces of men which have been darkened
through fear, under the shadow of an eclipse, when it passes
happily away. We all feel that it is good for us to be here, and
are surprised that it is so late, when, after another brief prayer,
we are summoned to rise and receive the benediction--it seems to me
that we should kneel to receive a blessing from such lips--and the
morning services are over.

If I followed my inclinations, I should stay here during the
intermission; but that would expose me to notice; so I take up my
hat, and mingle in the crowd which is pouring out. How different
from the crowd which one meets in the saloon of fashion, or at a
political meeting, or at any other place, where men are accustomed
to congregate! Here we are all jostled together, but gently,
decorously. We do not lose sight of ourselves, or of the dignity of
reflecting beings. We are rather a company so full of the thoughts
which we have just received, that we must think them all over again,
and have no time to stop and exchange compliments, or to respond to
them with laughter equally inane. Not even when we emerge on to the
common, and all take our diverging ways toward home, can a voice be
heard rising higher than a whisper. A Sabbath stillness reigns over
all.

In the afternoon, the scene is much the same as in the morning. With
the first stroke of the bell, I take my former seat, and occupy
myself with turning over the leaves of a pocket-Bible that belongs
to the slip. There is rather more confusion and noise of people
coming in, than there was in the forenoon. Footsteps fall heavier,
and pew-doors slam louder. A few old ladies, collected into two
or three contiguous seats, for the purpose of enjoying, in the
interval of worship, a little whispering consultation, have not yet
intermitted their humming voices. Children, released from the Sunday
school, come clattering along the aisles. Young gentlemen and ladies
do not appear quite so stiff as they did in the morning, and are not
so careful that their attitudes should be exactly perpendicular. The
chorister also makes some remarks to the choir on the importance
of keeping time, and on sundry other things, in a tone of mild
command. All these little things go to make up a good deal of
confusion in the house; all which, nevertheless, it is exceedingly
pleasant to sit and listen to.

But the pastor enters; the bell ceases its tolling; the whispering
old ladies disperse themselves to their respective seats; the
deacons, who have been waiting for the minister on the steps, follow
him in; and in less than a minute silence once more settles down on
the assembly.

It may be fancy, but it strikes me that the choir sing a trifle
louder and freer than before; that the female singers put in
variations, which are not set down for them in the book, sliding
graces, one might call them; all indicative of increased confidence
in their own powers. However this may be, I am certain that the
young damsel in the slip before me, whose face I have not seen, is
mingling her voice in the harmony. I can almost hear it. But while
I am watching to catch her tones, a universal shutting of books
announces that the hymn is ended.

It may be fancy, too, but the preacher seems to me a thought less
solemn than in the forenoon; perhaps a little warmer and more
animated. Perhaps, too, the hearers are more restless and disposed
to be critical. There is not that same hush of breathless listening.
But they are sweet words; and the speaker appears to be conscious
that he is not giving utterance to idle breath, so deliberately and
thoughtfully do the lessons of good come from his lips. And this
deliberation and thoughtfulness increase as he draws near the close
of the sermon; till at last, his voice is sunk almost to a whisper;
and our attention has to be closely riveted to catch the sounds. Now
may be seen the whole congregation bending forward with strained
eyes, and animated faces, drinking in the thoughts and precepts, and
exhortations, as though for their lives. And when the conclusion of
the whole matter comes, '_And thereby shall ye have hope of eternal
life_,' and during the deep pause which succeeds the enunciation of
these words, an hundred long-drawn sighs may be heard, telling of
relieved and lightened bosoms.

After the prayer, a hymn is read; a good old hymn, unmutilated from
Watts, and we all rise to sing it. It is set to a good old tune
too, one with which every body is familiar, and the first verse is
carried roundly off. The second verse sets in heavier; the voices
of the singers grow louder through use. The bass, which before was
rather faint, now comes out with the power of a dozen organs, from
fifty pairs of lungs that never knew what weakness was. The air,
too, has cast off its timidity, and rises high and shrill; while the
alto and tenor, each clear and distinct, fill up the intermediate
space, and all four blend together harmoniously, so that no jar or
dissonance is perceptible. The tide of song sways up and down, like
the breathless rocking of the wave. The whole house is crowded with
sound. The voices gush out and swell with measured movement; and
while the different parts combine and unite, a mingled stream of
harmony and praise is sent up toward the heavens. It is evident that
the hearts of the singers are rising with their words. I can speak
for myself, at least; I find it difficult to resist the current of
enthusiasm; so I allow myself to be borne away; and, albeit somewhat
unskilled in the gentle art of psalmody, into this grand hallelujah
chorus I cast the strength of my voice with right good will.




SONG.


I.

    A PHILOSOPHER once, to the mountain
      Of Helicon came, to explore
    The cause of the wonderful fountain
      That gushed from its summit of yore.

II.

    Disbelieving, until he had tried it,
      That water the Fancy could raise,
    Ere he tasted its freshness, he eyed it
      With a most philosophical gaze.

III.

    Then dipping his fore-finger in it,
      He just wet the tip of his tongue;
    He sipped and he sucked; in a minute
      Beside it his full length he flung.

IV.

    He swallowed his fill, O delicious!
      Sure never was Chian like this!
    He was drunk! yet the ass was ambitious
      To find out the _cause_ of his bliss.

V.

    So he dug, all the morning, around it
      With his long, philosophical paws;
    Eureka! cried he; I have found it!
      This black-looking root is the cause.

VI.

    He pulled up the fibre; he smelt it,
      And bit it, and kneeling again,
    Kissed the liquid, and fancied he felt it
      Had ceased to enliven his brain.

VII.

    Home took he the plant, and sawed it asunder--
      Analyzed it with acids and brine;
    And found it at last, to his wonder,
      Nothing more than the root of--a vine!

VIII.

    Then he doubted, the more he reflected;
      And the question to this day is moot,
    If the grape-vine the fount had affected,
      Or the fount gave its force to the fruit.




THE DEVIL-TAVERN.

A TALE OF TINNECUM

    'THE day being fair, and the sun shining bright,
    I thought of Far-Rockaway, which causes me to write;
    I thought of Cow-Neck which will ever be dear,
    Though I should be away from there these full twenty year.
    The place of one's birth he always thinks the best.
    Though we should have to live there half clothed, and half dress,
    What then must it be, to one in my case,
    Who had whatever he wanted when I was into the place't?'

  COPIED FROM MRS. PETTIT'S ALBUM AT ROCKAWAY.


THE winter had given a few premonitory symptoms, the winds beginning
to come with a cutting edge from the north, the last flowers of the
season having long dropped their disconsolate heads, where they had
been cut down in their late bloom, and short icicles depending from
the eaves on the frosty mornings. One by one, the charms which crown
the country during so many months, its roses, its green-sward, its
foliage, nay, even the melancholy tints of autumn were withdrawn,
until all was bare and desolate, and there was nothing left of all
the glorious scene, except to those who can bow down to Nature in
her severest moods, and can admire the symmetry of the dismantled
oak with as true a feeling as when its limbs were robed in green.
Still can you see in its majestic trunk and faultless anatomy, why
it bore its honors so gracefully. But the woods were literally
stripped. Here and there a dry leaf, crumpled up, shook on the end
of a limb with a palsied motion, producing a death-noise, not unlike
the reiterated strokes of a small wood-pecker's bill upon the bark.
For the rest, a thin layer of dry leaves whirling about among the
skeleton shadows of trees, or gathered together in the hollows and
the valleys, was all that remained of the tissue of that massive,
overarching pall which stretched over the forest for miles. How
contractile is the power of death! Caw! caw! caw! The crows flapped
their jet black wings over the region of desolation; and hark to the
roar of the distant sea! The beautiful shores of the Long-Island
Sound, its promontories, coves, and recesses, so late the resort of
the invalid or the idle; the trout-streams, the wide plains, the
forests filled with sleek deer, as also the places of note upon
the sea-shore, had become deserted. Montauk-Point jutted out into
the sea more lonely than ever. Glen-Cove lost all its charms, and
not the least were those it borrowed from thy presence, glorious
Araminta! The Baron Von Trinkets swore that he would die for thee.
The Pavilion at Rockaway, where beauty and fashion had so lately
woven the dance, was forsaken in all its halls, corridors, and
piazzas; while the old steward sat by night in the kitchen-wing,
tapping his feet on the hearth to the remembered music of galopades,
and voluptuous waltzes. It was, in fact, the latter end of
November--a pretty season for an excursion into the Tinnecum bay!

Tertullian insisted upon my going with him to shoot black duck,
which were said to be more plentiful than for many years,
affording great sport. But water-parties, to my mind, cease to be
desirable when coal fires have become agreeable. Nevertheless, _ad
sauromatas,_ to oblige a friend. So we overhauled lock, stock, and
barrel, which had become rusty since snipe-shooting, and, busying
ourselves a whole evening in screwing, unscrewing, oiling, and
getting in order our implements to make war upon the black ducks,
the morrow found us ready. Tertullian shook me by the shoulders as
I lay softly pillowed, and in the midst of pleasant dreams. With a
yawn and a groan I acknowledged the salutation, and looking out saw
the stars yet shining in the sky. The morning air felt cold! cold!
As I stood shivering in my long robes, I was ready to sacrifice my
friendship for Tertullian, and to plunge again beneath the warm
sheets, and recur to my happy dreams. The rolling of wheels over
the frozen ground beneath the windows, and Cudjo's sharp reproaches
to the mules, indicated that all parties were on the ground; and
although I considered it almost as bad as fighting a duel at that
unseasonable hour, I clenched my teeth with determination, as if
to preclude the possibility of a shiver. In a few moments we were
armed and equipped, provisions for the day were placed in the bottom
of the wagon, and Cudjo drove us out on the commencement of the
cheerless journey. My friend, lover as he was of aquatic pastimes,
and wild-duck shooting, shrugged his shoulders as we passed over
the bleak meadows. There had evidently been a fall of snow during
the night, somewhere among the Highlands, to judge by the sharper
edge of the winds. In the course of half an hour we arrived at a
landing-place, where a small creek put up from the bay. Here two
negro boatmen, from New-Guinea, a small African settlement in the
neighboring woods, had consented to meet us, and row us out in their
new sedge-boat, which was first called the Pumpkin-Seed, from some
allusion to its shape, but afterward from their own names, THE SAM
AND JIM. On arriving at the wharf nothing presented itself but the
old mill, with its wheel encased in ice, and as far as the eye could
reach, the bleak meadows and the tortuous creek, and the Tinnecum
bay. But the black gentlemen who were to be our guides did not show
their faces, but were probably with the rest of New-Guinea dreaming
of clams and eels, or of the gala-day when their new boat, fresh and
gaudily painted, was launched into the black waters, below the dam
of the Three-Mile Mill. The 'Sam and Jim' lay high and dry upon the
shore, chained, padlocked, and protected from the weather. It must
be confessed, that the promise of the day's sport was small. With
no Palinurus to guide us, and the wind blowing as if it came from
an iceberg, the black ducks might take a new lease of their lives,
for all the damage we should do them. Tertullian swore roundly,
stamped his feet, and went raving round the old mill, which we tried
to enter, but the doors were locked. Then getting upon a pile of
mill-stones he gazed wistfully into all quarters of the horizon, and
raising his trumpet voice as if he had been among the very huts of
New-Guinea, called upon the delinquents, Sam and Jim. Still no human
being appeared to offer assistance, and echo only answered 'Sam and
Jim.' The sun began to appear well above the horizon, the tide was
on the ebb; if a little more time were lost, it would be impossible
to get over the bar, and return by night-fall. The miller's house
stood near, whither we immediately hastened, and having aroused him
by a volley of kicks against his door, asked his ghostly advice
about an expedition into the bay. Joe Annis thanked us in language
not very flowery for breaking his slumbers, and then telling us
that his two boats, the 'Spasm' and 'Paroxysm,' (so named by some
country doctor in that vicinity,) were a little way down creek, and
that we might take either one, and row ourselves out, drew in his
powdered head. Difficulties only serve to quicken the energies of
men of nerve. '_Courage! courage! mon ami!_' exclaimed my friend,
wagging his haunches in the direction of the wharf in a great hurry.
Tertullian was for ever speaking French and Latin. The first was
tolerable, as far as it went, which was to the end of a very small
vocabulary; but for the latter, Erasmus help us! it was of the
canine species, except some few phrases, very pure, drawn right out
from the body of the Roman authors. Of the latter was _Quid agis?_
'What are you about there? What are you doing--in the stern of the
boat? _Ohe! jam satis!_ Come, no more of your fun. _Dic, age tibia._
Wake up, and tune your pipes.' But then, the melancholy, barbarian
ages succeeding, '_Miror quid diabolus faciemini sine Sam et Jimmo!_'

On examining the boats, we found them not very well adapted to
the purpose. They were rather small skiffs, and might be easily
tilted over, or capsized in a squall. We took the SPASM. She was
clean, tight, and ready to be launched; but the PAROXYSM was in bad
condition, full of mud, grass, clams, shells, broken rum-jugs, and
decayed cucumbers. In a trice we had effected the launch, victualled
the boat for a day's voyage, and seizing the oars pulled with great
vigor and hearty determination. We had been both indifferently
acquainted with the bay, knew its shores, and bottom, and the
fishing-grounds which were once visited with success. But such
knowledge acquired in school-boy days had become dim. It might be
that the old land-marks were destroyed; for if a certain row of
poplars which stood upon the plain had been cut down during the
prevailing unpopularity of poplars, we might be puzzled to find
the entrance of the creek upon our return. 'Courage! courage!'
exclaimed Tertullian; 'range your eye along the summits of the salt
hay-stacks, thence onward over the ridge of the old boat-house, and
you will see the trees, with their dry and decayed limbs rattling
aloft, like pipe-stems:

  'Altas maritat populos.'

The broad expanse of the bay seemed to lie before us at a little
distance, but the course of the stream was winding and ambiguous,
often making a turn and bringing you back to nearly the same place,
which by dint of laborious rowing you deemed you were leaving far
in the back-ground. Thus, often in life, do we seek to arrive upon
the scene of some expansive prospect, but that which seemed a little
interval turns out to be a weary distance, to be overcome only by
patient determination. The exercise of pulling at the oars sent
warmth through our bodies, and made the blood tingle in all our
limbs, although the flags upon the shores were glazed, and sharp
icicles hung from the banks, which the sun had not yet power to
dissolve. At last the shores began to widen, and we emerged into
a broad basin, where, coasting warily for a while, we ventured
upon another more expansive. Here we saw a loon, who screamed out
when he saw the skiff, in great alarm; but no harm was done to
him. Some pieces of ice were seen floating, not of any great size.
Having pulled heartily thus far, we considered it 'about time' to
take a small pull at the brandy-bottle. The sun was by this time
pretty high up in the heavens; the day though cold was of an amber
clearness; the black ducks pretty scarce; but other things promising
well, Tertullian broke out into music; a jovial, marine song, of
which he expected me to sustain a part in the chorus:

    'Cheer up, my jolly boys,
    In spite of wind and weather,
    Cheer up, my jolly boys,
    And----'

'_Mehercle!_' exclaimed he, breaking off suddenly, '_ecce duos
oves!_'

'Where?' replied I, in astonishment, looking up to the sky, and
suspecting that he made some punning allusion to a few fleecy clouds.

'Two teal, by Jupiter!' said he, cocking his piece, and rising up
in the boat with great eagerness. Looking in the direction to which
he pointed, I saw the birds rising up and down on the rough waves,
and occasionally bobbing their heads beneath the brine. There is a
grace and sleek elegance which belongs to animals in their state of
utmost wildness, that is incomparable. Swans in the tranquil lake,
and kine in the richest pastures, are beautiful for the eye to rest
on. But the bird which looks out from some high, extreme limb in the
wood--even if it be the small, red robin, stretching out its long
neck, and displaying an elegance of form, very different from its
summer plumpness, ready to flap its wings at the merest crackling
of a leaf, or approach of the distant shadow; the straggler from
that long file of migratory birds, (how beautifully it undulates,
and swerves from a rigid line in yon high aërial flight,) descending
to bathe in the woodland swamp, and plunging its head deep into the
waves as the quick eye of the sportsman, the flash, and the report
are simultaneous; the stag listening with erect ear to the fall of
far-off footsteps in the forest, and expressing in that tremulous
air the full force of his incipient bound;

      ----'Non sine vano
    Aurarum, et siliiæ metu;

these express an idea of ecstatic life and enjoyment, which it is
difficult for the painter to depict.

Tertullian could not get a shot at the teal, for they went under,
and never came up again, that we could discover. Nor was the loss
of sport to be regretted, as, had he discharged his piece standing,
heavily loaded as it was, the recoil would have been sufficient to
upset the skiff. Such casualties are not infrequent. It was near
this very place that Pomp Ruin, poor black! in his eagerness to
shoot a wild duck, got kicked overboard, and went down, with all his
sins upon his head; and as the colored clergyman truly observed, in
improving the subject on the Sunday following: 'My brudren, he was
never hëered of arterwards.' Coasting along still with resolution,
we doubled Cape Round-your-hat, and it being high-noon, drew up on
the beach at Rider's to dine. An hour and a half was suffered to
elapse before we got off from this sterile place, and the afternoon
beginning to wear away in divers cruisings, we thought it high time
to begin to think of a return.

We had been resting on our oars for a few minutes, Tertullian
ceasing from his French and Latin, and maintaining a profound
silence. 'Hearken!' said he, suddenly rising up, in an attitude of
intense listening; 'it is the surf bursting upon the shore!' I put
down my ear, and heard the hollow, heavy roar, and booming of the
breakers, rolling upon the beach at Rockaway. 'We are near the mouth
of the inlet,' said he; 'pull for the point of yonder island, or
we shall be carried out to sea.' I remembered a story told me by
Captain Phibious, of the small schooner Sally Jane, who got carried
out into the Gulf Stream, four or five hundred miles, without
provisions, in which expedition all hands liked to have perished.
Fear lent strength and vigor to our arms. Into what peril were we
brought through the remissness of those irredeemable negroes Sam and
Jim! With such good effect did we pull at the oars, that in a little
while we struck the point of land, and leaped upon the shore in
safety. 'Do you know where you are!' exclaimed Tertullian.

'Certainly not, except upon a desert strip of sand.'

'You are on Scollop Island.'

My blood froze in my veins. 'We are then,' said I, 'upon the
dominions of Floys Boyo, and within the precincts of the
DEVIL-TAVERN.'

'The same,' answered he; 'let us draw up the boat.'

Scollop Island, whither we had now come, was a small, barren
place, which lies just at the mouth of the inlet, opposite to the
Rockaway beach. It consists of little hillocks of white sand, and
intervening valleys, with here and there a few groves of pines,
and gnarled oaks, whortleberry-bushes, and brambles, or whatever
will grow on so unpropitious a site. Beside these, there is at any
time little sign of life. Only one house or tenement was visible
upon its highest point, before which the broken mast of some
wrecked schooner was planted in the sand; and half way up jutted
out a sign, on which was painted some figure, not intended to be
human. Some beaks, figure-heads, and gilded ornaments, the relics
of unfortunate ships, lay about, or were nailed over the doors.
The house, it must be confessed, had never borne an excellent
reputation. Gibbs and Wamsley had resorted to it frequently, and
are said to have made some deposits of treasure in the sands of
the island which have never yet been turned up. The boatmen who
tarry there usually do so, for the purpose of some drunken spree
too riotous and noisy for the main land. But the Devil-Tavern had
at least one merit, for it discarded all semblance of hypocrisy,
and did not even assume to itself the vestige of a good name. It
may be said that the present one was forced upon it; at any rate
it had borne it a long time, and put forth no protest to vindicate
the reputation of the house. The virtuous were afraid of it, and
preferred, if carried thither in some summer excursion, to wander
about the hot beach, rather than seek the comparative coolness of
its walls. It had received its name for many reasons, any one of
which might be deemed sufficient. A hundred years ago its founder
was a man of such outrageous character, and withal so successful
in his career, that it was thought the very Devil helped him. He
was leagued with wicked landsmen, who, when they had accomplished
their nefarious plans, sailed hither, and revelled jollily until the
storm blew over. Many a bottle of pure wine was cracked in their
convivialities, very different from the vile and burning fluids now
served up at the bar. But Cargills was at last hanged, having been
taken unawares at the Anchor Tavern, in New-York, whither he went
when oppressed with ennui, and to get his feelings in tune. A set
of landlords succeeded him, any one of whom had made society too
hot to hold them. At last a certain humorist who happened to be
there, snatching a pot of paint one day, which was near at hand to
paint the bows of a schooner, clambered up by the aid of a ladder,
and inscribed upon the sign-board, with great freedom of brush,
a picture of that ancient gentleman, the Devil. He painted him
_rampant_, with all that dismal aspect which is usually attributed
to him, with hell-flames bristling from his forked tongue, his tail
coiled up and superfluous, while in the back-ground was an extent
of highly picturesque country, whence he had just issued, seeking
whom he might devour. The semblance must have been correct, since
by those that came there, the recognition was pleasurable and
immediate. Indeed, the frequenters of the place for the last fifty
years had been distinguished by the harsh term of hellicat devils.
Latterly, nothing specific had been alleged against the Inn, only
some murderous suspicions connected with the gangs which frequented
it, and the very unsatisfactory character of a bad name.

The present landlord, Floys Boyo, came here originally from Thimble
Islands, and managed to gain a miserable subsistence throughout
the year by the entertainment of strangers, and the sale of
strong waters. Of whatever else he did for a living, there are no
witnesses. We now proposed to make his acquaintance, and we could
have wished under better auspices, unless his hospitality would
overflow toward those thrown by accident upon his shores at an
inclement time. Objects were waxing dim in the declining light,
and the 'wind of the winter night' blew dismally around the coasts
of Scollop Island. We drew up the skiff upon the land, took
our over-coats and fowling-pieces, and went in the direction of
the house, along the ill-beaten tracks, with heads bent down to
shield us from the sharpness of the wind. Tertullian received my
reproaches for bringing me upon the expedition, and for conducting
the ship into such a harbor. The appearance of the house, upon a
nearer aspect, was eminently cheerless, without tree or dried bush,
or enclosure, or domestic animals, or any thing to remind one of
life, or cheerfulness, or hope. The wind had blown the white sand
to the very threshold of the door, while, scarcely visible in the
declining day, the Devil looked down upon us with a malignant leer.
A dim light appeared in front at the windows, through the only panes
of glass the house could boast. Nearly all were shingled over,
or otherwise stopped. The barking of a dog would not have been
unwelcome, though it had been a snarl. It was a place into which one
feels an instinctive reluctance to intrude.

There are some houses which by their very air and aspect, as plainly
as if characters of hospitality were written upon the lintels,
extend to the stranger the undoubted welcome of a home. Others
are guarded in all their avenues by their own repulsiveness. We
inspected the premises narrowly, examined the house on all sides,
as if the entrance were doubtful, then came again in front, and
looked up at the eaves. A little smoke curled out of the chimney,
indicating the presence of small warmth within. Tertullian set
up a strong claim upon the sympathy of the convent, by hammering
against the door with his musket. A response came from within
like the howl of a wild beast aroused from his lair, an outburst
of compound curses, unknown to the every-day swearer. 'Floys Boyo
is in his tantrums; knocking is too gentle an etiquette at the
Devil-Tavern; he must be mollified with hard words, and subdued with
counter-oaths. Follow me,' said Tertullian; 'it is but a specimen of
his airs and graces.'

Pushing into the room, we found it black and dismal, and all things
in correct keeping. The smell of gin filled it like a fume. In one
corner a small greasy enclosure of boards, breast-high, likewise
shut off by pendant pickets from the wall above, formed that
spiritual sanctum, usually called the bar. Behind it were a number
of dripping glasses, whose only washings were from the dregs of
those little corpulent barrels, and whose only wipings were from the
foul lips of the frequenters of the Devil-Tavern. An irregular file
of bottles and cracked decanters eked out the remaining crockery.
The beams and walls of the room overhead were darkened with smoke;
the floor was filthy; and greasy, unwashed vessels lay about in
profusion, among the remnants of chairs, and broken benches, and
the last timbers of a cradle, of which the baby was gone. Three men
moped in the fire-place, thrusting the heels of their gigantic boots
into the coals, muttering and cursing in cheerless companionship.
They were without coat, vest, or neckcloth, their red shirts
were open upon their necks and hairy bosoms, their marred faces,
lip-corners streaming with tobacco, harsh beards, and shaggy heads,
made them look like a group of infernals.

Floys Boyo, the captain of this delectable crew, was distinguished
from the rest by a scar or gash, which from the corner of his eye
came down his right cheek in a deep gulley as far as his nose, where
it branched off, and cut his upper lip into two parts, which had
been ill patched together.

'We're going to lodge here,' said Tertullian, walking up and
slapping Boyo upon the back.

'H--ll!' replied the other, not pretending to move from his seat,
while the rest of the company rolled up their eyes in silence.

'Yes; and want some south-side clams for supper; there's bread
enough in the boat.'

'You won't get no supper, and there's very little lodging for you.
Do you think we're as dead as door-nails, d--n you, and as deaf as
stones? Hammer the door down next time, will you? Bullion, call the
old woman.'

It was evident that Boyo meant to entertain us, notwithstanding his
threatening and sullen aspect; and although he fulfilled his word
by making no preparations for supper, yet a chamber was getting
ready for our repose in the cockloft of the Devil-Tavern. This,
in the inclemency of the season, and the want of another house or
place of shelter on the island, we considered a piece of princely
hospitality, worthy to be paid with gold. Ensconced within the jambs
of the fire-place (how different from the blazing, hospitable hearth
of the farm-house!) we read the horrid physiognomies around us,
and did not derive much comfort from the perusal. Silence reigned
in the company. The men had arrived at that brutal stage of the
process of intoxication, when the excitement of the brain having
passed away, there comes a sullen mood. A host of worse spirits take
possession of the man, which, if they are not so turbulent, are of
a more fiendish nature. The dull eye, the downcast look, the moping
silence, show forth the vile temper which lays its vindictive hands
on a woman, and speaks harsh words to the wife of one's bosom. Then
come lust, murder, revenge--the passions which vaunt themselves
less furiously at other times, and the slow working resolve of the
mutinous.

The night became colder, and the fire more dim. Floys Boyo ordered
Bullion peremptorily to fetch some 'kindlings.' The latter did not
disobey the command, but went out grumbling, and returned with some
sticks, and wreck-wood, and by the aid of the paint which adhered
to them, a more cheerful flame was produced. But it only served to
make the darkness more visible; to bring into stronger relief the
bar, the cobwebbed ceiling, the filth and squalid wretchedness of
the apartment. An uncomfortable feeling of insecurity increased
upon me, notwithstanding Tertullian's perpetual '_Courage!_'
and'_Cras magnum iterabimus aquor_.' Extremes are always suggestive
of their opposites. I thought of the cheerful study at home; the
fire blazing; the faces of friends; the hot-pressed volume, the
Magazines for the month. There, by the side of Blackwood, brought in
violent haste by the last steam-packet, lay the OLD KNICK., first
in our affections, whose plain exterior of blue but ill bespeaks
the luxury within; whose pages, co-rivals of the Alpine flakes, are
never stained by impurity; but there the old man chirrups with the
vivacity of youth, and the young has managed to assume the wisdom of
the sage. Both meet together in loving cheerfulness, and the ancient
sits in his gubernatorial chair, and puffs the long pipe in that
dreamy atmosphere. Let the old Dutch spirit reign for ever in 'our
beloved regions of Manahatta.'

A prisoner for the night in that dreary place, I felt as if I were a
thousand miles from the abodes of civilization; and as one naturally
does, amused myself by examining with intense curiosity the most
indifferent object which served to remind me of more congenial
places. I kept my eye long fixed on the lock of my fowling-piece,
which had the word 'London,' and the maker's name engraved upon it;
then looked in the bottom of my cap, and was peculiarly interested
with the vignette which accompanied the manufacturer's name; and
an old almanac seemed to link me with the literary world, although
it was out of date by several years. The pictured little page, and
calculations of eclipses which had come off, and gone into the musty
record of by-gone events, the signs of the zodiac, the prophecies of
wind and weather, the old maxim of 'early to bed and early to rise'
and the way to make an apple-pudding, these had a fresh interest and
a zest hardly to be equalled by Bulwer's last novel. I felt that
there must be an 'imperfect sympathy' between Scollop Island and the
great world of literature, art, and learning.

But a deeper sense of satisfaction and security arose from
the presence of woman. A fair face and a fragile form glanced
occasionally across the apartment where we were seated, but retired,
driven back by harsh words and vile language. It was the wife of
Floys Boyo. She bore about her the marks of former beauty, although
altered in all its lines by a prevailing expression of wo, but she
still performed the duties of a wife with unflinching patience,
though coarse and cruel treatment had long since rendered it a
heartless task. Floys Boyo married her in the comparative innocence
of his youth, before he had yet blunted all the kindly feelings
of his nature. He had taken her from the abounding plenty of a
farm-house, and from parents who loved her with the tenderness which
falls to the lot of an only child. Afterward, as is always the case
with a drunkard, he cherished her no longer with affection; dragged
her about from one comfortless abode to another; and at last, on
this desert place, cut her off from the last link which attached
her to her friends. Still she adhered to him, when she might have
returned to the bosom of her family; so hard is it to shake the
fidelity which is a component part of a woman's nature, and so often
in this world are the extremes of disposition linked together, the
fierceness of the vulture with the enduring gentleness of the dove!

It was not until a late hour that we left the kitchen of the
Devil-Tavern, and retired to our apartment for the night; for the
prospect of sleep did not bring with it much consolation, although
extremely weary. Floys Boyo conducted us, leading the way up the
steps of a perpendicular ladder to a landing, whence he stepped
into a cockloft, set down the lamp on an empty barrel, and departed
with an oath, grumbling about the trouble which we had given him,
and wishing us in the Rockaway surf. 'He is an atrocious devil,'
said Tertullian; 'let us inspect the den, while the lamp holds out
to burn.'

We found neither lock, catch, nor fastening of any description;
and to have our slumbers supervised by any of the amiable crew
below, was not pleasant. Having tortured ingenuity a little, we
took an eel-spear and a broken oar which lay on the beams beneath
the roof, crossed them, and secured them against the door by the
aid of some tarred ropes, which were likewise at hand. Then we made
a broken barb of the spear serviceable by jamming it violently
between the floor and the lower part of the door; after which
we lugged a heavy old chest, and deposited it, together with
whatever movables were to be found in the room. This done, we threw
ourselves down upon the straw in all our clothes, drew over us our
cloaks, and over these the blankets which belonged to the bed,
and placing our fowling-pieces by our side, abandoned ourselves
to the protection of a kind Providence. In less than half an hour
Tertullian snored prodigiously, and had I been stretched on clover,
fanned with the sweetest airs of summer, and without a care to
ruffle my tranquillity, I never could have slept a wink with such
an uproarious fellow beside me. As it was, there were other causes
which kept me wakeful. For, beside the fears which might assail one
at midnight in such a solitude, it was dismal to hear the winds
raving about the house; the bricks tumbling from the chimney and
rolling with a hollow noise down the roof; the blast now screaming
in your ear and instantly heard afar off, as if it had gone off to
join the troops of the winds; the rattling of doors and loosened
window-frames, and the creaking on its rusty hinges and slam-banging
of the sign of the Devil-Tavern. To this might be added the moaning
of pine trees as their heavy tops swayed in the grove, the plashing
of the waves on the still shore, the roll and confusion of the
breakers at Rockaway. How impatiently I counted the hours, and
longed again for the light of day, that scatters fears and vagaries
with the brooding shades, and imparts fresh life, and courage, and
determined zeal.

It must have been half past two o'clock, or thereabout, in the
morning, when, being all on the alert, I was sure I heard a movement
in the house. A sound came from below stairs like the gruff voices
of men engaged in low conversation. It kept dying away as the winds
exceeded it in loudness, and then it came back monotonous, and was
continued several minutes without cessation. Then a door opened, and
a confused whispering succeeded, after which, slowly, and with a
creaking noise, I heard steps, one by one, ascend the rungs of the
ladder; and springing up on my elbow, my heart thumped so furiously,
and my brain whirled in such confusion, that for a moment I could
hear nothing. But a bar of light coming through the crevice in the
partition, flashed across the wall. Then there was an evident
pressure and force applied to the door, which it resisted well. I
sprang out of bed, pressed my eye to a crevice in the wall, and saw
the red-flannel shirt of one of the men; then rushing back, I shook
Tertullian violently by the shoulders. He rose up a moment, uttered
something impatiently, and fell back into bed. 'Tullian!' said I,
shaking him energetically, 'Tullian! Tullian! up, for heaven's
sake! we shall be--(here I placed my mouth close to his ear, and
whispered)--_murdered!_'

He pressed his fists to his eyes, and sprang upon his heels. I
never knew him wanting in an emergency. He rallied his senses, and
understood my suspicions in an instant. He understood them, and
supposed them ill-founded. But as we stood with our fowling-pieces
in our arms, the violence against the door was continued, with angry
imprecations, by those without. It was evident that the pressure
of the whole gang was upon it, and it could not hold out long.
What could we do against their numbers, and with so contracted a
place for battle? 'Up with the window and out of it!', exclaimed
Tertullian. As he uttered the words, he sprang toward the sash,
uplifted it, and told me to leap. I set my foot upon the sill,
crouched down in order to squeeze through the narrow aperture, and
sprang in safety upon the sands below. The distance was not very
great, but it was a leap in the dark. Before I could look up for
him, Tertullian was by my side, the sash slamming down as he leaped,
and the broken glass tinkling in little pieces at our feet. At
the instant a crash, an onset was heard above; oars, eel-spears,
chest, chairs, and the whole barricade must have given way, a light
streamed into the room and lit up the casement, shadows flitting
about; a shout and confused mingling of voices met our ears; we
could distinguish those of Floys Boyo and his men: 'The birds have
flown!' 'To the shore! to the shore!' exclaimed Tertullian, grasping
my arm, and attempting to hurry me along.

It was very dark, and I remember that we rushed through the deep
sands in company with frantic haste, never turning round, now
cast down by getting our feet entangled in briers, then panting
on against the cold night wind. It seemed as if our pursuers were
very near us, nay, almost at arm's length, outnumbering us, with
the weapons of death in their hands, and the only remedy was to
flee, flee for our very lives! Already I imagined the grasp of
Floys Boyo upon my throat, and the death-struggle near. Life, with
its delightful memories, its hopes of the future, the loves and
affections which were in store for me, a host of ideas and emotions
rushed through my brain with the rapidity of characters perused upon
the same page. There was a sudden and intense conception of the
preciousness of life, and the agony of losing it; and persisting
in the chase, I felt as one does who labors under a horrid
night-mare, and is pursued by phantoms or fiends, while his limbs
refuse to do their office, and his shrieks are inaudible murmurs,
which die away in the utterance. Oh, my sisters! my fair cousins!
dear, and beautiful betrothed! would to God I had never come to
Scollop Island! Onward, onward we went, scarce guided by the dim
star-light. 'Tullian, Tullian, I can go no farther; we can never
reach the water's edge!' Scarce had I spoken when the ground gave
way beneath us, we plunged forward, and sank into a hollow twelve or
fifteen feet. Breathless and wearied, we lay together in the sand,
with our fowling-pieces by our side. We were in a sort of cavern,
where the earth caving in stood around in semi-circular walls, and
was slightly arched above us. The place was sheltered from the
northern blast, and a pine grove partly shielded it from the icy
breath which came over the waves, while the sun had shone all day
upon its sands.

Were we pursued by the gang?--or had my fears as well as my ears
deceived me. 'Hush!' whispered Tertullian; 'do you hear voices?
Here they come! Lie perfectly close; if the worst comes to the
worst----' At the instant a clamor was heard behind us, as if a half
a dozen men were calling to each other from different points; it
came nearer, and ever and anon the oaths of the crew were borne with
horrid distinctness to our ears. Floys Boyo's hoarse voice called
his men to follow him to the shore. They passed round the hollow
where we lay buried, through the pine grove, and so down to the
water's edge, where their lanterns kept flashing about as they ran
upon the sands with a vain search, and we heard the hollow tramp of
their feet, as they leaped upon a sedge-boat which lay anchored near
by. We examined our locks and percussion-caps, and lay silently,
looking up at the stars, in painful doubt and suspense, as to what
issue was at hand; and unwilling to part with our 'sweet lives.'

How dreary and disconsolate were those moments! What a contrast with
the present, the scene which I had witnessed only three evenings
before; lights, and voluptuous music, beauty, and the dance; now
Scollop Island, Floys Boyo and his chosen men, and above us the cold
sky, about us the howling winds, and perpetual roar and confusion
of the sea. Hark! that was a woman's voice! A scream! Inarticulate
sounds come up from the shore, as if another boat well manned had
arrived. They are on the return to the Devil-Tavern. They approach
us; now they are by the pine grove; their indistinct forms are
visible by the light of the lanterns; Bullion stood there in a
horrible tableau! 'To Bone Cavern! to Bone Cavern!' we heard them
say, but the wind blew the remaining words away. 'Tullian! Tullian!
now comes the trial! Here they are!' murmured I, leaning my head
upon his shoulder. 'Stand fast! stand fast!' replied he. We held our
hands upon the triggers of our fowling-pieces. The men stood upon
the bank directly above us, causing the loose sand and gravel to
roll about us, and bury us still deeper, while the twigs and bushes
were now and then illuminated by the dancing lights which glittered
upon the ends of our guns.

It seemed at that moment that my heart, which had been fluttering
so long and fast, became perfectly calm, and wound up by the
excitement of the crisis which had at last come. I lay there,
uncertain, yet ready and composed, listening intently to every
word which they said. While I ardently awaited their movements,
they turned their backs upon the place where we lay, and moved
off; the light of the lanterns disappeared; their voices becoming
more and more indistinct, at last died away; and except the waves
which plashed upon the shore, there reigned a deep silence: we were
comparatively safe. We drew the sands around us, and lying close
together in our coats composed ourselves for the night. In a little
while Tertullian snored; and I myself, overwrought with excitement,
fell fast asleep. It was a sleep without dreams; and when we awoke
the sun had risen, and was shining into our eyes. We sprang from
our resting-place, clambered to the summit of the bank, and looked
around us in the direction of the Devil-Tavern. There hung its sign,
still creaking in the breeze, but not a sign of life appeared around
it. Its inmates must have resigned themselves to slumber. It was a
bright day, and the solitary island looked pleasant. We ran to the
shore, pushed off the skiff which lay safely in the place where we
had drawn it, seized the oars, and pulled merrily. The breeze blew
cold, but refreshing, and the sun glanced over the waves. We were
full of life and vigor, delighted with the idea of a safe return.
In a little while we paused to release some choice spirits which
were imprisoned in a bottle of old Otard. Tertullian poured forth a
volume of pure Latinity, and again a chorus was heard over the waves
which might have roused Floys Boyo and his crew:

    'Cheer up, my lively lads,
    In spite of wind and weather,
    Cheer up, my lively lads,
    And----'

The 'Spasm' shot over the waves with the speed of light; the shores
faded in the distance; our ancient adversary the Devil was lost in
his pictured proportions; and with a light heart we bade farewell to
Scollop-Island, and to the hospitalities of the DEVIL-TAVERN.




AN EPITAPH.


    ALL that could suffer change and fade
      Of one 't were sin to weep,
    Deep in this narrow bed is laid
      In everlasting sleep.

    The grassy turf was never spread
      Above a gentler breast;
    O! bitter, bitter tears were shed,
      When she was laid to rest.

    Her praise might partial friendship swell
      With not unseemly pride;
    But this were vain--enough to tell,
      She lived, and loved, and died.

  JAMES ALDRICH.

  _New-York, June, 1843_




JUNE.

BY HANS VON SPIEGEL.


    SWEET June, the loveliest child of all the year!
      With quickened life I hail thy slow return,
      And feel my torpid soul within me burn,
    As on the hill-side's verdant slope appear
    The well-known flowers that mark thy presence near.
      And not alone am I in loving thee!
      For Nature dons her richest livery
    When thou appearest; with a softer blue
    The sky pavilions earth; the forest's hue
      Is fresher; and the brooks more merrily
      Gurgle their slender, changeful melody.
    Were there a world where thou didst ever reign,
    And I, _alone_, could reach it. I would fain
    Dwell there for aye; nor sigh for earth again!

  _June, 1843_




CÀ ET LÀ.

BY THE FLÂNEUR.


IT is the beginning, the _premier pas qui coute_, in all
compositions. Once started, there is no difficulty in proceeding;
but how to begin! Shall we borrow of the prolific JAMES?

'UPON a lovely morning in November, that season of the year when the
woods have doffed their summer green to robe themselves in sombre
russet, two horsemen were seen riding down a glade of one of those
noble old forests which are still to be met with in some parts of
England. The elder of the two, a fine, soldier-like figure, sat his
horse,' etc., etc. And there we will leave him, and look out for our
own beginning. Strange that a chapter on this subject is nowhere
to be found in any book on rhetoric or criticism. For our part we
are determined not to begin at all for the present, but to propound
a number of queries suggested to us by the name of the exuberant
novelist above mentioned.

First, then: Why are tears always called 'pearly drops?' Would not
that definition apply better to drops of milk? Lands have been said
to flow with milk, but never did the wildest romancer assert that
the lachrymal duct in the human subject was a milky-way.

Then, why does the _chevelure_ of dark-haired persons always
resemble the 'raven's wing?' Why not his tail-feathers,
occasionally, for the sake of variety? Or a crow's wing, a
black-bird's wing? Or why not say, 'Dark as the wool on negro's
poll?'--or as the mane of a bay horse?--or 'as black as my hat?' Is
it absolutely necessary that it should always be a raven's wing?

When you say, 'cherry lips,' do you particularize sufficiently? Some
cherries are yellow, some black. Should you not say '_red_ cherry
lips? If any 'young orphan' happens to be engaged in novel-writing
when cherries are in season, let him place two in juxta-position,
and remark what a mouth such a pair of labia would make! Why are
these cherry lips always slightly parted? Does not this give that
stupid expression which the French call '_bouche béante_?

Why are all necks, not bull-necks, 'swan-like?' Why does swan-like
in necks mean beautiful and well-proportioned, and crane-like
abominably extended, when the neck of a crane is no longer than
that of a swan? Why are handsome noses always 'chiselled?' Why are
fingers always 'taper?' And finally, for we must stop somewhere, why
are beauties '_lovelier far in tears_?' Did swollen eyes, bound with
red, and nose pinkish in tinge at its extremity, ever improve the
appearance of any mortal since the flood?

As it is not fair to destroy without creating something to supply
the place of the destroyed, we take the liberty of showing our own
ideal in stories:

'UPON a crimson sofa, in a darkened room, sits a lovely lady. Bright
are her eyes as gas-lights in a shop-window; dark her hair as Day
and Martin's best; and her red lips contrast with her white skin as
do the red stripes with the white in Stewart's peppermint candy.
Salt tears trickle from her eyes as fall the drops from an umbrella
in a gentle November drizzle; and James's last novel lies unnoticed
upon her lap. Why sits the lovely lady on the crimson sofa? And why
does she rest her pensive and pomatum'd brow upon her embroidered
handkerchief?'

_That_ we flatter ourselves _is_ an exordium, over which a
discerning public may hang entranced.

'This young lady was hight Liner, Catherine Julia Liner. She wept
for love of Shuffleshank, her inconstant beau.

'For one whole season Shuffleshank, whose soul, if he had any, was
in his toes, hovered about Miss Liner, and attended her every where.
He waltzed with her night after night, (and Shuffleshank twirled
divinely,) and in the pauses of the dance he wiped the perspiration
from his face, and with his touching and tender eyes,

        'Gazed on the fair,
         Who caused his care,
    And wiped and looked, wiped and looked,
    Wiped and looked, and wiped again,'

until her parents and herself were quite certain of an offer.
He certainly owed her one. She deserved some compensation for
listening to his interminable stories, which were as monotonous
as long. So celebrated a narrator was he, that his friends, when
endeavoring to give each other an idea of some distance traversed,
would say, 'It was one of Shuffleshank's stories,' or two stories.
Sometimes unfortunate men could tell of a six-story walk, and these
were looked upon as persons of great strength and vast powers of
endurance. But the heartless, ungrateful Shuffleshank allowed the
mercury to descend in the thermometer of his affections for Miss
Liner, and gradually his attentions grew colder and colder, until
they sunk below zero and became neglect. But the faithless one did
not long survive his treachery. He broke his wind in attempting to
finish his tenth story that day, and expired soon after suddenly. He
was discovered lying on his back, his toes turned out, and his head
resting on a volume of Cotillons _à quatre mains_. His executors
found among his papers the first sheet of a pamphlet on his favorite
science, waltzing, dated only a few days before his decease.

You will pardon us, friend KNICKERBOCKER, for giving your readers
one or two original rules of so great a professor:

'RULE I. The _cavalier_ should endeavor to waltz with women of a
suitable size. The relative test is, that the noses of the couple be
on a level.

'RULE II. He should put his right arm as far round the lady's waist
as possible, and draw her toward him with the other hand, so that
the noses before mentioned shall be not more than half an inch apart.

'RULE III. In case the lady should be inclined to jump, he must hold
her down to the floor by pressing firmly upon her _tournure_.'

Society has indeed suffered a sad loss by his untimely death. But
before we go any farther with our story, we will give a crow-quill
_croquis_ of the career of Miss Catherine Liner, down to the period
of Shuffleshank's catastrophe.

'Miss Liner was of a good family: her pa, a retired merchant, with
some tincture of the humanities, and she herself well educated;
that is, she knew enough Italian to say _pesch'e_; enough German
for '_es ist warm_;' and enough French for '_Oh, vee_.' Music she
loved to distraction. True, she sometimes nodded at a concert, but
then it was only to beat the time, and when awakened by a crash, she
would shake her head in languid ecstasy, and sigh out a sentimental
'_ah!_' Or, if the nature of the air required it, she could shout
in a voice sonorous as a cricket's: '_Divine!_' '_magnifique!_'
'_grandioso!_' or the hardest word she might remember out of any
language. The gentlemen in waiting caught the cue; and men who
had not ear enough to keep time when dancing, were unintelligibly
scientific in _allegros_ and _andantes_, and made frequent and
familiar allusions to Hummel, Meyerbeer, Beethoven, and Weber. We
ourselves must plead guilty of claiming an acquaintance where we
never had an introduction. How true is that saying of Fuller: 'The
best of God's children have a smack of hypocrisy!'

Miss Catherine's papa Silas was rich, and Miss Catherine was
fashionable. She came out and offered a book-muslin view of
herself to two hundred and fifty warm people. Bouquets, ay,
double-bouquets, were sent her by insane beaux, by means of which
young gentlemen who only knew two ladies in the room were converted
into flower-stands for an hour or two, trying to look easy and
at home, by gently rubbing the camelias against their noses from
time to time. And when Miss Catherine had given a ball herself,
then did she become perfect in manner; then handled she her fan
with consummate dexterity, and adopted an expression of intense
fashionable agony when a badly-dressed woman passed by, or a clumsy
_Unshuffleshankian_ waltzer ran against her. Then sighed she in
German to a gentleman from Connecticut, lisped in French to a dandy
from Philadelphia, and whispered in Tuscan to her Italian master, if
he happened to be within hail. Then waltzed she with young men, warm
or cold, dry or moist; she would have taken a turn with a steaming
tea-kettle, if tea-kettles wore white vests and _valsed_. Then
danced she like a Bacchante, and only left the ball-room just before
the lights; while melancholy Silas, pining for his pillow, clasped
his hands and sometimes muttered, 'Ultima July;' and sometimes, as
if desparing of rest below, '_in coelo quies_.' To have seen Miss
Catherine Julia, you would have sworn that she was a descendant of
Lord Lanesboro', _si passionné pour la danse,_ who, after the death
of Prince George of Denmark, waited upon Queen Anne, and advised her
to take a quarter, by way of consolation.

Let us pause a while to take breath.




FORGET-ME-NOT: 'MYOSOTIS AVENSIS.'

FROM THE GERMAN: BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.


I.

    THERE is a flower, a lovely flower,
      Tinged deep with Faith's unchanging hue;
    Pure as the ether in its hour
      Of loveliest and serenest blue.
    The streamlet's gentle side it seeks,
      The silent fount, the shaded grot,
    And sweetly to the heart it speaks,
      Forget-me-not, forget-me-not.

II.

    Mild as the azure of thine eyes,
      Soft as the halo-beam above,
    In tender whispers still it sighs,
      Forget me not, my life, my love!
    There where thy last steps turned away,
      Wet eyes shall watch the sacred spot,
    And this sweet flower be heard to say,
      Forget! ah, no! forget-me-not!

III.

    Yet deep its azure leaves within
      Is seen the blighting hue of care;
    And what that secret grief hath been,
      The drooping stem may well declare.
    The dew-drops on its leaves are tears,
      That ask, 'Am I so soon forgot?'
    Repeating still, amidst their fears,
      My life, my love! forget-me-not!




OUR PUBLIC MEN.

NUMBER ONE.

PERSONAL TRAITS OF PRESIDENT TYLER AND HIS FAMILY.


THE interest which is felt in the personal history of a
distinguished man is materially increased in the person of Mr.
TYLER, for and against whom so much has been said and written. And
as I am no politician, but have had the opportunity of seeing a
great deal of our Chief Magistrate, personally and in private, I
propose to give to the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER a few personal
characteristics of the President, drawn from my own knowledge and
observation. They are not in themselves of any deep interest,
being such as arise in the every-day occurrences of life; but they
therefore the better portray _the man_, and are of much interest on
that account.

I remember one evening that a plain countryman from the interior of
Pennsylvania called upon the President, and seemed to eye him with
keen scrutiny. He was evidently a person well-to-do in the world;
who owned the acres that he tilled, and had a good many broad ones;
a holder of his own plough, from habits of industry rather than
from necessity; and one who, evidently, had always spoken his mind
without fear or favor. His plain but clean attire, and his honest,
open countenance and proper bearing, struck me very forcibly, and
reminded me of a remark which I once heard General Harrison make of
Tecumseh, the celebrated Indian warrior, who has been called the
'Napoleon of the West.' General Harrison observed that the Indian
was one of the most gentlemanly men he had ever seen. I asked him
how that could be?

'Why,' he replied, 'he had self-possession and self-respect.'

This old farmer had these manly qualities. After a long chat with
the President, he observed:

'Well, Mr. Tyler, you are a very different man from what I took you
to be.'

'How so?' asked the President, laughing.

'Why I thought you were a large, red-faced, haughty man, with your
hair combed back and tied in an old-fashioned cue, and that you
were as proud as Lucifer. Why, you are as plain as a pikestaff, and
as free-spoken as if you had no secrets in the world. I am glad
I came to see you, Sir; I have been much deceived.' And so has
every man been much deceived who has taken upon hearsay personal
prejudices against the President. His personal appearance is very
prepossessing. He is above the middle height, and slim, with long
arms, and a quick, active gait. His forehead is prominent and
very intellectual, with the perceptive faculties, according to
phrenology, strongly developed. His hair is light and thin, and
mixed with gray. His eye is a light blue, quick and penetrating; at
the same time it is frank and open, with a quiet humor lurking in
the corner. His nose is remarkably prominent, cheeks thin, and mouth
compressed. The whole face is full of character, and the features
are remarkably plastic and expressive; changing with every shade of
thought that passes through his mind. He is said to bear a strong
resemblance to the DUKE OF WELLINGTON, but his features have none
of that rigidity which marks those of the Duke. His conversational
talents are of the first order, and he tells a tale with great
unction and glee, and with remarkable effect.

I remember the first time I saw the President, I was invited to
dine at the White House by his son; and it so happened that after
dinner I fell into conversation with the Chief Magistrate upon
Mr. JEFFERSON, of whom he spoke in terms of great enthusiasm. I
have since seen a letter from an old friend of the President's,
reminding him that he had often expressed the wish before the
decease of Mr. Jefferson, an event which, from his advanced age was
long expected, that he might deliver his eulogy. It so turned out
that the President was appointed; and any one who will read the
different eulogies pronounced upon Jefferson, will be struck with
the republican appreciation of his character and virtues which Mr.
Tyler has set forth with such earnest and vivid eloquence.

I remember well seeing the President the day after the first veto.
Great excitement prevailed in all parties throughout the day. The
avenue was alive with groups of people in earnest talk, and many
visiters, particularly, members of the Democratic party, repaired to
the White House at night to tender their thanks to the President for
the course he had pursued.

In the dead of the night the inhabitants of the President's square
were aroused by the shouts of a drunken mob, who, with discordant
fife and old tin-pans for drums, proceeded to the executive mansion
and yelled, in consequence of the veto, those insults in the ears
of the President and his family, among whom was the wife of the
President, then in extremely delicate health. The day after all
this, I met Mr. Robert Tyler in the street, as I was proceeding to
my dinner, who invited me to dine with him, observing that there
was nobody at the house but the family. We entered the White House
at the southern front, and found the President seated with his son
Tazwell by his side, a lad of fourteen, whom the President was
teaching his lesson. It instantly struck me that there was a moral
energy in the President of which his enemies little dreamed.

    'Peace has her victories,
    As well as war;'

says Milton, in his splendid lines to Cromwell, and this is one of
them. For months every persuasion to which eloquence could give
power, had been exerted on the President, to obtain his veto on the
one hand, and his signature on the other. The Whig party, in the
plenitude of its power, personified in the person of their bold
leader, the 'lord of the lion heart and eagle eye,' and standing
on the grave of General Harrison, hallowed by his death, and full
of the dictation of success, felt themselves like Olympian Jove
with thunderbolt in hand ready to strike down to endless political
perdition the 'Acting President' if he dared to veto. The threat
was made in tones of thunder, by their great champion. But, lo! the
veto came, and calm amidst the breaking of the storm, the President
was teaching his little son his lesson. It was a Roman one. In
the battle-field a moment often decides the victory. A moment of
decisive action which requires no wear and tear of spirit for
days, weeks, and months--amidst imprecations and execrations--but
an energy which springs to life on the instant, such as Napoleon
exerted at Lodi, but which exhibits no greater powers of purpose
than President Tyler exhibited--for none but those who witnessed
it, can have any idea of the many and the powerful influences which
were brought to bear, to obtain the President's signature to the
Bank Bill--influences exerted not only by the distinguished and
the powerful, face to face with the Chief Magistrate, but through
the portentous threatenings of anonymous letters, of the most
assassin-like and dastardly character.

We all remember the effigy-burning that succeeded the veto, and
which, the President said, 'served but to light him in the path of
duty.' A little anecdote which occurred at the dinner-table one
day between Mr. John Tyler, Jr. and the President, will show how
good-humoredly the President bore a jest upon the subject. There
were several young gentlemen present at table, guests of the sons
of the President. The Chief Magistrate sat among them, enjoying the
talk with apparently as much interest as if the magnates of the
nation were around him.

The conversation happened to turn upon the question as to which was
the greatest man, Napoleon or Cæsar; and during the conversation,
Mr. John Tyler, Jr. chanced to observe, that he had seen it
stated, that Pompey's statue, at the base of which Cæsar fell, had
been discovered in some excavations made in Rome. 'Ah?' said the
President; 'well, John, was there any blood upon it?'

'You don't believe it, I suppose, father?' said the son.

'Why, John, I don't doubt that you have read of the excavation, but
I doubt very much if it was truly Pompey's statue; for, after the
lapse of so many centuries, the authentication of the statue must be
very doubtful.'

'Well, Mr. President,' replied his son, very archly, 'I will tell
you of one thing, of which there will be little doubt.'

'What's that?' asked the President.

'Why, some years from this, when some well-digger, or house-builder,
or other person, is excavating in the neighborhood of Nashville
Tennessee, Louisville Kentucky, or some other place that might be
named, he may light upon a stuffed Paddy some six feet high, the
earth half burned, with a rope around its neck: 'Ah, what's this?'
some one may inquire. 'Why,' replies another, 'it is the effigy of
that John Tyler, who vetoed the Bank Bill!'

'Ah,' said the President, laughing heartily, 'you have me there,
John.'

I may here remark of Mr. JOHN TYLER, Jr., who is the private
secretary of the President, that he is a very handsome man, with
courtly manners; that his partialities are to the study of the
sciences, rather than to politics; and that he has written a
pamphlet upon electricity, which is said to exhibit much knowledge
and originality.

Those who have not witnessed the terror which prevails among the
clerks, on a change of parties in power at Washington, or even of a
change of the head of a department, who, it is rumored, intends to
make removals, can have no idea of it. Some poor clerk, who supports
a large family upon one thousand or twelve hundred dollars, may have
inadvertently let slip an imprudent expression, which some ready
spy retails and makes public, with a thousand exaggerations, and,
lo! the report takes wind that he is to be removed. Then comes the
distress of his agonized wife and children, while the poor woman
hurries to the President, or to the head of the department to which
her husband belongs, to intercede for him, and save herself and
family from ruin.

When General Harrison came into power, multitudes of such fears
prevailed, and with fearful truth for their foundation. The good
old General himself had no wish to proscribe, but proscription was
the word with too many of his friends. I may mention a circumstance
which came under my own knowledge.

The head of a certain department, shortly before General Harrison's
death, turned out a clerk of his, who was accused of having busied
himself in politics--a poor man, who had a wife and six children.
She is a beautiful woman, but twenty-six years of age. Her agony
was such as to render her almost insane. The removal left her and
her children houseless and homeless, with the husband and father
in debt. Fiction has wrung many a heart to tears with a fancied
picture not to compare in sorrow to the truth of this. Shortly after
this removal, General Harrison died, and was laid in state in the
hall of the White House, whither flocked multitudes to gaze upon
his lifeless remains, and reflect upon the instability of earthly
power, and the vanity of all human greatness. I met the lady of the
removed official with, another lady, and but one escort, on their
way to look their first and last upon the departed President; and I
joined her. General Harrison I had known well, and I spoke of his
goodness of heart, and manliness of character, as we proceeded, with
an earnest truthfulness, which seemed to impress the wife of the
official, by whose side I walked.

'I blame ---- for my trouble,' she said, naming the head of the
department, half to herself; 'I believe the old General was
good-hearted.'

We entered the White House. In state, just before the entrance, lay
the General. His features were placid, and betrayed little or none
of the sufferings of the departed spirit. My companion gazed upon
him earnestly and long, and then said, with a hysteric start:

'I would to God it was ---- who was lying in that coffin! I'd give a
party to-night, poor as I am!'

One may well fancy how deep the agony of heart of a sensitive lady
must have been, to wring from her such an expression. In fancy,
she heard the voice of her children crying to her for bread; and
to her excited mind they appeared before her, dead as the departed
President, and of hunger; for so she said, in speaking of her
expression afterward.

It was a scene, in those days, to see the department 'let out,'
as the boys would say at school. The aspect of those clerks whose
political bias was known to be against the party in power, was
lugubrious enough. They did not look like gentlemen who, after their
official labors were over, were going to their dinners, but as if
they were wrapped in sorrow, and wending to a funeral.

One day, shortly after the succession of President Tyler, a certain
gentleman turned out fifteen of his officials, in one fell swoop.
They got their notices that their services were no more needed
by the department, about two o'clock, P. M. The public gardener
happened to be in the President's grounds when he heard the news,
and seeing the President on the portico, he advanced to him and said:

'Mr. President, only think of it; they're turning all the poor
clerks out.'

The President immediately despatched a note for the official, who
was soon in the President's presence, and ready to recount the
political sins of the expelled.

'Reinstate them,' said the President; 'I cannot bear to have their
wives and children coming to me with accounts of their sufferings,
when I can prevent it.'

The President never thinks of making a display of mere official
dignity. He never thinks of the _President_, unless he is fulfilling
some presidential duty, or unless some one presumes, from his
kindness of manner, to encroach upon his dignity; and then the
encroacher instantly discovers how much he has erred. This, more
than one senator and representative can tell, who has undertaken the
task of dictation to the President.

Dickens, who found so much fault with our institutions, and our
people generally, justly remarked of our Chief Magistrate, when he
called to pay his respects to him: 'The expression of his face was
mild and pleasant, and his manners were remarkably unaffected and
agreeable. I thought that in his whole carriage and demeanor he
became his station singularly well. And yet, as I have before said,
he never seems to think of the display of official dignity.'

A distinguished artist who had been employed by the King of France
to copy Stuart's full length likeness of WASHINGTON which hangs in
the White House, was invited by the President to be his guest while
copying the picture. The President also employed him to take the
likeness of himself, Mrs. Robert Tyler, and his youngest daughter,
Alice. The artist's manners were distinguished by the profoundest
observance of courtly etiquette; and the Jeffersonian ease of the
President's manners served to surprise him. I remember one day while
the family circle were all seated round the fire after dinner, the
artist rose, and with a profound salaam, said: 'Mr. President, with
your permission I will retire to my work.'

'My good fellow, do just what you please,' replied the President,
good-humoredly smiling, as the artist bowed himself out of the room.

The President has a peculiar power of inspiring confidence in all
who approach him. In the summer-time it is the custom for the
National Band of the Marine Barracks to play alternately at the
Capitol and in the President's grounds. Crowds of citizens, with
senators and representatives accompanying the ladies of their
families, walk through the grounds while the band is playing, salute
their acquaintances and chat with their friends till the music
ceases, when they all, as the sun goes down, loiteringly leave. The
President and his family always appear on the portico that fronts
on the grounds of the White House, to which steps ascend from both
sides, and receive their friends and acquaintances, who call on
these occasions to pay their respects to the Chief Magistrate and
his household. His manners are so very unpretending that, but for
the respect that is paid him, you would not distinguish the Chief
Magistrate from the group among which he familiarly mingles, unless
you were an observer of character, and then you would know him from
the absence of all restraint in his person and conversation, and the
freedom and entire frankness of his intercourse with those around
him.

On one of these Saturday afternoons, two countrymen, who looked like
persons who had come to market, approached the portico, evidently
with a desire to see the President. One of them asked a gentleman
who was ascending the steps, which was the President. The gentleman
pointed out the Chief Magistrate, and asked the countryman if he
would like to be introduced to him.

'Why,' replied the countryman, 'I am not of his way of thinking, but
they say so much about him and against him, that I should like to
have a good look at him, any how.'

'Come up; he 'll be glad to see you. Won't your friend come?'

The friend declined; and the gentleman with his new acquaintance
beside him, who gave him his name, ascended the steps. The President
instantly noticed the countryman, and observed that the visiter felt
some diffidence in approaching him. Mr. Tyler accordingly quit the
group by which he was surrounded, and advanced to meet him. On his
name being mentioned, the President gave him a hearty shake of the
hand, and asked him from what State he came?

The countryman replied, from Virginia.

The President entered into conversation with him, and they stood
talking together some ten minutes or more, when with a smiling
countenance, and a frank offering of his hand, the visiter withdrew.

'There,' said the President, as the visiter left, 'is a man who,
consulting the native manliness of his impulses, has a propriety
of deportment that is better than any thing that Chesterfield has
taught. He is one of Nature's noblemen.'

After hearing this remark, the introducer was anxious to know what
impression the President had made upon a political opponent, who had
made such an impression upon the President. He accordingly followed
him as he walked away with his friend, who had waited below.

He was persuading his friend to go up and be presented to the
President, and his introducer overheard him say:

'I tell you what it is, neighbor, I believe they lie about him
faster than Eclipse can run.'

The President is truly a republican. He is often heard to express
the loftiest sentiments of patriotism in his family circle, when
he can have no purpose of popularity in view, but merely the wish
to give utterance to his feelings. A visiter at the White House
remembers well on one occasion, being then the only guest, when
the Rhode Island difficulties were in their midst, when some one
laughingly asked him, 'how he would like to be a King?' The reply
was: 'I am afraid, in spite of my democracy, that I should say what
the king of Prussia said to Doctor Franklin, that were he in the
Doctor's situation he would be a republican too; but being born a
king, he was determined to support king-craft.'

The President, who was gazing out of the window, and as it was
thought not at all attending to the idle talk, turned quickly round
and said with animation:

'I would rather settle the Rhode Island question upon the true
principles of the constitution, establish a just treaty with Great
Britain, and give my administration an honorable place in the
history of the republic, than win and wear the most princely crown
in christendom.'

The jokes between Mr. WISE and the President are often very amusing.
Mr. Wise is the devoted friend of the President. The representative
from Virginia drives a little one-horse carriage, and one day the
President observed to him:

'Wise, that carriage of yours looks like a candle-box on wheels; why
don't you get a more genteel one?'

'Why, Mr. President, it is a much more genteel one than yours. You
keep four horses, which you don't drive more than once a month; and
when you do, you hitch them to a second-hand carriage.'

'Why, Wise, how did you find that out?'

'Find it out? Didn't you drive it about for a month, with the coat
of arms of Mr. PAULDING, late Secretary of the Navy upon it?'

'What of that? Is not Paulding the real Simon Pure of the democracy?'

'Democracy blazoning its coat of arms!' replied Wise. 'I was really
glad one day when I stopped at the carriage-maker's to get my truly
republican vehicle mended, to see the ex-secretary's carriage there,
and a workman employed erasing the coat of arms; making a plain
pannel for your excellency.'

'Well,' replied the President, 'I claim to be descended from Wat
Tyler, the blacksmith, and I had better have a good stout arm
grasping an uplifted hammer, blazoned on my pannel; don't you think
so? It would be a real democratic knock-down to Paulding's heraldry.'

Speaking of the President's carriage, reminds me of an anecdote of
his coachman, Burrell. Somebody asked Burrell which he liked best,
Virginia or Washington?

'Virginia,' replied Burrell. 'I think there are more gentlemen in
Virginia, Sir, than there are about Congress. In Virginia, Sir, if a
gentleman wanted to abuse the President, he wouldn't come right by
his carriage, where I, his coachman, am sitting, to talk it out so
as I can hear it. I, Sir, I've waited on him ever since he was first
married; I ought to know what kind of a man he is; and the way they
lie about him makes me so savage sometimes, that I feel as if I'd
like to have some on 'em tied to a tree, and have fair play at 'em
with this horse-whip.'

This anecdote is enough to show what kind of a master the President
is.

When Pettrick the sculptor was stabbed by some midnight assassin, as
soon as the President heard of it he hurried to his studio, where
the deed was perpetrated, and not only ordered him to be provided
for, but saw him attended to himself.

One Sunday just after dinner, there were several loud ringings of
the front door bell, when the President, who had left a gentleman
alone in the dining-room, returned and said: 'They have it through
the city that I have been shot!'

'With paper bullets of the brain, I suppose they mean, Mr.
President,' said the guest.

'No,' replied the President, 'with leaden bullets from a pistol.
Come, walk out on the portico, and smoke your cigar.'

The President with his guest walked out on the portico, whither soon
came thronging a crowd of the President's friends, who, hearing the
report through the city, had hastened to the White House to learn if
there was any truth in the story.

There was no truth whatever in it; but every body present was struck
with the President's indifference to the report, and the absence
of all curiosity on his part as to how it originated. He only
remarked: 'If I am shot at, gentlemen, it will be more in malice
than in madness;' and apologizing, by saying that daily confinement
required that he should take exercise, he rode away in his carriage
unattended.

As a husband and a father, President Tyler is a model for any
man; and particularly for public men, who too often neglect their
families. For a very long time the lady of the President was in
feeble health, which terminated in her death last summer. It was
a beautiful moral spectacle to see the President, amidst all
the cares and perplexities of his exalted station, beset by so
many detractors, so devotedly watchful of Mrs. Tyler's declining
condition. In the midst of the veto days, when engaged in the most
animated political conversation, if Mrs. Tyler chanced to be in
the room, the President's eye every minute wandered to her, in
affectionate regard; and when she left the room upon the arm of her
son or daughter, he would watch her anxiously and in silence till
she withdrew, and would often remain in melancholy thoughtfulness
for minutes afterward, forgetful of the conversation and those
around him.

In bringing up his family, Mr. Tyler has been fortunate. His
daughters, except the youngest, Alice, who is at school, are happily
married, and his sons who are grown, Mr. Robert and Mr. John Tyler,
are gentlemen of honor, manliness, and intellect; and Tazwell, his
youngest son, is a lad of promise. Miss Elizabeth Tyler, who is
now Mrs. Waller, and living with her husband in Virginia, was much
admired in her bellehood when in the White House. Her unpretending
and gentle manners inspired with admiration all who approached her.

'Well,' exclaimed a fashionably ambitious young lady one day to a
gentleman who was attending her on a visit to Miss Tyler, 'if I were
Miss Tyler, I'd blaze my bellehood out as long as my father was
President, and make the most devoted lover in christendom bide my
beck in the crowd.'

The fair Virginian had no such ambition, and thereby proved herself
worthy of the manly heart that has won her.

Mr. ROBERT TYLER, the eldest son of the President, is a young man of
brilliant genius. As a poet, in high-wrought and vivid imagery, he
resembles Shelley, whose likeness he personally resembles; and as an
orator, there is not a speaker of his years in our country who has
made a greater impression than he made in two extemporaneous efforts
before the Irish Association. Bold, eloquent, and manly, he dashes
into his subject with his whole soul, while comprehensiveness,
energy, and point characterize every thing he says.

Certain persons, forgetting the decencies of life, have abused
and calumniated Mr. Robert Tyler in the most gross and libellous
manner. It is therefore due to him to say, that a kinder son, a
more devoted husband and father, or a firmer friend, those who know
him have never known. Magnanimous and chivalrous, he throws no veil
over either his actions or opinions; and his frank and high bearing
wins the regard of all those who come in personal contact with him,
however much they may have been before prejudiced against him.

The lady of Mr. Robert Tyler does the honors of the White House.
She is the grand-daughter of the late Major Fairlie, of New-York,
a soldier of the revolution, and a distinguished citizen, who was
well known to many of the oldest inhabitants of that city. Her
mother was a celebrated belle, whom our present minister to Spain,
Washington Irving, remembers vividly as his friend, and one of the
most brilliant women of the day; a fair and witty and most worthy
lady, who might well have inspired the author of the 'Sketch Book'
with those exalted perceptions of female character which glow so
brilliantly in his portraits of the sex.

Mr. COOPER, the celebrated tragedian, married this lady, and Mrs.
Tyler is their eldest daughter. Three years since Miss Cooper
married Mr. Robert Tyler. Dickens says when he visited the White
House, that Mrs. Tyler 'acted as the lady of the mansion, and a very
interesting, graceful, and accomplished lady too.'

The just perception of Dickens understood at once the character of
Mrs. Tyler. She does the duties of the White House with a graceful
naturalness that is remarked by every one, and she combines with a
keen perception of character, an acute sense of the ridiculous and
a ready wit, the most feminine gentleness of manner and deportment;
qualities which are rarely found in combination. Mrs. Tyler is
devoted to her children, and she dresses them as plainly as if
they were dwellers on a retired estate in Virginia. Her own attire
is simple, and she never departs from this simplicity except when
state occasions demand some little ornament. The greatest sense of
propriety marks her whole deportment in every relation of life.

Mrs. Robert Tyler is now on a visit to a married sister in Alabama;
for another beautiful trait of her character is her devotion to her
sisters and brother. The only inmates of the White House at present
(May first) are the President with his three sons, and Mrs. Jones,
his eldest daughter. Mrs. Semple, the President's second daughter,
is living in Virginia, and is a lady of great beauty, and in the
bloom of health.

The fine features of Mrs. Jones are wan with long illness. She
never leaves her room except on some balmy day, to take a short
ride. The President always accompanies her, supporting her in his
arms to and from her chamber to the carriage, with a tenderness as
gentle and as watchful as her own to her babe. The President, unlike
some distinguished statesmen of other as well as of our times, is
remarkable for his high estimate of female character. He receives
the lady visiters of the White House with a deference and respect
which has been much noticed, and which is not the manner of a
worldling and a courtier, compliment and hollowness, but the impulse
of a lofty and holy sentiment. When a lad at school, he prepared as
a theme for declamation an essay upon female education, in which the
boy expressed those opinions which have ever since been entertained
by the man.

The President is a man of the strongest sympathies. There is not a
human being about him, from his servants to his children, of whose
feelings he is not regardful, and in whose welfare he does not feel
a daily and living interest. If the day be cool, he will ask his
coachman why he has not his overcoat. If his servant happens not
to be cheerful, he will ask him, in the kindest manner, what's the
matter with him. And the complaint, if the servant have one, is
made without the least hesitation, and with the certainty that he
will meet at the President's hands both sympathy and justice. In
his intercourse with his servants he is always kind, and frequently
jocular, for he is a great lover of a harmless jest.

A few weeks since, the Irishmen of the Capitol waited on the
President in a body, and through Mr. Hobson, their orator, expressed
their gratitude for the interest he had taken in them, and their
profound respect for his character, to which the President made a
most eloquent reply.

It was amusing to watch the interest which the President's servants,
all of whom belong to him, except Wilkins, the butler of the
establishment, and his son, felt in his speech. They modestly took
their station by the door, to listen to their master's reply, for
they are devotedly attached to him.

'Short,' asked a gentleman, of one of these humble listeners, 'how
did you like the President's speech?'

'I always likes the President's speeches, Sir, but I don't think
this one of his happiest efforts. I prefers him, Sir, before a jury.
He can beat any man in Virginia, before a jury,' was the reply.

The President's love for Virginia is truly worthy of a mother, whose
'jewels are her children.' He delights in telling anecdotes of his
early days, in Virginia; and he always has the most cordial greeting
for his old Virginia friends, however humble they may be, when they
call to see him. How is such and such a one? he will inquire, from
the humblest laborer on a farm, up to the highest dignitary of the
State.

President Tyler is a man of very unsuspicious nature, and there is
no morbidity of feeling in him. He is always cheerful and natural.
In the midst of great difficulties of state, when the Cabinet
have held protracted meetings, and when, doubtless, there were
differences of opinion among them; when the Secretary of State,
with his beetling brows and cavernous eyes, passed by alone,
absorbed in his own thoughts; when Mr. Spencer's quick step lost
some of its elasticity, and the frank and firm Kentuckian, at the
head of the Post Office Department, wore an anxious look; and the
Attorney-General forgot, for a moment, his courteous salutation to
a friendly passer-by; when that true statesman of the old Virginia
school, Judge Upshur, seemed involved in what those who have not the
mind to comprehend him, call 'abstractions;' and when Mr. Forward
looked as if the cares of the Church, as well as those of the
Treasury were resting on his shoulders; the President would pass
from their midst to his family circle, assembled for dinner, greet
most cordially, and apparently without a care, whatever person might
chance to be their guest, and mix in the cheerful chat around him,
as if he had no thought but the wish to promote it.

The President is a statesman with no secret opinions. He speaks
out plainly whatever he thinks; and he listens respectfully, nay,
kindly, to the adverse opinions of others, without the least spirit
of dictation.

He is not the least of a formalist. If he has a guest, whom he asks
to take a glass of wine with him, he will himself search for the
keys of the side-board, if the servant happens to be absent, produce
the decanters and glasses himself, and tell some pleasant story the
while. When he talks of men, he speaks of their worth, and seldom
of their wealth. With his purse he is too open, and too often he
bestows more than his means warrant, upon some needy applicant, for
whom he can find no office, or whom he may think unfitted for one.

For the President his family have the most unbounded love. The only
restraint they know, is what they think he would not approve; and
their familiar talk among themselves is never checked, in the least,
by his entrance; it is, on the contrary, promoted.

These little personal traits of President Tyler and his family,
which might be easily extended into a volume, are offered to the
readers of the KNICKERBOCKER as being not without interest, since
they illustrate the private character of the Chief Magistrate of our
great Republic, and with the assurance that they are strictly true.

  F.




A CONTRASTED PICTURE.

FROM 'PASSION ODE,' AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY J. RHEYN PIKSOHN


I.

          IT was a glorious day
          When, on the winding way
      That led to Salem's towers and temple high,
          From the assembled throng
          Loud burst the choral song:
      'Hosanna in the highest!' rang the cry;
      While shouting thousands lined the road,
    And boughs of palm before triumphant JESUS strowed.

II.

          'Tis morning: and again
          The mighty crowds of men
      Tread Salem's streets and throng her towers high;
          Their many-voiced roar
          Swells louder than before,
      But 'crucify him!' is the savage cry;
      The furious curse the welkin tore,
    'His blood be on us and our children ever more!'

III.

          In vain false Pilate stands;
          No washing of the hands
      Clears from the heart the tinct of innocent blood.
          The crowd, with cruel care,
          Load his shoulders bare,
      Like Isaac's, with the sacrificial wood:
      And the red lash, with many a blow,
    Scourges his faltering steps along the road of wo.

IV.

          Nor stripes, nor mockery,
          Nor heaped-up agony,
      Can wring from infinite Love one vengeful word:
          While suffering JESUS stands
          Amidst your pagan bands,
      And ye laugh round, ye cruel hearts abhorred,
      Hear the LORD'S dying prayer for you:
    'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do!'

V.

          Through the city doors
          The shouting tumult pours,
      And up the steep of Calvary they wind;
          Golgotha! on thee
          They plant the accursed tree;
      No pity can the God of pity find.
      Pierced were the hands that gave them bread.
    And fast 'the beauteous feet that brought good tidings' bled!




THE MAIL ROBBER.

NUMBER TWO.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'KNICKERBOCKER.'


'SIR: At a prayer-meeting held in the house of a friend of mine,
in Bleecker-street, one of our most respectable and talented
financiers, and who was connected with myself in the late
Post-office transaction, of which I have favored you with a
development, I was thunder-struck at being shown the last number of
your somewhat amusing but reckless Magazine.

'My friend is a subscriber of yours, and was of course greatly
agitated and offended at the unexpected and astounding disclosure
of the private affair which you have so unwarrantably dished up for
the public. As was very natural, he charged me with the authorship
of that communication; and as a man of conscientious principle and
high moral sense, I was of course unable to deny it. By this time
the other gentlemen, our colleagues in said Post-office business,
one of whom is in Bangor, the other in Texas, have probably seen
the article in question; and you will perceive that I am thus made,
through your violation of the sanctity of correspondence, to stand
with them in the odious light of an informer.

'Sir, I supposed that your common perception of what is due to
the ordinary courtesies of epistolary intercourse rendered it
unnecessary for me to desire you not to publish any thing of a
personal nature. What is to become of our '_areas_ and _focus_,'
of our altars and fires? what is to become of the bonds of social
faith, the cherished sentiments of domestic communion, the implicit
confidence between man and man, if delicate matters of peculiar and
single interest are thus to be blurted by an unreflecting conductor
of a journal into the face of all mankind and half New-York? To
use the emphatic expression of the western settler, who returned
from hunting to find his house and family rifled, (rifled in both
senses,) and the walls of his cabin plastered with the brains of his
wife and children, it is 'a little too ridiculous.'

'The mischief, however, is done, and is past recall. The least you
can do is to make what pecuniary compensation you consider due to my
outraged sensibilities. Your Magazine is reputed to be profitable,
and for the pile of correspondence which I have placed at your
disposal the remuneration ought to be generous. I am no judge of
poetry, but the quality of the article which I have sent you I have
several times heard spoken of as _first-rate_.

'If you will enclose a draft through the post to the address of
'A. B. C. D. E. F.,' a portion of the fund shall go to soothe the
lacerated feelings of my friend in Bleecker-street, and the rest
shall be devoted to charitable purposes, or to the temperance cause.

'I had intended to write more fully upon this very vexatious
subject, but as the ladies are waiting for me to attend a revival at
the Tabernacle this evening, you must allow me to subscribe myself,

  'Yours, truly mortified, ---- ----.'

       *       *       *       *       *

FEARLESS in the discharge of our duties to the public, as an
'able editor,' we have no hesitation in following the example
of all able editors, and give to our readers whatever we think
will be considered as a fair part of their money's worth. It is
very odd that our sensitive correspondent, so keenly alive to the
sufferings of his friend, the talented but lacerated financier
of Bleecker-street, does not see that the same sympathy which he
insists upon would equally apply to the persons abroad, whose
letters he has 'so unwarrantably' made public. This, however, is in
the true spirit of the age, which is so remarkably obtuse to that
proverbial fact in natural history, that the same sauce which suits
the female gander is equally adapted to the male goose.


LETTER SECOND.

TO THOMAS CARLYLE, ESQUIRE, LONDON.

    HEREWITH a box, a fragrant casket, goes,
    Of that loved herb which best in Cuba grows;
    You had my promise, Thomas, you remember,
    In Fraser's shop, one morning last November,
    Of, now and then, a letter from the land
    Which cocknies write of ere they understand.
    Pick then the choicest of the weeds I send,
    (The Custom House will give them to my friend,)
    There having paid the duties that accrue,
    Permit me thus to pay mine own to you.

    And oh! how difficult each London wight
    Finds the more Christian duty--_not_ to write;
    For John is reckoned taciturn and shy,
    Slow of address and sullen in reply;
    Bacchus or Ceres, burgundy or ale,
    To rouse his fancies are of no avail;
    But would you force the fellow's mettle forth,
    And of his genius know the pith and worth,
    In vain you ply him with inspiring drink,
    Give him a bottle, not of beer, but _ink_:
    However tongue-tied, asinine, or dull,
    A quill ay proves a cork-screw to his skull.
    Hence this poor land so scribbled o'er has been,
    'Tis like a window in some country inn,
    Where every dolt has chronicled his folly,
    His fit of belly-ache or melancholy;
    With memorandums of his mutton oft,
    And how his bed was hard, his butter soft;
    How some John Thompson, on a rainy day,
    Found nought to eat, but very much to pay,
    And how said Thompson wished himself away.

    Ye reverend gods, who guard the household flame,
    Lares, Penates, whatsoe'er your name,
    What dire subversion of your sway divine
    Lets loose all cockneydom to tempt the brine?
    Why from the counter and the club-room so
    Flock the spruce trader and the Bond-street beau?
    Why should the lordling[A] and the Marquis come?
    And many a snug possessor of a plum,
    Quitting his burrow on the 'Ampstead road,
    With wife and trunks be flying all abroad?
    Is it in rivers and in rocks to find
    Some new sensation for a barren mind?
    To mark how Albion's little nook has grown
    To kiss the limits of the roasted zone?
    From kindred manners, doctrines, men, and sects
    To learn a lesson of their own defects?
    Or with rapt eye on cataracts to look?
    No, their sole passion is--to spawn a book.
    From the cold Caspian to the Volga thus
    The sturgeons pour pell-mell--a mighty muss![B]
    Eager with annual industry to strow
    The slimy bottom with whole heaps of roe;
    Scarce less I say the multitudinous fry
    Each season brings to keep a diary;
    Which oft, to give my simile more truth,
    Proves 'caviare' to the general tooth.

    Ere yet my glance anatomized aright
    The insect race that fluttered in my sight,
    Oft as the mote-like myriads of Broadway
    I scanned, their trim and bearing to survey,
    At each third passenger I could not choose
    But curl my lip, with frequent _pshas!_ and _poohs!_
    To mark the vanity, the coarse conceit,
    That showed the creature's genus to the street.
    'Was ever nation like Sienna's vain?'[C]
    Says father Dante, in sarcastic strain;
    And in my book-learned ignorance I quoted
    The line, to fit the follies which I noted.
    Surely, quoth I, could emptiness and froth
    And the poor pride of superfinest cloth
    To more excess be carried than by these
    Pert, whiskered, insolent Manhattanese?
    But soon I found how poor a patriot I,
    'Twas _mine own countrymen_ I saw go by!
    Pride in their port, defiance in their gait,
    I saw these lords of human kind with hate.
    O, altered race! with hair upon your chins,
    In your strut Spaniards, Frenchmen in your grins;
    The 'snob' and shop-keeper but ill concealed
    By boots of Paris, bright and brazen-heeled,
    Newmarket coats, and Cashmere's flowery vests,
    And half Potosi blazing on your breasts,
    Made up of coxcomb, pugilist, and sot--
    Are ye true Englishmen? I know ye not!

    With what fierce air, how lion-like a swell,
    They pace the pavement of the grand hotel;
    On each new guest with regal stare look down,
    Or strike him dead with a victorious frown;[D]
    These are the fools whom I for natives took,
    Ere I could read their nation in their look;
    Now wiser grown, I recognize each ass
    For a true bit of Birmingham's best brass.

    In Astor's mansion, where the rich resort,
    And exiled Britons toss their daily port,
    And sometimes angels condescend to sip
    Their balmy hyson with benignant lip,
    A nook there is to thirsty pilgrims known,
    But sacred to male animals alone,
    Where foreign blades receive their morning's whet,
    As deep almost in juleps as in debt.
    There from the throng it pleases me at times
    To pick out subjects for a few odd rhymes.
    And who could guess, amid this cloud of smoke,
    That yonder things were hearts of British oak;
    Or who that knew the country of their birth,
    Could by the gilding guess the fabric's worth?
    Come, let us dare these lions to attack,
    And hang a calf-skin on each recreant back.
    Some are third cousins of the penny press,
    Skilful a piquant paragraph to dress;
    Some in their veins a dash patrician boast--
    Them Stülz has banished from their natal coast:
    Here sits a lecturer, bearing in his mien
    More glories than he bought at Aberdeen.
    These are tragedians--wandering stars--and those
    Some little nobodies no body knows,
    Manchester men, deep read in calicoes.

    Thomas, your soul abominates a quack,
    Great, small, high, low--the universal pack.
    And sure our London is a proper place
    Wherein to study and detest the race.
    But O, consider in a land like this,
    Which owns but one distinction, aim, and bliss;
    One only difference, by all confessed,
    Betwixt earth's vilest offspring and her best;
    One sole ambition for the young and old,
    Divine, omnipotent, eternal gold;
    Where genius, goodness, head and heart are weighed
    By the false balance of delusive Trade,
    How small, how impotent is Truth's defence             }
    Against the strides of that arch-fiend, Pretence,      }
    The time's worst poison, blight, and pestilence!       }
    Here, only here, a bold and honest lie
    Its full allowance of success will buy.
    No sanctity of station, age, or name,
    Can check the Charlatan's audacious aim;
    'A self-made man' is here a fav'rite phrase,
    So self-made talents earn their self-made praise.
    Whate'er a freeman claims to be, he is;
    He knows all magic and all mysteries;
    No matter in what sphere the scoundrel shine,
    He made himself, and that's a right divine.

    Come, then, ye mountebanks of all degrees,
    New Cagliostros! fly beyond the seas;
    Fiddlers from Rome, philanthropists from France,
    Lords of the lyre, the lancet, and the dance;
    Hydropathists, and mesmerisers, come;
    Ye who Cremonas and Clementis thrum,
    Here build your altars, hang your banners out,
    Laurel yourselves, and your own pæan shout;
    Assume what little, take what coin you will,
    Profess all science, arrogate all skill:
    What though no university enroll
    Your name and honors on a Latin scroll?
    Sure each may constitute himself a college,
    And be himself the warrant of his knowledge.
    Then at small cost in some gazette obtain
    Alike an apotheösis and fane:
    Amid its hallowed columns once enshrined,
    Converts and worshippers you soon shall find,
    Buy of the editor--'tis cheap enough--
    The sacred incense of his potent puff;
    The public nose will catch the sweet aroma,
    Tut! they who advertise need no diploma.

    'Good heavens!' methinks I hear my Thomas cry,
    'With what a low, derogatory eye
    You view the beautiful, primeval shore
    Where first-born forests guard the torrent's roar.
    What! is there nothing in that lovely land
    Mid all that's fair, and excellent, and grand,
    Nothing more worthy of a poet's pen
    Than sots and rogues and bastard Englishmen?'
    Patience! philosopher: as yet I dwell
    In the dull echoes of a tavern-bell;
    My inspiration is not born of rocks,
    Nor meads, nor mountains white with snowy flocks;
    Streets and their sights are all that fire me now
    To tap the bump ideal of my brow;
    Mine ears are thrilled not by Niagara's noise,
    But that of drays and cabs and bawling boys;
    And scarce the day one quiet hour affords
    To fit my fancies with harmonious words;
    Yet oft at evening, when the moon is up,
    When trees on dew and men on slumber sup,
    Along the gas-lit rampart of the bay
    In rhymeful mood as undisturbed I stray,
    Awhile my present 'whereabout' I lose,
    And on my loved ones o'er the water muse.
    Sometimes lulled ocean heaves an orient sigh,
    Which brings our terrace and its roses nigh;
    While each Æolian murmur of the sea
    Seems whispering fragrantly of home and thee;
    But something soon dispels the pleasing dream,
    The fire-fly's flash, the night-hawk's whistling scream,
    Or katydid, complaining in the dark,
    Or other sound unheard in Regent's Park.
    For wheresoe'er by night or noon I tread,
    Thought guides me still, like Ariadne's thread,
    Through shops and crowds and placard-pasted walls
    Till on my brain Sleep's filmy finger falls
    And cuts the filament, with gentle knife,
    That leads me through this labyrinth of life.
    I feel it now, the power of the dull god;
    The verse imperfect halts--Thomas, I nod;
    'Tis late--o'er Caurus hangs the northern car;
    My page is out--and so is your cigar.

  T.W.P.

  [A] See New-York Police Reports.

  [B] Moss. We had always taken this word, so common in New-York, to
  be pure and choice Manhattanese, and thought our cockney friend
  was at fault: but on looking up the authorities, we find that one
  SHAKSPERE, a person of quondam reputation, has used the same word in
  the same way.

    ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

  [C] 'Or fu mai Gente si vana come la Sanese?'--DANTE.

  [D] A modest line borrowed from Doctor JOHNSON'S 'Irene.'


MEMORIALS.

  WHO that surveys this span of earth we press,
  This speck of life in Time's great wilderness,
  This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,
  The past, the future--two eternities,
  Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare,
  When he might build him a proud temple there;
  A name that long shall hallow all its space,
  And be each purer soul's high resting-place?




LITERARY NOTICES

     TRAVELS IN EGYPT, ARABIA PETREA, AND THE HOLY LAND. By Rev.
     STEPHEN OLIN, D. D., President of the Wesleyan University. With
     twelve Illustrations, on Steel. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.


THE descriptions of the Eastern hemisphere, by enlightened
American travellers, are the richest contributions to our native
literature; and especially the pictures of Western Asia and
Egypt, with which the constant perusal of the Bible has already
made us familiar. Hence, the principle declared by Dr. OLIN in
his preface is undeniable: 'An unexceptionable book of oriental
travels is a commentary upon the Bible, whose divine teachings
derive from no other source illustrations so pleasing, so popular,
and so effective.' This statement is true, not only of the erudite
researches made expressly to elucidate the apparent difficulties
in the sacred volume, but also of the unpretending notices of the
visiter who merely records the objects as they passed before his
eyes, and the actual impressions derived from the scenes as he
surveyed them. From the first publication of that pioneer work,
'_Harmer's Observations_,' through all its successors of the same
character, the result has been identical; the evidence has been
progressively cumulative, to verify the infallible accuracy of
the historical details connected with the scriptural archæology;
and to American citizens probably the illustrations of antiquity,
especially of Palestine, Egypt, and the intermediate Deserts, are
the most acceptable; because our native travellers have none of the
prejudices and prepossessions with which almost all the European
monarchists, and especially those of Britain, are trammelled; and
the anti-Asiatic citizens of this republic inspect the 'modern
antiques' of the old countries through a medium of original
freshness and simplicity, which give to their narrative a peculiar
naïveté and vividness, evidently distinguished from the impressions
on the minds of Europeans. The correctness of this position is
obvious on all the pages of Dr. OLIN'S interesting volumes; and
while he has expressly and designedly excluded all exhibitions of
'critical, philological, and antiquarian learning,' he has yet
given us a work which, instead of satiating the desire to know the
character of Egypt, Arabia Petrea, and the Holy Land, produces an
earnest solicitude for a more extensive and profound acquaintance
with those countries, with which all our loftiest mental and devout
associations are inseparably conjoined.

It is not an easy task to specify any particular passages which
require distinct notice, in volumes where all is so excellently
adapted to interest and edify; but we may remark that Dr. OLIN'S
disquisition on MOHAMMED ALI is the best article that we have seen
on that topic. Every pure sensibility of the heart is awakened, as
we peruse the writer's transcript of his emotions and reminiscences
while roaming along the Red Sea; as he read the decalogue on Mount
Sinai; studied the prophecies concerning Edom at Petra; contemplated
'the cave in the field of Macphelah;' chanted the songs of DAVID at
Bethlehem; surveyed the 'Potter's field;' 'fell among thieves' near
Jericho; bathed over the ruins of 'Sodom and Gomorrah;' walked in
the garden of Gethsemane; and explored 'the city of the great King.'
From all those subjects, lucid passages of great pathos and elegance
might be cited to recommend Dr. OLIN'S volumes.

The decisively emphatic testimony which he has given to the
dignified character and the noble qualifications of _all_ the
American Protestant missionaries, is of the highest importance
and value, and constitutes a very forcible recommendation of his
excellent work to every patriot and philanthropist. It is proper
also to add, that the amiable spirit and the expansive benevolence
which it every where developes, render it as grateful as it is
instructive and refreshing. We cannot, however, better express our
judgment of Dr. OLIN'S volumes, than in a sentiment from his own
preface: 'Whether considered in reference to the intellectual tastes
and habits produced or fostered by this species of reading, or to
the doubtful or pernicious character of the lighter literature
which it may supersede, every simple and true account of foreign
countries, of their physical or moral peculiarities, manners,
institutions, and historical monuments, and of their intellectual
and economical condition, brings a valuable contribution to the
best interests of education, good morals, and public happiness.'
Without doubt such will be the benign effects of the work before
us, wherever it is introduced. It will both extend very useful
knowledge, and exert a most salutary influence among all who peruse
it. Therefore we may hope, to adopt again our author's own language,
that 'the fruits of his weakness and affliction will promote the
cause which is so dear to his heart,' by the circulation of his
travels among Bible classes and Sabbath schools, so that his
'highest ambition may be gratified,' and that 'good reward of his
labors' be returned to him in ample abundance, for his perennial
enjoyment.


     A MEMOIR OF THE CONSTRUCTION, COST, AND CAPACITY OF THE CROTON
     AQUEDUCT: COMPILED FROM OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS: together with an
     Account of the Civic Celebration of the Completion of the Great
     Work, etc. By CHARLES KING. In one volume, royal quarto, pp. 306.

Mr. KING, by the production of this elaborate work, has linked his
name with one of the most grand and beneficent enterprises of the
present century, and the fame of which will be perpetuated so long
as the Croton river courses through our streets, or bursts in its
freshness from a thousand hydrants, or surges into the serene sky
from hundreds of fountains. We can well believe that the extent
and variety of research, and the perspicuous collation of relevant
facts, which this work exhibits, are the result of a toil which
could have been to the author none other than a 'labor of love'
for the renown of 'the city of his birth and his affections.'
Indeed there is nothing omitted, which could add to the interest
or value of the book. A preliminary essay presents us with a
cursory but clear and well-arranged examination and description of
the chief ancient and modern aqueducts, as well as of the devices
for supplying themselves with water, in use among the earliest
peoples. The memoir of the Croton Aqueduct is in all respects
complete and authentic; and includes, we are glad to perceive, a
sketch of the numerous attempts which, from an early day, were
made by the citizens of our metropolis to insure a supply of pure
and wholesome water. The principal public water-works of other
cities and towns of the United States are not forgotten: a general
description of them leaves nothing in this regard to be desired.
That this excellent record of our crowning glory as a city will
attain a wide metropolitan and State circulation, it would be unjust
even to doubt; but it should do more; it should be in the hands of
the citizens of _other_ cities all over the Union. Emulation of a
great local good may thus be stimulated, as well as that just pride
of _country_, which every addition to our public enterprises is
so well calculated to inspire. The volume, which is printed with
great luxury of type and paper, is embellished with a fine steel
engraving of the Croton dam, and three or four minor illustrations.
The dedication of the book to the people of New-York, and their
representatives in the successive Common Councils, is brief,
forcible, and in good taste. In short, the work is an honor alike to
the city and to the author.


     THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER, AND
     ADMINISTRATION OF THE SACRAMENTS; and other Rites and Ceremonies
     of the Church: according to the use of the Protestant Episcopal
     Church in the United States of America: together with the
     Psalter, or Psalms of DAVID. Edited by Rev. J. M. WAINWRIGHT, D.
     D. New-YORK: H. W. HEWET, Publisher.

Six numbers of this exceedingly beautiful publication are before us;
and we hazard little in saying, that when completed it will form one
of the most elegant volumes of a kindred character that has ever
been produced in this country. The whole work will be concluded
in twenty semi-monthly numbers, or within six months from the
present time. The illustrations consist of vignettes of a beautiful
character and design, and of sacred subjects, from the works of the
first masters, adapted to the Epistles and Gospels, and the Psalter.
That these will be tasteful and appropriate, may be inferred from
the fact that their arrangement and adaptation are confided to the
capable supervision of the accomplished editor. The greater part
of them will be selected from the English edition of the Pictorial
Prayer Book; many others, however, will be added from original
drawings, prepared expressly for the work, by Mr. J. G. CHAPMAN.
Thus far, they have been engraved in a masterly manner, reflecting
additional beauty upon the clear letter-press and pure white paper
by which the emulous printer is perpetuating the remembrance of
his care and skill. 'As an appropriate companion for the work, Dr.
WAINWRIGHT will prepare a history of the Liturgy, together with a
commentary upon the text and rubrics. This work will be embellished
with designs having special reference to the church in this country.
It will be comprised in twenty numbers. The whole will form two
handsome volumes in royal octavo. Either of these volumes may,
however, be taken independently of the other, so arranged as to be
bound in a single volume.' The cost of the numbers is but thirty-one
cents each! The enterprise has received the warmest eulogiums and
recommendations from the entire clergy of New-York and Brooklyn, as
well as from the clergy and laymen of other States.


     LAYS OF MY HOME, AND OTHER POEMS. By JOHN G. WHITTIER. In one
     volume, pp. 122. Boston: WILLIAM D. TICKNOR.

WE regard Mr. WHITTIER as one among the very first of our poets.
With one or two eminent exceptions, no one of our best writers
excels him in the melody of his verse, and the appositeness and
beauty of his imagery. There is, moreover, a depth of feeling,
an earnestness and ardor, visible in his later writings, which
sufficiently distinguish him from the herd who write verse as they
would write an advertisement; stimulated, too often it may be, by
the same impulse in the one case as in the other. Mr. WHITTIER never
sits down with a pen in his hand and a sheet of foolscap before him,
to 'pump up a feeling' touching some pliable theme or another, as
to the precise nature of which he is either entirely ignorant or
quite undecided. How many of our rhymists, miscalled poets, differ
from our friend in this! Sitting down with a desperate determination
to get up an _afflatus_; to write, and to rhyme, at all events;
to secure the requisite number of feet and the required number
of necessary lines; is a process of composition which can never
result in the production of poetry. A goodly proportion, and the
best parts (evidently so deemed by the writer, who has given them
the place of honor) of the volume before us appeared originally in
the KNICKERBOCKER. Much of the remainder, although not now first
published, will be new to many of our readers, to all of whom we
cordially commend Friend WHITTIER's neat and tastefully-executed
volume.




EDITOR'S TABLE


EARLY WRITINGS OF THE LATE R. C. SANDS: THIRD NOTICE.--Through the
continued kindness of the co-member of the 'Literary Confederacy,'
of which the lamented SANDS was so bright an ornament, we are
enabled to set before our readers another Salmagundi from that
gifted writer's facile pen. We have lately touched in these pages
upon the character and proceedings of the early Puritans; and as a
pleasant illustration of their peculiar views, manners, and customs,
we shall venture to select a few passages from '_Salem Witchcraft,
an Eastern Tale_,' in which SANDS's love of the ludicrous and the
burlesque is forcibly exhibited. The era of the story is that _annus
mirabilis_, 1692; the scene the town of Salem, (Mass.,) into which
a stranger, mounted on a charger, descended from John of Gaunt's
ploughing team, enters at a devout gait. This is FAITHFUL HANDY,
an ordained teacher of the Word, who has 'a recommend' from a
reverend brother to DELIVERANCE HOBBES; which 'recommend' in some
degree superseded the formalities of courtship in those primitive
days. Miss HOBBES was no Hebe, if we may judge from this sketch of
her person and features, taken as she turned round, while drawing
water at a well, to reconnoitre the new comer: 'SHE squinted in the
peculiar mode described by the poet, 'when one eye looked up, the
other looked down;' and was terribly deformed in her person. Nature,
in elaborating this rare article, seemed to have been trying an
optical experiment; as if to show, by adapting her crooked figure
to a parabolical reflector, how symmetry may be produced from
the most hideous and uncouth distortion. Her head, shaped like a
broad-axe, was garnished with a tuft of red wool, which 'streamed
like a meteor to the troubled air,' and would, if transplanted, like
the locks of Berenice, have affrighted the nations, threatening
pestilence and war. Her green eyes were set deep in her head, and
seemed affected, like the grass, by the hot weather. A huge hawked
nose covered half her face. Her ears were set like a dog's in the
back of her head; and her broad concave cheeks were rivelled with
seams, stigmatized with scars, and riddled with the small-pox.
Thin skinny lips, and a Bavarian poke of the chin, completed the
nomenclature of her charms; and the rest of her person tallied with
her face. Such was the dragon that answered in a shrill voice to the
parson's inquiries, 'Yes, Deliverance Hobbes lives here; and I am
her daughter Beautiful!' This was confirmed by the apparition of the
matron herself; who was the exemplar of her daughter's attractions,
except that her own charms had become mellowed by age, and contrary
to the usual course of nature, matured into something rather less
ghastly and horrible. She seemed to be informed of the purport
of her visiter's mission; for her first inquiry was: 'Be you the
minister that's got a recommend from Hugh Peters?' Faithful groaned
in the spirit, as he replied, he was; and as he entered the house,
could not repress an inward ejaculation: 'Hugh Peters had not ought
to have did this! The Lord deliver me from Deliverance Hobbes, and
the Gorgon, her beautiful daughter!' DELIVERANCE expresses her
willingness that the preacher should 'keep company with her daughter
Beautiful,' in which the latter acquiesces, with a supernatural
leer; whereat the preacher is greatly perturbed. 'She is too bitter
ornary!' he exclaims, mentally; and even a plentiful repast of
bread, butter, milk, hominy, pork, sweet-meats, pumpkin-pie, and
onions, cannot blind him to _that_ fact; hence he makes an excuse to
depart for a brief season, to visit his friend Goody MERCY PEABODY,
who lives hard by, promising soon to return:

     'GOODY PEABODY was very glad to see Faithful, whom she had not
     beheld before since he was a child; and he was much pleased with
     her daughter Patience, who was the very reverse of Beautiful
     Hobbes; being a healthy, clean-limbed, tidy, good-natured
     looking housewife. He now learned that Beautiful was as _ugly_
     as she was _bitter_; being a vast virago, and an intolerable
     slut. In short, it was soon settled that he should keep company
     with Patience, and let Beautiful shift for herself. As soon as
     Faithful had left the mansion of Goody Hobbes, which he did as
     fast as fear and his horse could carry him, the damsel whom
     he thus uncourteously shunned, having devoured him and his
     charger with her eyes, till they were out of the sphere of their
     vision, incontinently swallowed the remaining segment of the
     pumpkin-pie to which he had paid his most earnest devoirs, and
     waddled off to her dressing-room, to adorn her person for his
     expected return. In about half an hour she made her reäppearance
     in the parlor, which had been in the mean while swept and
     garnished. But not as she went out did Beautiful now return.
     She had exchanged the dishabille in which she was accustomed
     to perform her domestic duties for the whole paraphernalia of
     her toilet; and she now appeared arrayed in shreds and patches
     of as many different colors as are found in the neck of a
     turkey-cock, and loaded with every article of her wardrobe,
     which she imagined could give zest to her appearance, or add
     intensity to her charms. Her fiery locks, condensed to a focus,
     and curiously entwined with a green riband, much resembled a
     bunch of carrots dextrously garnished with grass. Her crooked
     carcase had been, in some measure, straightened by a pair of
     tight stays, which, reaching to her hips, prevented her, as she
     sat in a high-backed chair, from making any other than gyral
     contortions. Goody Hobbes, who had also paid some attention
     to her charms, sat opposite her daughter, admiring the second
     edition of her own perfections. Admiration of themselves, and of
     each other, for a while kept the two paragons silent. The elder
     at length broke forth: 'I guess it's high time for Faithful
     to be back.' To which the younger replied, 'I guess so too.'
     Then says the elder Hobbes, 'I guess there an't no witches and
     spectres at Punkapog-pond.' 'I guess there an't,' rejoined
     Beautiful. A long pause now ensued, which was broken by the
     matron's observing, 'I admire what keeps Faithful so long at
     Goody Peabody's.' 'I admire so too,' says Beautiful, who, from
     the bottom of her stays, spoke like one from the tomb. 'I admire
     how ornary Patience Peabody is,' quoth Deliverance. 'I admire
     at her too,' quoth Beautiful; 'how bitter she is! They say she
     has seen the black man.' Another long pause ensued, during which
     the impatience of the couple manifested itself by agitations,
     and writhings of their heads and extremities. Faithful not
     making his appearance, these spasmodic affections increased to
     universal and horrible convulsions of their whole frames; and
     they sat like two Pythonesses on their sacred stools, pregnant
     with inspiration, and looking unutterable things. At length, in
     the midst of her paroxysm, Deliverance bounced from her seat,
     exclaiming with vehemence, 'I notion to send Remarkable to see
     where the minister stays!'

REMARKABLE SHORT, a woman six feet in her stockings, and quite 'in
keeping' with the HOBBES family, is despatched after Faithful by
Deliverance, in these dulcet-words: 'Remarky, I wish you'd go down
to Goody Peabody's and look after the minister that ate supper
here. I notion that he's forgot that it's time for him to come back
and pray, before we go to bed.' Remarkable and her errand were
not very courteously received. Goody Peabody said 'she admired
what business such a long-shanked, ill-conditioned, bitter-looking
body as she, had to be snooping about other people's houses at
that time of night; that Faithful was going to keep company with
her daughter PATIENCE; that Remarkable had better return to her
employer; adding, that if she didn't troop in less than no time,
she would see if her help, PRESERVED PERKINS, couldn't help her.'
Remarkable, after a series of adventures, arrives at home, and
reports progress. Deliverance and her daughter Beautiful receive
the intelligence of the defection of the minister in a paroxysm of
anger and mortification; which ends in Beautiful's falling back in
violent contortions, exclaiming that she is 'bewitched by Patience
Peabody!' The village of Salem, it should be premised, was at
this period in a woful state of perturbation, if we may believe
COTTON MATHER, who tells us that 'the devils were walking about
the streets with lengthened chains, making a dreadful noise in our
ears; and brimstone, even without a metaphor, was making a horrid
and an horrible stench in our nostrils. And whoever,' he adds,
'questions any of these things, I hold to be a person of peculiar
dirtiness.' If we may believe MATHER, therefore, the 'Prince of the
Air' and his imps, with an innumerable host of spectres, phantoms,
apparitions, and hobgoblins, were let loose upon this devoted place,
and at the instigation of old women, potent in witchcraft, were
playing their damned pranks upon the inhabitants. Some delighted to
stick pins and forks in the tender flesh of innocent babes. Others
would grievously torment poor damsels, buffeting and tossing them
about in a most lamentable manner. Sometimes they would cause the
most serious and sober-minded persons to babble forth unutterable
nonsense in all the known languages of the earth, except the
Iroquois, in the which, it is said, the devil himself hath no
skill. At others, they would excite the worthy townsmen, yea, even
the selectmen themselves, to cut the most strange and fantastic
capers; performing those evolutions which the Greeks call [Greek:
kuzisan] and [Greek: ekkuzisan], now upon their heads they would
dance aërial hornpipes and fandangos; and anon going upon all fours,
they would bark like a pack of hounds, or bray like a troop of
jack-asses. Beside this, brutes, and even inanimate matter, were the
subjects of wicked sorcery: gridirons, shovels, and frying-pans,
clattered and rang, though touched by no mortal hand; spits before
the fire would fly up the chimney in the twinkling of an eye, and
anon coming down again, stick in the back-log in a spiteful and
portentous manner; and three-legged stools, slipping on one side,
would laugh to see the matron whom they had eluded, lie sprawling
on the ground. Naughty children would feign themselves bewitched
by some person against whom they had taken an antipathy, and would
kick, sprawl, and bellow, with wonderful agility, until they had
succeeded in moving the tender hearts of judge and jury, and had the
satisfaction of seeing poor Irishwomen hanged, whom their brogue
convicted of infernal colloquies, or some poor old lady ducked and
drowned, whom an unlucky squint showed to be possessed of an evil
eye. In short, the whole country was in an eminently distressed and
bedevilled predicament; and Beautiful Hobbes was a decided victim. A
universal twitching assailed her joints; a sheeted paleness usurped
her smoke-dried cheeks; the purple faded from the tip of her nose,
and the color of her eyes became a dingy yellow; and she exclaimed,
amid sobs and hiccups, 'Mother, there is a ball in my throat, and
Patience Peabody hurts me!' And she continued to roar lustily, and
pray for deliverance from her tormentor. Early next morning the
Justice of the County Court is informed that there is a decided
case of malignant witchcraft at Goody Hobbes's, where he is wanted
immediately, in his judicial capacity. Accompanied therefore by the
sheriff, and COTTON MATHER and his son, he straitway repairs to the
scene of bewitchment: 'When they arrived there, the room was full
of people. Deliverance and Remarkable were keeping guard on each
side of the bed in which lay Beautiful, who, as soon as the Justice
entered, uttered a terrible screech, and fell into hysterics.
Mr. Mather junior then walked up to the bed, and passed his hand
over the coverlid. They asked him what he felt? He said there was
something supernatural there, resembling a rat, and quickly withdrew
his fingers, having received a scratch quite across his hand. The
mob were now, by command of the Justice, turned out of the room,
and Mr. Mather senior made a prayer of half an hour's length;
Deliverance every now and then giving her daughter a spoonful of
brandy, to keep her quiet. When the prayer was concluded, Beautiful
was told to say Amen; but she only made a muttering sort of noise,
which sounded more like an imprecation than any thing else. After
many ineffectual attempts, they gave over asking her to repeat the
word; and the Justice asked her, 'Who hurt her?' She then answered,
glibly enough, 'Patience Peabody; she sticks pins in me; and there
is her spectre!' This was enough for the Justice, who ordered the
sheriff, in a magisterial tone, to seize and hold the body of
Patience Peabody until farther notice, at the same time calling
out of the window to one of the crowd around the house, to go down
to Dr. DRYBONES, and request his immediate presence. The messenger
found that worthy functionary taking his morning walk in the
grave-yard which adjoined his dwelling. 'He was a lank, long-visaged
figure, skinny and withered up in his person, and who bore a
considerable resemblance to one of his own dried preparations. One
would imagine from his appearance that he had become assimilated
to the spot where he usually perambulated; and where it was said
he had sent the greater number of his patients, as if to have them
under his more immediate charge.' Dr. Drybones repairs forthwith
to the possessed mansion, in a parlor of which the Squire and the
two Mathers are awaiting him. After the first salutations, they all
repair in a body to the chamber where Beautiful was lying, engaged
in her gymnastic exhibitions:

     'THE Doctor, at the head of the 'posse comitatus,' advanced
     solemnly up to the bed-side, and protruding his long skinny
     hand, took hold of the maiden's wrist between the fore-finger
     and thumb, with the true Esculapian gripe. Then closing his
     eyes, and holding in his breath, as if to condense all his
     sensibilities to the ends of his fingers, he began counting
     the pulsations. In about half a minute he pronounced, in a
     solemn, sepulchral tone, at each pause pouting out his lips, and
     smacking them in a curious manner: 'Pulse slow, and frequent;
     indicating a congestion of the cerebrum, and general plethora,
     together with a phlogistic diathesis; you understand me,
     Squire.' 'Oh, perfectly, perfectly; exactly so, Doctor,' replied
     the Justice, putting on one of his wisest looks; who, though he
     knew no more than a brewer's horse how a pulse could be slow
     and at the same time frequent, and also how this indicated a
     congestion of the cerebrum, yet did not like to confess his
     ignorance. 'And observe, Squire,' continued the Doctor, who had
     been lately reading a work on Nosology, and wished to show off
     a little before the Justice, 'observe, I say, the dilatation
     of the pupils, and the twitchings of the muscles, and the
     tossing of the extremities, and the spasmodic affection of the
     diaphragm, and the tetanic symptoms; you understand me, Squire;
     a very curious and complicated case, Squire.' The Justice, who
     at each stop in the Doctor's speech, had put in his usual 'Just
     so; exactly so; satanic symptoms, no doubt, Doctor;' coincided
     in this opinion. He also added that he had discovered the witch,
     and issued a warrant for her apprehension. Mr. Mather senior
     now came forward, and with a sneering and sarcastic expression
     of countenance, proposed, that as the Doctor understood the
     symptoms so well, he should exert himself a little to relieve
     them; at the same time insinuating that drugs and doctors were
     mere flea-bites, when opposed to witchcraft. 'Certainly,'
     replied the Doctor, in his deliberate tones, 'certainly, friend
     Mather, I shall do to the utmost of my poor abilities to fulfil
     the nineteen indications which offer. Of which the first is
     phlebotomy; the second a cleansing emetic; the third a saline
     cathartic; the fourth a potent anti-spasmodic; the fifth a
     relaxing sodorifie; the sixth----' 'Now may Satan take both you
     and your nineteen indications!' interrupted Mather senior, who
     was much offended by this pedantic and conceited speech; and
     whose indignation was vehemently aroused by his being called
     'friend Mather,' which he considered a downright insult, he
     having a most horrible antipathy to Quakerism. 'I tell you
     what, Drybones,' continued he, 'you are a person of a shallow
     wit, and small capacity for understanding these things; and
     touching the wonders of the invisible world, I hold you to be
     little better than an ass. Here Mather junior put in his oar,
     saying that Drybones was a quack, and an ignoramus, and that he
     would not trust him to bleed his cow. Drybones, however, who
     possessed a happy share of equanimity, and who prided himself
     upon his imperturbable countenance, paid no manner of regard to
     these discourses; but pulling out an enormous fleam-lancet, and
     turning to the Justice, exclaimed: 'Now by the blessing of God,
     will I open the jugular of this damsel!' Then calling for three
     small porringers, and setting the spring of his lancet, the edge
     of which he tried upon his thumb-nail, he advanced boldly up to
     the bed.'

The MATHERS interposed, however, and 'prevented the effusion of
blood;' it being considered by the strict Puritans as much a matter
of heresy for a doctor to interfere with a case of witchcraft, as
it is for a physician at the present day to treat one of canine
rabies by what is called 'regular practice.' The Justice and the
MATHERS, after the doctor had left the house, departed together,
discussing on their way many serious topics and profound questions
concerning witchcraft, sorcery, enchantments, good and bad spirits,
apparitions, and such grave matters; in which the elder MATHER
displayed so much and such various learning upon his general theme,
that it quite overpowered the Justice; who at last interposed,
saying, petulantly: 'Well, for my part I don't know nothing about
these things, and always did. A little law is all that I know.'
The Squire having arrived at home, is informed by the sheriff
that he has Patience in custody; when, accompanied by his 'divine
friends,' the man of law proceeds with magisterial dignity to his
hall of justice, where he finds a great mob of people, and hears the
dolorous shrieks of sundry frantic-looking women, which he finds on
inquiry to proceed 'from Abigail Williams and her gossips, who are
roaring out because Patience hurts them.' 'Ha!' said the Justice,
'I begin to smell a rat. That Abigail Williams has borne testimony
in every case of witchcraft that has occurred in this town since
the beginning of the troubles thereof; and if she had been pinched,
and pricked, and bruised, half so much as she says she has, she
must have been a corpse long ago.' 'Pray, young woman,' said he,
addressing himself to Patience; 'what is the matter with Beautiful
Hobbes?' 'I do not know,' said Patience; 'I reckon she is crazy.'
'But why does she cry out against you, for putting the black man
upon her?' 'I do not desire to spend my judgment thereon,' answered
she. The worthy magistrate seemed puzzled what to say next, and
turning to Doctor Mather, inquired, 'what was his judgment touching
the question, whether the devil could torment in the shape of a
virtuous person?' Mather made answer, 'that he should be proud to
communicate his poor opinion thereof at a more seeming time; but
held it best, under correction, to proceed with the business in
hand.' 'Well,' said the Squire, 'I believe there is no more to be
said. I must make out this young woman's mittimus, and have her
confined until the grand jury sit.' Faithful interposes for his
lady-love, remonstrates against her imprisonment, and offers to
undertake to make Beautiful repent her accusations before night,
if he might be allowed a private interview with her; at which
proposition MATHER expressed himself shocked, and severely reproved
Faithful for desiring to have infernal communication with a woman
accused of witchcraft. When the Justice and his reverend guests had
gone back to discuss the question, whether the devil could torment
in the shape of a good man, the crowd proceeded to the sheriff's
house, the women ranting, roaring, and screaming; the bedevilled
Abigail Williams, among the rest, walking as if afflicted by Saint
Vitus, screeching in the most painfully distressing tone, and ever
and anon falling into apparent convulsions; the mob the while
mingling their groans and dolorous wailings, as if Pandemonium had
broken loose in good earnest, and Satan had come again upon the
earth like a roaring lion. Meantime Faithful bends his way to Dame
Hobbes's, to remonstrate with the possessed Beautiful. He reaches
the mansion:

     'WITH a trembling hand he ventured to open the door, after he
     had knocked several times in vain. Through the smoke which
     filled the apartment, he saw the elder female seated by the
     fireside, with her chin resting on her palms, and a stump of
     a pipe in her mouth. Remarkable was lying, seemingly dead
     drunk, upon the floor, and snoring like fifty bull-frogs; and
     Beautiful, in a short gown and petticoat, was sitting on the
     side of the bed, discussing a large bowl of bean-soup. The old
     woman took no notice of Faithful, but continued smoking her
     pipe with great sang-froid; but the eyes of Beautiful twinkled
     with emotion at his appearance. With a mixed expression of
     countenance, where pleasure and surprise at beholding the
     preacher curiously blended with the bitter twist given her
     visage by the hot soup, she motioned him to sit down beside
     her. He obeyed with the dubious air of one who seats himself
     with a half-formed resolution of suffering the extraction of a
     grinder. She edged up to him, and asked him if he would have
     some soup; but he declined the offer with a graceful wave of
     the hand, telling her that he came to have a little private
     conversation with her. At this, Beautiful told him to say what
     he had to say, as Remarkable was too drunk, and her mother too
     sleepy, to overhear him. The preacher now commenced a long and
     animated expostulation with the damsel, on her conduct, in which
     he mingled threats and promises, reproofs and entreaties, in a
     subtle and orator-like manner. Beautiful at first heard him with
     great impatience, and seemed convulsed with inward emotion; now
     stifling a rising sob, and now gulping down a spoonful of the
     soup. He at last seemed to hit upon an argument that fixed her
     attention; for all at once she became quite calm, and as soon
     as he had finished, wonderful to relate, promised to behave
     herself, and not be bewitched any more. Upon this he departed,
     telling her that the Justice was coming in the evening to see
     how she did, and bidding her be careful, and mind what he had
     told her.'

Accordingly, when evening arrives, Faithful accompanies the Justice
and the sheriff to Goody Hobbes's mansion, which the 'visiting
party' enter with faces as long and serious as if they had come to
a funeral. The Justice breaks silence, by asking Beautiful how she
finds herself, to which she responds, 'I notion I feel better this
evening, and am not bewitched any more.' 'Then,' quoth the Justice,
'I guess you was crazy this morning.' 'I guess I was,' answers
Beautiful. The final result is, that Patience Peabody is liberated,
and Remarkable Short and Preserved Perkins, who have 'conspired
against the general peace,' cut a remarkable figure in the stocks;
where, being obliged to endure each other's company for two hours
side by side, they contracted an affection for that position; 'their
passions vacillated from the extreme of hate to that of love; a
sneaking partiality arose between them; Preserved afterward married
Remarkable, and a curious couple they were.' Faithful carried
back his blooming bride, with whom he lived a long life of peace
and innocence. 'They had thirteen children; the first was called
Welcome, and the last Content; and their posterity inherit the land
to this day.'

       *       *       *       *       *

MANY of our readers, who never had the good fortune to hear the
elder KEAN, will thank us for the annexed striking picture by SANDS,
of his personation of Shylock, in 'The Merchant of Venice.' It was
written for the 'Literary Journal,' a thin monthly pamphlet, which
closed its very brief existence some twenty-five years ago:

     'KEAN's manner in the first part is that of the miserly,
     calculating Jew; and it is not until the entrance of Antonio,
     that we suspect him of aught worse than usury. The sight of
     Antonio kindles his hatred, and he exclaims, 'Cursed be my
     tribe, if I forgive him!' We tremble for the merchant, and
     shudder, as with a sudden change of countenance he smooths the
     wrinkle of hate from his brow, and turns to his victim with,
     'Rest you fair, good Signior.' The speech in which he recounts
     the bitter scorn, the personal indignities he has received from
     Antonio, was finely given. It was not said entirely in anger;
     beneath his indignation could be discerned a malignant pleasure;
     and when he said, 'Well, then, it now appears you need my help,'
     his eyes seemed to flash with ferocious joy. The conciliating
     and jesting manner he assumed while settling the terms of the
     contract, was admirable, and the performance of the whole scene
     was without a fault. The passage most deserving praise, in the
     next act in which he appears, is the trembling eagerness with
     which he receives the news of Antonio's loss, as he exclaims,
     almost breathless: 'What, what, what! Ill luck, ill luck?' And
     even, while in his impious rapture, he thanks God, he still
     doubtingly asks, 'Is it true; is it true?' But it is in the
     trial scene that this gifted actor puts forth his strength.
     With what an unmoved air he listened to the Duke's exhortation
     to be merciful! His reply was not spoken with violence, in the
     loudness of anger, but with a horrid calmness in a subdued but
     chilling manner; and he asked, 'Are you answered?' in a tone of
     bitter irony. So fiendish a countenance we wish never to look
     upon, except when we know it is assumed, as when he sharpened
     the ready knife, and cried with a serpent hiss, 'To cut the
     forfeiture from that bankrupt there!' We almost quaked before
     the glance of his demon eye, as he seemed to gloat upon his
     victim. As he gazed on Antonio, his lips were slightly curled
     by the bitter smile of satisfied malice; his eyes were bright
     and distended with the joy of his revengeful anticipations;
     yet he neither spoke nor moved. We pass over many points, to
     notice his answer to Portia's suggestion, of sending for a
     surgeon, lest Antonio bleed to death. 'Is it so nominated in the
     bond?' And the expression with which he raises his eyes from
     the paper, and says, with a smile which a devil might own, 'I
     cannot find it--'tis not in the bond.' As the court proceeds to
     award the sentence in his favor, his face becomes lighted by
     exultation; his whole form seems to throb with joy; he bares
     his hands, and grasps the knife, with convulsive eagerness. But
     who can do justice to the sudden transition of his manner, the
     horror-struck, doubting air, the fixed rigid countenance, with
     which he hears the forbidding clause? When he finds utterance,
     it is but a sentence of four words which he pronounces. But how
     are they pronounced! The fingers which had clenched the knife
     gradually unloose their grasp, and fall nerveless and slowly by
     his side; the disappointed, dejected, almost exhausted tone,
     in which he with difficulty articulates 'Is that the law?'
     Surely this was the perfection of acting. We have beheld COOKE's
     representation of this character with delight, and have dwelt
     upon it with pleasure. But, great as it was, compared to KEAN's,
     it appears a cold performance. Indeed, Mr. KEAN approaches
     nearer to GARRICK than any actor since his time. KEMBLE has more
     majesty; COOKE possesses more physical power, and though not a
     good, yet a finely-modulated voice. COOPER has great advantages
     both of person and voice; but they are all deficient in that
     astonishing variety of expression, that power of reaching men's
     hearts, and causing them to tremble, which distinguishes Mr.
     KEAN.'

KEAN's power over the feelings of his audiences seems scarcely to
have been surpassed by any actor that ever trod the stage. Hosts of
admirers speak of him even now with unabated enthusiasm.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE subjoined beautiful reflections and yet more admirable poetry
are from an essay based oddly enough upon a version of one of the
monosyllabic poems of AUSONIUS; a string of verses, in which the
last monosyllable of each line forms the first of the next, and
the first is the same as the last; so that they may be read over
and over again without end. 'We take it,' writes SANDS, 'as a
good motto for a paper which we mean to write, without having any
precise notion on what subject we shall descant. We mean to make, on
something or other, 'a few plain and practical remarks,' as the Rev.
Mr. ---- says, when he means to preach a sermon five quarters of an
hour long.' The paper thus lightly commenced, closes as follows:

     'A MAN who lives out his threescore and ten years, or lingers
     beyond that period, must, in the common course of events, see
     the ordinary revolutions affected by time and death. At the
     middle of his career, he sees a flourishing family around
     him; friends and connections formed in his advancing course;
     attachments begun in sympathy, and cemented by interest. He
     lives on; and his children are scattered by the accidents of
     mortality, and their graves are in different countries. His
     friends have vanished from their former haunts, and the places
     that knew them, now know them no more for ever. 'He asks of the
     solitudes, where are they? and the hollow echo answers, Where?'
     There is no one to sympathize with his remembrances of the past;
     his infirmities become a grievance, or he thinks them so, to
     those around him; and he still feels that lingering attachment
     to life, which answers the philosopher's question, _an mors
     malum sit_, with the powerful evidence of consciousness. Hope
     and Memory delude the pilgrim in his journey, by the false
     colors with which they paint the scene before and behind him.
     'Man never is, but always to be blest;' and as the future,
     depicted by the fancy only, presents unmingled visions
     of delight, the past, mellowed by time, loses the little
     inconveniences which jarred discordantly with the passing
     music of pleasure; and its remembrance makes us regret what
     when present we neglected. It was under the influence of such
     reflections, that the following lines were composed. They were
     written in a prophetic hour by one who died young, and willing
     to depart:

    DELUSIVE world! whose phantom throng
    Still flit, with juggling smiles, along,
      To cheat the aching sense;
    Where, as in man's primeval tongue,
      Joy hath no present tense!

    Joy, decked in unsubstantial hues,
    The impatient fool for e'er pursues,
      Till when the form is nigh,
    The enchantress fair no more he views,
      And all her colors fly.

    But lo! 'tis there! 'tis there, again!
    He starts anew, on quest as vain--
      The enchantress is not there!
    But like a vampyre from the tombs,
    Behind, once more, the form assumes
      Its station in the air.

    Thus Hope and Memory still delude;
    Now with the future's fancied good,
      Now with the fancied past;
    Till comes eternal night to brood
      Above them both at last!

    While thus I mused, I heard a voice
      Of sweet and solemn tone:
    'O child of clay!' it said, 'rejoice,
      Nor woo despair alone.

    'For know thine age hath reached its prime:
      There is a race of men
    Who do but hail life's summer-time,
      And sink to earth again.
    With one swift flame their being burns,
    And soon their dust to dust returns'--
      Blest Spirit! tell me--when?

    Again the voice of music spoke:
      'There is a happier sphere,
    Where neither hope nor memory mock,
      Yet joy is present there;
    And dreaming souls to bliss have woke'--
      Blest Spirit! tell me--where?

    'Thou may'st with equal eye behold
    Hours, days, and years behind thee rolled,
      Grasping each present Now;
    Nor dread the moment yet to come,
    Nor weep o'er pleasure's mental tomb'--
      Blest Spirit! tell me--how?

       *       *       *       *       *

ALTHOUGH we find ourselves 'at the end of the tether,' we
cannot resist the inclination to present the following forceful
lines. Possibly the sentiment may be deemed heretical by the
very imaginative and the young; but even such, if tasteful and
discriminating persons, cannot choose but admire the melody of the
verse, and the beauty of the imagery:

THE POETICAL CHARACTER.

    IN fiction's devious wilds the heart misled,
      To dull reality ungrateful turns;
    Substantial earth's fair plains untempting spread,
      And day's blest beam with light unlovely burns.

    Yet not all Fancy's dreams, most wild and bright,
      Are worth one day of Comfort's calm routine;
    And simple Truth, attired in vestal white,
      Transcends her starry front and garments' sheen.

    And constant woman's fond and glowing kiss,
      And heaven's own workmanship of mortal charms,
    Are worth whole ages of imagined bliss,
      Lost in ideal Beauty's airy arms.

    The monster brood that cloudy spectre bore
      To rash Ixion, deem not half so vain
    As the fond progeny of minstrel lore,
      Nursed in the womb of a distempered brain.

    Why float these visions of delusive birth
      Before the wanderers on the wastes of time,
    Ordained to tread the firm, unyielding earth,
      Nor yet the spires of heaven forbidden climb?

    Is it that the soul divine, imprisoned here,
      Beyond its dungeon bars essays to roam,
    O'erleaps the due progression to its sphere,
      Sees forms and shadows of its destined home?

    Or, lost to innocence, to truth, to Eden,
      Did our dark curse not quench each early ray,
    But leave its broken beams, to light unbidden
      The checkered mazes of the exile's way?

WE have not exhausted the stores which our obliging friend of 'the
Confederacy' has placed at our disposal. When we have more space, we
shall resume the desultory series which we are compelled to bring
abruptly to a present conclusion.


GOSSIP FROM AN AMERICAN LADY IN PARIS.--We derive the subjoined
pleasant gossip from a young and gifted American lady, at present
resident in the French metropolis. We hope to be similarly favored,
whenever our fair correspondent shall find leisure from the demands
of society to transcribe her fresh 'jottings-down' for our pages:
'WE went to the Hotel des Invalides this morning to see the plans
in relief of the fortified towns of France. They are exhibited to
the public only during one month in the year. The plans of those
cities I have visited interested me particularly. They are so
minute that Miss L----, who accompanied us, had no difficulty in
finding the country-house near Toulon where she spent some months
last year. I was much struck by the plan of Embrun, in Dauphiny,
that little town celebrated in both history and romance by the
pilgrimages so frequently made to it by devout Catholics. It is
strongly fortified and built on a rock of semi-circular form, which
rises so perpendicularly on one side from the meadows which lie
below, that one would suppose it must have been hewn away by the
hand of man. I was much interested, too, by the plan of Mont St.
Michel, in Normandy, the celebrated prison, built on a rock, which
the tide separates twice a day from the main land, and where the
political prisoners condemned after the _émeuté_, in May, 1839, are
confined. We were looking at the plan of a fort, on the pedestal
of which the name had not been labelled as on the others, when a
soldier standing near informed us it was that of Ham, where the
nephew of NAPOLEON is now a prisoner. It is in Picardy, which I am
told is the most arid and unfruitful province in France. It is built
around a quadrangular court, or I should rather say there are three
buildings and a terrace which form a hollow square. The prince, who
is said to be a remarkably good horseman, is allowed to ride on
this terrace, which is not shaded by trees; indeed, if this plan
be correct, which I suppose it must be, as it has just been made,
there is but one tree within the precincts of the fortress.... In
the evening, my friend, Madame D---- took me to the house of the
Polish Princess CZARTORYSKI. Prince ADAM CZARTORYSKI is from his
birth, his wealth, and his character, one of the most illustrious of
the Polish refugees. His life has been checkered by every extreme of
good or ill. In early youth, he served in the army of the republic
of Poland. He was at one time the captive of CATHERINE II., and in
1831 was at the head of the provisional government of Poland. After
the total defeat of the Polish army, Prince and Princess CZARTORYSKI
with some difficulty made their escape, with their three children,
the youngest of whom was not a year old. The Princess had not even a
change of linen with her, and no time to collect her jewels, which
were brought to her after she had reached the Austrian frontier, by
a soldier, whom she had never seen before, and who refused to tell
his name. It is impossible to imagine a greater contrast than that
offered by the present mode of life of the Prince and Princess,
and the splendor by which they were formerly surrounded. Prince
ADAM was one of the richest proprietors, and possessed not one,
but several, of the most magnificent palaces in Poland, and was
accustomed from childhood to every comfort and luxury which wealth
could devise. The house he now inhabits is as simple as possible;
but he remains at home every Monday evening for the purpose of
seeing his friends and countrymen; and his _salon_ is always crowded
with the most learned men and most fashionable women in Paris. These
weekly receptions are attended with but very little expense here,
as tea and lemonade are the only refreshments it is the custom to
offer. Prince CZARTORYSKI is a most venerable-looking man of about
seventy. The expression of his face is habitually melancholy, but
at times he is very animated in conversation. Like most Poles, he
speaks low and very slowly. I remarked that he was particularly
polite and attentive to young people, which in a man, who, from his
various misfortunes and trials, can take but little interest in
general society, is, I think, very striking. The Princess, who must
be almost thirty years younger than the Prince, is very lady-like
and prepossessing in her manners. She is much beloved by her
_compatriotes_: her efforts to relieve those who are in distressed
circumstances being unceasing. She employs all her leisure hours
in embroidering; and her embroidery, which is more beautiful than
any thing of the kind I have ever seen, is sold at a bazar, which
is opened during the last week of every year; new-year's day being
the time when the French make those presents to their friends
which in England and in our country are made on Christmas day. All
the ladies of the Princess's acquaintance of course contribute to
her bazar; and those who are remarkable for their beauty or their
talents, are invited by her to keep the stalls. * * * MRS. B----,
whose son, a lad of about sixteen, is now engaged in attending the
_cours de religion_, or religious lectures of M. COQUEREL, one of
the clergymen of the Reformed Church of Paris, took me this morning
to hear one of the lectures. M. COQUEREL is the nephew of the
celebrated HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS, by whom he was educated. He is the
most eloquent, and I believe the most learned, clergyman in Paris. I
had been much pleased with his sermons, and was therefore very glad
to have an opportunity of hearing one of his lectures. His class
was composed of about thirty young men, of different ages, from
sixteen to twenty-five. He has written a little book called '_Cours
de Religion_,' which he makes use of in his lectures. The method
he adopts is this: He reads a paragraph from this little volume,
and then comments upon it, and explains or developes it, often
relating interesting anecdotes suggested to him by the subject, or
asking questions which the foregoing lectures enable the scholars
to reply to. The young men take notes, write them out at home, and
bring these papers to Mr. COQUEREL at the next lesson. The lectures
for young men take place twice a week, from October to May, and
those for young ladies at different hours during the same period.
The scholars are admitted to take the sacrament at Pentecost. M.
COQUEREL is a most active and industrious man. Beside several
volumes of sermons, and innumerable papers for different religious
journals, he has published a very useful work, called '_Biographie
Sacrée_,' in which every name mentioned in the Bible is to be found.
His manner is very animated; and as each lecture lasts but an hour,
it is impossible that the attention of the young hearers should
become weary.... 'APRIL 19th. Went to the exhibition of paintings by
living artists, which is now open at the Louvre. The most beautiful
picture there, is one by M. COGNIET; 'TINTORETTO painting his dead
Daughter.' The biographers of the great master inform us, that he
had a daughter who evinced great talent for painting, to whom he was
devotedly attached, but who died when young. M. COGNIET has chosen
the moment when TINTORETTO, rising from his easel, on which rests
the unfinished portrait, stands gazing on his beloved daughter, who
is lying on a bed in the fore-ground of the picture. The father is
almost _de face_, but the lower part of his figure is concealed
by the bed. A crimson curtain falls behind him, and forms a rich
but not gaudy back-ground to the picture and, by throwing a slight
reflection on the daughter's face, relieves the whole from that
disagreeable effect, which, with less judgment and good taste on
the part of the artist, it must have produced, without taking from
it the solemnity which the subject required. This is, on the whole,
almost the only picture of the modern French school which pleases
me entirely; in which there is no exaggeration of expression or
gesture, and which deserves to be compared to those of the modern
school of painting in Germany. I have no doubt that the circumstance
of an exhibition taking place every year is a great disadvantage
to young artists, who hurry to finish a picture for that occasion,
in order that their names may be mentioned in the journals, and
that they may obtain a celebrity which lasts but a few weeks. If
the exhibition took place but once in five years, I am convinced we
should see more fine pictures at the Louvre. Among the portraits I
remarked one of Major POUSSIN, who resided for so many years in the
United States. It is painted by Mademoiselle GODEFROID, a pupil of
GERARD, and is a very good likeness. I was struck by a portrait of
M'lle de FAUVEAU. This lady is of a noble family of Brittany, and is
well known for her devotion to the cause of the DUCHESS DE BERRI,
and for the talent she has displayed in the art of sculpture. She
is neither young nor handsome; she is dressed in the costume of a
peasant of Brittany, a sort of _blouse_ or loose frock, with her
hair cut short in a strait line across her forehead, as we sometimes
see it in the portraits of the early French kings. There is a
portrait of the DUKE OF ORLEANS at the Louvre. It was painted from
memory by SCHEFFER, a very clever artist. Some of the fruit-pieces
and portraits, _au pastel_, in colored chalks, are very beautiful.
Indeed, the French excel in this style of drawing. Among the
paintings on porcelain we particularly admired a Holy Family, copied
from one of the old masters. It is a perfect bijou. The day after
our visit to the Louvre, Mrs. R---- took me to the _atelier_ of Mr.
HEALY, the young American artist. His portrait of WASHINGTON, copied
from one by STUART, gave great satisfaction to LOUIS PHILIPPE, and
has been placed in one of the historical galleries at Versailles.
Mr. HEALY has now a beautiful picture of two of Colonel THORNE's
daughters, which he is retouching, at his room. The attitudes,
particularly that of the eldest of the young ladies, are very
graceful, and the whole picture in very good taste.'

       *       *       *       *       *

THE IRISH SKETCH-BOOK.--This capital work by 'Mr. M. A. TITMARSH,'
otherwise W. M. THACKERAY, Esq., author of 'The Yellowplush
Correspondence,' has just been published by Mr. WINCHESTER, at
the 'New World' office, in a very neat little pamphlet-volume,
illustrated with numerous engravings, from the pencil of the author.
Our readers have had repeated evidences of the high estimation in
which we hold the writings of Mr. THACKERAY; and they may trust our
judgment in this, that they will find the volume before us to be
second to no previous work of the writer. It is, in fact, Ireland
on canvass; its various cities and towns; its ludicrous modes of
travel, and more ludicrous travellers; its wretched poverty, its
generous hospitality; its suffering, and its indomitable good-humor.
We were not until now aware that Mr. TITMARSH was 'given to song'
as well as to romance and painting; but his 'Peg of Limavaddy,' a
handsome kettle-scrubber, who handed him his 'rummer' of ale, and
laughed so joyously at an accident which befel it, establishes the
'soft impeachment:'

    'PRESENTLY a maid
      Enters with the liquor
    Half a pint of ale
      Frothing in a beaker.
    Gods! I didn't know
      What my beating heart meant,
    Hebe's self I thought
      Entered the apartment.
    As she came she smiled,
      And the smile bewitching,
    On my word and honor,
      Lighted all the kitchen!

    'With a curtsey neat
      Greeting the new-comer,
    Lovely, smiling Peg
      Offers me the rummer;
    But my trembling hand
      Up the beaker tilted,
    And the glass of ale
      Every drop I spilt it;
    Spilt it every drop
      (Dames who read my volumes,
    Pardon such a word,)
      On my what-d'ye-call 'ems!

    'Witnessing the sight
      Of that dire disaster,
    Out began to laugh
      Missis, maid, and master.
    Such a merry peal,
      'Specially Miss Peg's was
    (As the glass of ale
      Trickling down my legs was)
    That the joyful sound
      Of that ringing laughter
    Echoed in my ears
      Many a long day after.

    'Such a silver peal!
      In the meadows listening.
    You who've heard the bells
      Ringing to a christening;
    You who ever heard
      Caradori pretty,
    Smiling like an angel
      Singing 'Giovinetti,'
    Fancy Peggy's laugh,
      Sweet and clear and cheerful,
    At my pantaloons
      With half-a-pint of beer full!'

We repeat, the 'Irish Sketch-Book' is a _capital_ work, and cannot
fail of very general popularity. The author possesses a delicate
appreciation of the beautiful, as well as a lively perception of
the ridiculous; a felicitous combination of faculties, since the
union of fine taste and strong humor seldom takes place in the same
individual.


'MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE.'--Some twenty-five years ago, a work in
two or three volumes, under this title, was republished in this
city from an English edition. One of these volumes lies before us;
and if it be a fair representative of its companions, an American
publisher would not find it amiss to put forth a new issue of the
book; for it abounds in keen satire, playful wit, and pleasant
humor. We have segregated from its numerous divisions a few passages
for the entertainment of our readers. A good deal of what is
termed 'criticism' upon works of art has lately been expended in
this meridian upon an undiscerning and unheeding public; yet we
propose to add to the amount, by copying the remarks of one Mr.
NED TESTY upon an exhibition of paintings and statuary, similar,
we may suppose, to the annual collections of our 'National Academy
of Design;' similar, certainly, in many of the points touched upon
by the critic. After a consideration of the Landscapes, 'with
their meagre subjects, lying perspective, and timid handling;
their frittered lights, lumpy shadows, indigo skies, and saffron
sands; their forward back-grounds, and backward fore-grounds; with
trees and meadows carefully colored from an emerald, and water of
such an hue and surface, that forgetting for a moment the season
represented, one looks narrowly after the _skaters_!'--after a
discussion of these, _en masse_, we are favored with the subjoined
'hits' at a particular '_Family Piece_:'

     A YOUNG man who 'wants encouragement,' had immortalized family
     affection, by representing papa standing up at one end of the
     picture, ('his lips glued to each other, and his bullet eyes
     wide open, though evidently seeing nothing,) and mamma at the
     other; the peace being kept between them without the loss of an
     inch of space, by their endless progeny, whose heights and ages
     the artist has most accurately registered, by stringing them
     strait out, closely linked together in a descending series, like
     the reeds of Pan's pipe, which they farther resemble in the lank
     uprightness of their figures, and the billious deadness of their
     complexions. The _next_ of these Domestic Scenes reproaches the
     idleness so remarkable in the foregoing, by the great variety
     of employment which it exhibits, with the additional advantage
     of allowing more elbow-room to the fancy of the painter; who
     in the first place has contrived to record, in the mother of
     the family, a truly exemplary instance of notability, combined
     with maternal tenderness; for she is seen, at the same point of
     time, engaged in nursing one child in her lap, rocking with her
     foot the cradle of another, hearing the task of a third, and
     eyeing the frolics of a fourth; and all this without seeming
     at all distracted from her needle, which she has just drawn
     out at the utmost stretch of her arm. The remaining children
     are all liberally supplied with such occupations or amusements
     as, when followed at proper times and places, must be allowed
     to become their sexes and ages, but which we are not exactly
     prepared to see going on as here, all at once in the same
     parlor. The young ladies of this extraordinary family can study
     their maps and globes, pore over their books, and even practice
     their music-lessons, without appearing once to know that those
     boisterous and unruly little dogs, their brothers, are cracking
     their whips, beating their drums, scampering about the room
     with their wagons, etc.; the very baby in the cradle, instead
     of being frightened out of its wits, as might reasonably be
     expected, only appearing to be lulled into a still sounder
     sleep, by the riotous gambols going on.'

Outraging nature is as common in art now as it was in the era of
NED TESTY. Here you may see the picture of 'a lady in full length,
gayly and archly tripping out in a hurricane by herself, in thin
fluttering muslin, without cap, hat, or bonnet, by the side of
a raging sea; where, if one may judge by the disposition of her
limbs, and the archness of her countenance, she is practising an
_allemande_ to the music of the thunder-claps which seem bursting
over her in all directions; yet without the slightest mark of
concern in her looks, or apparent apprehension of taking cold,
after dancing under such discouraging circumstances of dress and
weather; there stares a young miss strait out of the picture, with
one hand grown to her side, and the other to the monstrous head of
a Newfoundland dog, _sitting_ up exactly as high as she _stands_;
and near by, in another frame, a parcel of Months or Hours, in
petticoats, are smiling and dancing jigs round an emblem, in the
shape of a good-looking woman in green, who is supposed to be
Spring.' The critic wonders 'why they haven't got to changing the
Minutes, Seconds, and other inferior parts of clock-work into little
fluttering urchins.' But pause for a moment, reader, with hushed
respiration, while we set before you a specimen of _the Awful_!
There is an appropriate 'power of words' in the description of the
'grouping,' and doubtless the coloring was 'in keeping;' as much
so, perhaps, as in DICKENS'S picture of the Wise Men of the East
worshipping in a pink manger, or the Prodigal Son coming home in red
rags to a purple father and a sea-green calf, waiting to be roasted:

     'HERE is a piece equally stupendous in size and subject, bearing
     the semblance of having been furiously thrown upon the canvass
     in the dark, from the disordered pallets of all the painters in
     the Universe; a sort of maniac's vision, embodied into a rolling
     chaos, turbulently brewed up out of the warring rudiments of
     smoke! blood! fire! night! whirlwind! earth! and water; a
     ruinous huddle of every thing spiritual and material, real
     and conjectural, within and without the precincts of possible
     Nature; and of every mingling shape, shade, color, quality,
     and consistence; the whole congregated mass of discordances
     tumultuously wheeling, dashing, boiling, and thundering
     together, in one giddy storm of--NOTHING!' The figures of this
     landscape are entirely in keeping with it; 'ambiguous and
     reserved innuendos of beings, fluctuating somewhere among the
     shadowy and unsettled nomenclatures of incantation; demon,
     wizzard, griffin, goblin, demi-gorgon,' etc.

After a few more examples of 'single criticism' in this kind, we are
favored with a 'running commentary' upon the ostracised paintings
which adorn the upper tiers, and spaces over the doors: 'An upward
glance of your eye introduces you to those poor creatures in reduced
sizes, who are sent to Coventry at the top of the room, and strung
along, by way of cornice, close under the ceiling; figures! but
what language can adequately report them!--their wooden features,
their mortified complexions; their sneaking, disconsolate, condemned
looks; their quizzical head-dresses, and paste-board draperies;
their brick-dust curtains, increasing by contrast the chalkiness of
their cheeks; and that general and inveterate hardness of manner
which instantly chases away all idea of the elasticity of the
flesh, and the flexibility of cloth or linen. Hard!--adamant is
_pap_ to it!' The _Crayons_ 'afforded striking examples of worse
styles, by the help of worse materials;' there were still-born
efforts in black-lead pencil, from the hands of academical tyros;
wan historical sketches in water-color, by young ladies; imaginary
elevations of bridges that will never be built; naked fronts of
huge white houses, that sicken all eyes but those of the architect
and the owner; and chuckle-headed busts in plaster, of obscure,
pudding-faced moderns; likenesses in India-ink, '_done in this
manner_' for almost nothing; etc., etc. An exhibition of this sort
is certainly proved to be one of the miseries of human life, 'by
good witness.' But other miseries are enumerated; and chief among
them, the _humbugeousness_ of quack advertisers, and the gullibility
of the public; and a medical sample is cited, which would do honor
to any 'pill' or 'sarsaparilla' puff, of the present day:

     'I SHOULD be the most ungrateful of mankind, were I to delay
     for a moment to return my heart-felt acknowledgments for the
     blessings I have derived from your inestimable pill. Before I
     was so happy as to hear of its miraculous effects, life had
     long been a burden to me. I was an object no less horrible
     than piteous to behold, being so entirely covered, or rather
     crusted, from head to foot, with the most virulent blotches
     and humors, that I ought rather to have been called an _Ulcer_
     than a man. I was at the same time so miserably emaciated,
     that my bones rattled audibly as I moved, and my head itself
     seemed to hang to my shoulders by a thread. In short, to such a
     condition was I reduced, that, on being carried to my own door
     upon a litter, on my return home after a short absence in the
     vain search after ease, my wife, who chanced to meet me in the
     passage, insisted that they had brought me to the wrong house,
     for that she had never seen me before! The sound of my voice,
     however, but too cruelly undeceived her; and I was then conveyed
     to the bed on which I continued to lie, without stirring hand
     or foot, for more than thirty years. During this awful period
     matters were constantly and rapidly going on with me from bad
     to worse; scarcely an hour passed but some new and still more
     deplorable disease was added to the complicated list of maladies
     which were devouring me up piece-meal, in a manner; and it was
     a lucky day when I could say that one or more of my bones had
     not dropped clean out of the socket! Sleep at one time, I had
     none, for sixty-nine successive nights, unless I may call by
     that name a series of swoons, brought on by my agonies, and
     the weakness consequent upon my reduced condition. About this
     period, the flesh began to drop in large collops from my back
     and shoulders; and from one hollow which formed exactly beneath
     my left pap, my heart was absolutely naked and visible, by which
     my inquisitive surgeon was gratified, at my expense, with a
     living display of the whole process of _systole_ and _diastole_,
     as I think he called it. In this state of things, my case having
     been pronounced absolutely hopeless by every physician in the
     land, my friends began to think it was high time to call your
     invaluable remedy to my aid: and invaluable indeed it proved to
     me! No sooner had I begun to use it, than the most surprising
     alteration came on: while I was swallowing the first pill,
     I could plainly feel, to my inexpressible astonishment and
     delight, that a new and perfect growth of healthy flesh was
     rapidly forming in every part of the skeleton to which I was now
     wasted down; and before I had taken the third, I had reason to
     suspect, from certain strange and indescribable sensations, as
     if of some hard substance pushing or shooting forth in different
     places, that the numerous cavities left by the bones I had lost,
     were about to be filled up by a new process of ossification;
     which, sure enough, was presently found to be vigorously and
     prosperously going on. My appetite, too, very shortly became
     so dangerously keen, that it was reckoned prudent to refuse me
     a third fowl at my dinner. But not to trouble you with too many
     particulars, (which to you, indeed, must be mere shadows of a
     thousand still more extraordinary cases,) I will simply say,
     that by persevering in the course for one week more, I felt not
     only that every symptom of disease had absolutely vanished as
     if by magic, but that I was suddenly able, (which I had never
     been in the best days of my youth and strength,) to perform the
     most athletic feats in leaping, wrestling, boxing, etc., without
     the slightest sensation of fatigue. To express the full extent
     of my gratitude to you, my dear Sir, for this almost incredible
     restoration, is a task which I must give up in despair; suffice
     it to say, that to Providence (under your pill) I shall ever
     acknowledge myself indebted for the felicity I now enjoy.' 'P.
     S. Please send me without delay, by the next coach, six dozen
     of the largest boxes of your Scorbutic Pills; though, indeed, I
     have not the smallest apprehension of ever having occasion to
     use them again.'

It would puzzle few of our readers, in town or country, to make a
familiar application of this satire upon the prevailing style of
quack advertisements.

       *       *       *       *       *

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--In an admirable paper
upon '_The Poetry of the Bible_,' written for the KNICKERBOCKER
some years since by Rev. WILLIAM T. BRANTLEY, President of the
'College of South Carolina,' there was an incidental allusion to
the proofs of the authenticity of the Sacred Word, as contained
in the fulfilment of the 'prophecies concerning the nations.' A
dilapidated book-stall volume before us, with the title-page gone,
and the author's name nowhere to be met with, (facts in themselves
noteworthy in this connection,) thus illustrates the position of
our valued correspondent: 'The primitive Christians regarded the
Scriptures as their chief and dearest treasure; and often laid down
their lives rather than deliver the sacred records to their enemies,
who used every art of terror to seize and destroy them. Then, as
now, different parties and sects existed, who all appealed to the
Scriptures for proof of their several opinions; and these must have
been so many checks upon each other, to the general exclusion of
mistake and fraud. But aside from this, look at their predictions,
in the case of the 'chosen and peculiar people.' The separation of
the Israelites from the rest of mankind, not for their own sakes but
for the sake of all, and their preservation amidst their enemies,
what a display is it of the divine power! This great scheme of
wisdom and goodness was carried on by its omnipotent Author 'with
a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.' 'He sent a man before his
people, even JOSEPH, who was sold to be a bond-servant. He increased
his people exceedingly, and made them stronger than their enemies.
He sent MOSES his servant, and AARON; and these showed his tokens
among them, and wonders in the land of Ham. He sent darkness, and
it was dark, and turned their waters into blood. Their land brought
forth frogs, yea, even in their king's chambers. He gave them
hail-stones for rain, and flames of fire in their land. He spake the
word, and locusts came innumerable, and devoured the fruit of their
ground. He smote all the first-born in their land, even the chief of
all their strength. He brought forth his people from among them. He
spread out a cloud to be a covering, and fire to give them light in
the night season. He rebuked the Red Sea also, and it was dried up:
so he led them through the deep as through a wilderness. At their
desire he brought quails, and filled them with the bread of heaven.
He opened the rock of stone, so that rivers ran in dry places.
Yet within a while they forgot his works, and tempted GOD in the
desert. Then the earth opened and swallowed up DATHAN, and covered
the congregation of ABIRAM. The plague also was great among them.
Then, being chastised, they turned to their GOD. He led them over
Jordan: the waters divided to let them pass. He discomfited their
enemies. At His word the sun abode in the midst of Heaven; and the
moon stood still, and hasted not to go down for a whole day; so He
gave the kingdoms of Canaan to be an heritage unto his people; that
all the nations of the world might know that the hand of the LORD is
mighty, and that they might fear the LORD continually.' Such was the
result of a scheme determined by divine goodness, planned by divine
wisdom, foretold by divine knowledge, accomplished by divine power.
'The things of the earth were changed into things of the water, and
the thing that did swim went upon the ground. The fire had power in
the water contrary to his own virtue, and the water forgat his own
kind to quench. Thus the elements were changed among themselves by
a kind of harmony, as when one tune is changed upon an instrument
of music, and the melody still remaineth.' How graphic also is the
description of the 'gift of tongues,' conferred upon the Apostles!
'And they were all amazed, and marvelled, saying one to another:
'Behold, are not all these which speak, Galileans? And how hear we
every man in our own tongue, wherein we were born? Parthians, and
Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea,
and Cappadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia in Egypt,
and in the parts of Lybia about Cyrene. And strangers of Rome; Jews
and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians; we do hear them speak in our
tongues the wonderful works of GOD!' * * * MOST likely many of our
readers will remember this 'vexed question' in logic: 'It either
rains or it does not rain: but it does _not_ rain; therefore it
rains.' This used to puzzle us hugely; as did also the mathematical
problem, in simple equations, which ensues: '_A cat_ has one more
tail than _no_ cat; no cat has two tails; ergo, _a cat has three
tails_!' The conclusion is irresistible. Here is something, however,
which is of deeper import: 'JOHNSON studied law with DOBSON, under
the agreement that he should pay DOBSON, when he (JOHNSON) _gained
his first cause_. After a time DOBSON got tired of waiting for
the conditions of the contract, and sued JOHNSON for his pay. He
reasoned thus: 'If I sue him I shall get paid at any rate, because
if I _gain_ the cause, I shall be paid by the decision of the court;
if I _lose_ it, I shall be paid by the conditions of the contract,
for then JOHNSON will have gained his first cause; therefore I am
safe.' JOHNSON, on the other hand, being prodigiously frightened,
sought counsel, and was told to reason thus: 'DOBSON reasons well,
but there must be a flaw in his argument; because _I_ and not _he_
will gain the victory. If the suit goes in my favor, I shall gain
it by the decision of the court; if it goes against me, I shall
gain it by the terms of the contract, not having yet won my first
cause. Of course I shall not have to pay him!' _Vive la Logique!_ *
* * This fine picture of the Arabian Desert is from the pen of the
late lamented N. H. CARTER, Esq., formerly editor of the _New-York
Statesman_, a daily journal long since discontinued. We thank 'C. P.
D.' for his offer, which is gladly accepted:

    'No verdure smiles; no crystal fountains play,
    To quench the arrows of the god of day;
    No breezy lawns, no cool, meandering streams,
    Allay the fervor of his torrid beams;
    No whispering zephyrs fan the glowing skies,
    But o'er long tracts the mournful siroc sighs.
    Whose desolating march, whose withering breath,
    Sweeps through the caravan with instant death.

         . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

    ''Tis night: but here the sparkling heavens diffuse
    No genial showers, no soft distilling dews:
    In the hot sky, the stars of lustre shorn,
    Burn o'er the pathway of the wanderer lorn,
    And the red moon from Babelmandel's strand
    Looks, as she climbs through pyramids of sand,
    That, whirled aloft, and gilded by her light,
    Blaze the lone beacons of the desert night!'


A CORRESPONDENT, well known to our readers, in a note to the Editor,
remarks as follows, upon the passage of our May 'Gossip' which
touched upon COLERIDGE and his conversations: 'I am glad of your
remarks on COLERIDGE and WORDSWORTH. I have been for years sick
of the interminable cant about those two men. Their admirers have
too long exalted them above all that is human. And would you know
the reason? In discovering more depth, and pure humanity, and high
inspiration, in _their_ school of the prophets than the _rest_ of
the world have seen, they think the world will give them credit for
deep penetration, high and refined sense, and a large share of the
same or a kindred humanity and inspiration. Witness a sixty pages'
laudation of WORDSWORTH, opening a number of the 'New-York Review,'
by a writer who doubtless thought his own fame was thereby planted
like an eternal light-house on the rock of his idol. Now I hope I am
Christian enough to admire greatly the genius of COLERIDGE; and I
am yet to find any thing in English or elsewhere more movingly and
musically beautiful than 'Genevieve,' or more wizard-like and solemn
than the 'Rime of the Antient Mariner.' I also plead not guilty to
a contempt of 'Christabel' and 'Wallenstein.' Nor am I such a rebel
to reason, or heretic in taste, as not to see surpassing beauty in
many of WORDSWORTH's minor poems, and lofty grandeur in his 'Ode
to Childhood,' and 'Stanzas on the Power of Sound,' and a high,
philosophical, and musing mind in his great 'Excursion.' I have read
him twice in the last two years, and my admiration has not at all
diminished. But I choose to deny that he or COLERIDGE _invented_
poetry, or carried it farther, or as far, as some others before and
with them. I choose to deny that they have struck the great chord
of humanity, unstruck before, or have sympathized more deeply or
more sweetly with the joys and sorrows of the lowly million, than
the great poets before them have done. I choose to assert, what
has been abundantly proven, that they were both great egotists,
eaten up by self, which the great poets have rarely been; and that
COLERIDGE in particular often knew not what he meant himself, but
between opium and metaphysics, frequently tied the tail of one idea
to the head of another, and called the monstrous and unintelligible
coalition a _theory_; a mixture of Platonism, Spinozaism, and the
d----l knows what 'ism. And for believing this, the Coleridgeites
and Wordsworthites, who are the most intolerant of bigots, would
call me an earthy blockhead, and for expressing this, an ignorant,
blaspheming fool. Why, I once had almost broken with a friend,
because I would not admit that WORDSWORTH was superior to BYRON, and
that BYRON stole almost all his beauties from him! And the secret
was, that the poor fellow thought he had the Wordsworthian gift,
and undeifying WORDSWORTH was undeifying him!' * * * ARE not the
circumstances narrated in the following communication from a truly
veracious correspondent, 'very remarkable,' to say the least? Can
their truth be _doubted_ for a moment, however, by any intelligent
reader? Yet 'it's curious, isn't it?' In a note to the Editor, our
friend writes: 'I have an uncle 'down East,' a retired sea-captain,
who having nothing else to do, frequently writes me long gossipping
letters. Sometimes they are very amusing: an extract from one of
them I now send you. The story appears almost incredible; but
knowing my correspondent to be a strictly conscientious man,
who would scorn to draw the long-bow on any occasion, I have no
hesitation in believing every word of it, whether others are willing
to credit it or not. I give it to you in his own language, for there
is a strait-forward simplicity about it, that should command belief:'

     * * * 'ALL these things, dear S----, happened in my younger
     days, of course. As I have still a white page before me, I
     will detail to you one of my youthful adventures. I had one
     night been to a convivial party, which did not break up until
     nearly morning, when, on arriving at my boarding-house, I found
     the doors closed. Not wishing to disturb the inmates at that
     unseasonable hour, I proceeded in search of temporary lodgings,
     not doubting but that I should get accommodated at some one of
     the numerous hotels. In this however I was disappointed; every
     place was shut as tight as an oyster. It happened to be a wet,
     drizzly night; and after wandering about the streets for some
     time, and getting pretty well soaked, I began to feel rather
     disagreeable. What added not a little to my discomfort, was the
     fact that within a few nights there had been committed several
     daring highway robberies, in the very heart of the city, in one
     of which the victim was murdered; and as a natural consequence,
     no watchman dared to venture out from his hiding-place; thus
     making my situation doubly lonesome. In this dilemma, finding
     all legitimate places closed against me, I began to consider
     the expediency of seeking shelter at least, if not sleep, in
     any place that might seem to offer it. While in this mood, I
     found myself abreast of the ---- church; and leaning against
     the lightning-rod a moment, the query occurred to me: 'Why
     not 'shin up' this rod into the belfry? I have slept in worse
     places than that, no doubt, and can do so again.' Now I had been
     a great climber in my boyish days; and feats which to others
     seemed difficult, if not absolutely impossible, were to me often
     matters of mere pastime. I therefore hesitated but a moment in
     such an emergency, but slipping off my boots and swinging them
     round my neck, I commenced the ascent; and in less than five
     minutes I had mounted a hundred feet or more, and got safely
     into the belfry. My accommodations here were much better than I
     could have anticipated. Some carpenters had been to work a few
     days previously, repairing the railings on the outside of the
     tower, and had left a quantity of shavings, which lay scattered
     on the floor. Placing these together in a heap, I threw my weary
     limbs down upon them, and was soon in a deep slumber, but not
     a quiet one. My horizontal position enabled the fumes of wine
     to reach my head, which before they had been unable to do, in
     consequence of my extreme height, for you know I am six feet
     three, and I soon began to have all sorts of fantastic dreams.
     Strange wild shapes flitted around me, and loud unearthly
     sounds filled my ears. But prominent over all, was an incessant
     ding-dong of apparently distant bells, which reached me in
     every variety of volume and tone; now low and sweet, and anon
     loud, startling, and many-toned, as if the thousand steeples
     of Moscow were again pouring forth lamentations over the ruins
     of their beautiful city. Suddenly, a single stroke, that sent
     its vibrations through every limb, startled me from sleep; and
     lifting my head slightly, I at the instant received a blow upon
     the back of it that sent me quivering against the frame of the
     belfry. I lay stunned for some moments; and on recovering my
     consciousness, the bell of the steeple was just closing, with a
     strange jangle, the peal for seven o'clock in the morning!

     'I now comprehended the whole. The edge of the bell, on its
     return revolution, had come in contact with my head at the
     instant I had lifted it, on being roused by the first stroke.
     I placed my hand upon the back of my scull, and the proof of
     that fact lay there too prominent to be denied. A bump had been
     raised as big as a hen's egg. I paid but little attention to
     it, however, as the pain was but slight, and I was moreover
     exceedingly anxious about the mode of extrication from my
     present unenviable predicament. Sliding down the lightning-rod
     of a meeting-house, in broad day-light, was not quite so
     pleasant a performance as 'shinning up' one at midnight. While
     considering this matter, in a sort of a 'quandary way,' as
     brother JONAS used to say, the scuttle-door slowly opened, and
     the sexton of the church made his appearance. He did not observe
     me, but went immediately to the bell, which he began to walk
     round, and to inspect very minutely. At last he stopped: 'It's
     just as I expected,' said he to himself: 'the bell's cracked!
     Now what upon airth could ha' done it? I am sure I felt it hit
     something hard.' Here I mechanically placed my hand to the
     back of my head, and coughed slightly. The man turned, and
     observing me, started back with affright. I immediately stepped
     forward, and told him my story in a few words, taking care to
     make it as lucid as possible by the aid of a little silver,
     and saying nothing, of course, about the bump on my head. The
     man appeared satisfied, and told me I could go down with him.
     Before starting, however, I bestowed a hasty glance upon the
     bell, and perceived that it was indeed cracked, longitudinally,
     from the flange to the crown, and that a lock of my hair was
     firmly inclosed in the crevice, just on the outer edge. This of
     course was enough to remove from my mind all doubt, had I had
     any, as to the cause of the mischief; but I said nothing, and
     followed the sexton down the scuttle. In a few moments I was
     once more in the streets, with my hat under my arm, for I found
     it impossible to place it any where near its true position on
     my head, in consequence of the new phrenological development
     already mentioned. But now, dear S----, comes the most wonderful
     part of my narrative. This little incident happened twenty years
     ago; and to my certain knowledge, since that date, the bell in
     that steeple has been replaced four times; and yet to this very
     day, whenever I pass within hearing of its tones, my ears begin
     to ring, my head violently to oscillate, and straitway I am
     seized with a stupor and dizziness that continue until I can get
     beyond the reach of its sound. You will recollect you once asked
     me why old Major N---- called me sometimes 'Captain Hardhead,'
     and sometimes 'Captain Waghead?' You have now the answer.'

       *       *       *       *       *

THE water stood in our eyes, reader, (and it will stand in yours
if you have a heart to feel,) as we perused the subjoined eloquent
passage of a letter from a friend to whom our readers have often
been indebted for amusement, entertainment, and instruction. What
a startling picture it presents of the first approaches of that
'hectic,' 'phthisic,' 'consumption,' or whatever be the favorite
title of that most wily and fatal foe, who in one hand presents the
insidious olive-branch, and in the other conceals his inevitable
sword, cutting down youth in its blossom and manhood in its fruit!
'For very many years, from twelve to two have been my hours of
retiring, and my exercise has been nothing, or nearly so, during the
day. One result has been, that I have read one half of the Greek
and Roman classics, and feasted largely in modern literature. A
parallel result has been, that owing to corporeal sluggishness and
nervousness, the curse of the sedentary, I have no doubt reaped less
pleasure and profit than I might have done from half that assiduity
coupled with a due regard to the wants of the body. The final result
is, that an iron constitution is now largely disorganized; and from
the constant presence of a dull, deep, stationary pain in my left
side beneath the ribs, and fixed I fear upon the lungs, I begin to
indulge in sad and deep forebodings. Often, when wakened by its
painful urgency, I lie in the silence of the night, listening to
my heart's deep beatings, and recall my early and yet unfulfilled
dreams--dreams oh! how glorious!--and array before my unsated eyes
this world, with all its lovely learning, and sweet poetry, and
burning passion; and reflect how unfit I am to die, and try the
conditions of a new existence, before I have fulfilled the duties
and perused the mysteries of this, and then think of the wormy bed,
and anticipate the hour when I shall lie there, closing my eyes
to coloring and my ears to sound; the impatient longing I have
sometimes felt for death is repaid by an indefinable horror; and
between the tenderness of natural regret and the shudderings of
unconquerable awe, passion masters pride, and both sink to meekness
and humility in a flood of gushing tears!' * * * '_The Warning_,' in
its _spirit_ at least, is borrowed. We are sorry to intimate this,
but it is a _fact_, friend 'P.' You could not say that you have not
read the poem which commences as follows, (if we rightly remember,)
'could you, now?' Guess not:

    'ALL in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;
    It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
    The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
    And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul!'

       *       *       *       *       *

We gave on one occasion an extract from one of the 'Short Patent
Sermons' of 'DOW, Jr.,' illustrating the endless extent of _for
ever_. The same sublimity of conception is apparent in the subjoined
glance at the magnitude of the planets, and the unsocial 'distance'
they keep up between one another: 'If a person were sufficiently
long-legged to step from star to star, and were to go at a decent
dog-trot, he might as soon think of travelling from everlasting to
everlasting and back again in a day, as to undertake to find an end
to the planets which roll round their respective suns, as far beyond
this insignificant solar system of ours as the farthest flight of
imagination is beyond the jump of a ham-stringed grasshopper!'
By the by, 'speaking of DOW,' here is a capital anecdote of the
veritable LORENZO, which is worthy of record. 'It appears' that
DOW, in one of his odd, quaint sermons, declared that he 'had known
sinners so very wicked that they actually bu'st!' This statement
threw an old, ignorant, and fat impenitent present into a state
of alarm and perspiration; and home he waddled, in mortal terror.
At night, in the horror of his anticipated explosion, he rolled
about until he could no longer bear it. He fancied he was already
swelling. He rose and attempted to dress himself, in order to go
out 'al fresco.' Who can paint his consternation, when he found
he could but just strain the garments over his limbs, and even
then they would not meet! He was suffering a rapid sin-dropsy; his
iniquities were coming to light! He screamed in the agony of his
fear; and a lamp being brought in, he found that in his haste he had
put on his brother's clothes. 'The impression, however, says our
informant, a clergyman of the Church of England, 'was a salutary
one, for he became a pious man.' * * * THE 'KNICKERBOCKER'-STEAMER,
that floating palace of the Hudson, must not pass unnoticed by
'the editor hereof.' To _describe_ her, however, and her superb
'belongings,' her Dutch paintings and quaint adornments, is quite
another thing. We have no space for an _essay_ in this department
of MAGA. It shall suffice to say, therefore, that this truly
magnificent vessel is in all respects worthy the honored _name_
she bears. Could we say more? Appropos of this: It was not until
the first volume of the KNICKERBOCKER appeared, (this is our
TWENTY-SECOND, reader; and, _non_-reader, an excellent opportunity
for you to commence _your_ subscription,) that one met our noble
potronymic 'about town.' How is it _now_? Let the KNICKERBOCKER
steamers, bathing-houses, omnibii, restaurants, clubs--aquatic,
literary, social, military, scientific, and artistic--and eke the
Temperance-halls and root-beer _perambulatories_, make answer! Their
reply is triumphant; and yet 'our' children play with the neighbor's
children, just the same as if these were not 'parlous facts!'
This, however, is one of the tendencies of that republican form of
government under which it is our happiness to reside! * * * ARE not
these lines of MOTHERWELL very beautiful? Such thoughts have we had
a thousand times; and we desire to thank the writer for expressing
them for us so well:

    'FLOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
      Thy tribute wave deliver;
    No more by thee my steps shall be,
      For ever and for ever.

    Flow softly down, by lawn and lea,
      A rivulet, then a river:
    Nowhere by thee my steps shall be,
      For ever and for ever.

    But here will sigh thine alder-tree,
      And here thine aspen shiver;
    And here by thee will hum the bee,
      For ever and for ever.

    A hundred suns will stream on thee,
      A thousand moons will quiver;
    But not by thee my steps shall be,
      For ever and for ever!'

       *       *       *       *       *

SMALL game, Mein Herr, of Albany--small game! A 'two-penny dip'
would be wasted on it. Our correspondent's critique reminds us of
the tailor in Laputa, who being employed in making a suit for the
facetious GULLIVER, disdained the vulgar measures of his profession,
and took that gentleman's altitude by the help of a quadrant! We
can pounce upon _fair_ game, but we cannot 'like French falcons,
fly at any thing we see.' Beside, if the satire was 'caviare to
the GENERAL' of the '_New-Mirror_,' how should it find a place in
_these_ pages? Our friend 'the Brigadier' is a fastidious and a
prudent person. Did he not alter a quotation from BYRON, in one
of our friend GRAHAM's 'Sketches by a Briefless Lawyer,' wherein
'_waistcoat_-pocket' was substituted for that startling indelicacy,
'_breeches_-pocket?' Verily, he did! * * * THE following reflections
upon the death of friends, and the memories of the departed, which
we transcribe from a private letter to the Editor, are too beautiful
and true to be confined to one or two readers only: 'I have read the
exhortations of PLUTARCH, and SENECA, and JEREMY TAYLOR, and others,
all hinging upon the idea that pain and bereavement are natural,
necessary, inevitable, in this world of successive bloom and
desolation. But pain is to me none the less painful because natural,
nor separation less overwhelming for its necessity; nor yet is the
blasting of cherished hopes less withering to my heart because the
same blight has fallen on the verdure of other hearts, and kindred
tears are falling from a world of mourners in a wide companionship
of grief. 'The head may _reason_, but the heart will _feel_.' Time,
however, is a great and effectual healer. Though a tree be lopped
to the very root, the maimed giant will send up a new creation
of vegetable strength. So the human soul, like some evergreen
creeper, if you cut off or tear away its branches of affection with
the object round which they entwined themselves, will send forth
other tendrils, and wind its clinging arms around some other idol,
embalming it with fragrance and clothing it in verdure. The sweet
lines of WORDSWORTH are most practical and true, as well as poetical:

    'There is a comfort in the strength of love:
    'T will make a thing endurable, which else
    Would overset tire brain, or break the heart.'

'And while there is one, and more than one, whose redemption from
their iron sleep I would gladly purchase by a subtraction from the
remnant of my own dismembered life, and principally that visible
gushing tears, and the test of so great a sacrifice, might be some
atonement for causeless misconceptions, and some proof of warm love
beneath the outward shows of an inflexible hardness; yet I know
that Time in his weary revolutions will soon bring us all together
in a world of infinite knowledge, and liberal forgiveness, and
uncircumscribed affection; a world where we shall 'see face to
face,' and feel heart to heart; 'where no grief makes the heart
heavy and the eye-lids red.' * * * STANDING with a friend the other
day by the river-side, to take in the noble _coup d'oeil_ of the new
steamer KNICKERBOCKER, we overheard a little anecdote connected with
water-craft, which made our companion merry all the way home; which
we shall here transcribe; '_and_ which it is hoped may please.' 'It
seems there was' (nay, we know not _seems_, there _was_) a verdant
youth from the interior of Connecticut, for the first time on board
a steam-boat. His curiosity was unbounded. He examined here, and he
scrutinized there; he wormed from the engineer a compulsory lecture
on the steam-engine and mechanics in general, and from the fireman
an essay on the power of white heat, and the 'average consumption
of pine cord-'ood.' At length his inquiring mind was checked in its
investigations, and 'the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties'
made at once apparent. He had mounted to the wheel-house, and was
asking the pilot: 'What you doin' _that_ for, Mister?--what _good_
does't do?' when he was observed by the captain, who said, in a
gruff voice: 'Go away from there! Don't you see the sign, 'No
talkin' to the man at the hellum? Go 'way!' 'Oh! certing--yäes; I
only wanted to know ----' 'Well you _do_ know now that you can't
talk to him; so go 'way!' With unwilling willingness, the verdant
youth came down; and, as it was soon dark, he presently went below;
but four or five times before he 'turned in,' he was on deck, and
near the wheel-house, eyeing it with a thoughtful curiosity; but
with the captain's public rebuff still in his ears, venturing to ask
no questions. In the first gray of the dawn, he was up, and on deck;
and after some hesitation, perceiving nobody near but the pilot, who
was turning the wheel, as when he had last seen him, he preferred
his 'suppressed question' in the oblique style peculiar to his
region: 'Wal, goin' it _yit_ ha?--been at it all night?--_screëwin
on her up?_--eh?' What vague conjectures must have bothered the poor
querist's brain, during the night, may be partly inferred from the
absurd but 'settled conviction' to which he had at length arrived! *
* * WHAT a mingling of the dead Past with the busy, bustling Present
pervades the mind of the thoughtful observer, as he looks down from
the rising tower of the New Trinity Church upon tens of thousands of
the dead whose bones crowd the grave-yard below; bones, and dust and
ashes, over which are thrown in wild confusion huge blocks from the
quarry, and piles of uprooted grave-stones, and slabs and urns of
marble! As you have marked an elaborately-carved stone sink slowly
from its ponderous 'drop' to its place in an edifice which is to
stand for ages, did you never scan closely its grained streaks,
its delicate chissellings, with the thought that when you were
senseless clay, that _very stone_ might arrest the eye of another,
gazing upon it with sensations like your own? So at least have we
thought, concerning those who have gone before us, as we have looked
at the ornamental marbles of our older public buildings, erected in
another age. But from the countless Dead, who slumber below, how
solemnly comes up toward this rising tower the voice of warning and
monition! Each 'storied urn' takes the form of the Departed whom it
commemorates, and seems to say:

    'TIME was I stood, as thou dost now,
      And viewed the Dead as thou dost me:
    Ere long thou'lt lie as low as I,
      And others stand to look on thee!'

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. WALLACE, the great musical _Wonder_, is not now in town, but,
reader, should he return among us, be sure to neglect no opportunity
to hear him. In his hands, the piano seems like an instrument
hitherto unknown. It has the chant of woodland birds, the silver
sound of dropping waters, and 'all voices of nature and of art.' We
have heard no resemblance to Mr. WALLACE, as a pianist. But it is
his violin which _speaks_ to us; and on this instrument no approach
to Mr. WALLACE has been met with in this country. How exquisite the
notes, pathetic, joyful, or in 'linked sweetness long drawn out'
which he conjures from that most facile of all instruments! We would
travel ten miles to hear him play, in his style, that ravishing
melody, 'The Last Rose of Summer.' We shall have occasion, we hope,
again to advert to the performances of Mr. WALLACE. He is yet a
young man, and possesses the characteristic modesty of true genius;
and has hardly yet learned that 'the world meets nobody half way;'
in _his_ case, however, not a necessary lesson. * * * IF any of our
town readers are fond, by way of literary variety and contrast, of
disinterring the intellectual treasures of the buried Past, they
will find 'pleasant employment and liberal wages' in glancing over
the antique stores of Messrs. BARTLETT AND WELFORD, under the Astor
House. We have been indebted to the courtesy of these gentlemen
for sundry communings with authors who have been in their graves
for five or six centuries. Every _ancient book_ is an argument in
favor of the immortality of the soul. 'Fancy a deep-buried Mastodon,
some fossil Megatherion, Icthyosaurus, were to begin to _speak_
from amid its rock-swathings, never so indistinctly! Yet the most
extinct fossils of Men can do, and does, this miracle--thanks to
the letters of the alphabet!' * * * THE friend who sends us, for
'a fragment of Gossip,' the anecdote of the verdant field-preacher
who spoke of Saint PAUL's having 'sat at the foot of _Gammel-Hill_,'
is informed that it has already appeared in the KNICKERBOCKER. The
following specimen of kindred ignorance, however, is quite new to
us, and worthy of repetition. It is a precious bit of ignorant
bathos, which occurred in a discourse upon the sufferings of CHRIST:
'The blessed SAVIOUR, my hearers, was dreadfully persecuted.
Once, when going to Jerusalem, the Jews put him on a wild young
jack-ass, and scattered branches in the road, and put clothes onto
'em, in order for to scare the little colt, and make him break
the blessed Redeemer's neck!' The speaker actually preached this
_three times_, till one of his congregation corrected him!' * * *
THE articles in the Edinburgh Review, and other eminent European
periodicals, against the custom of the _duello_, would seem to be
but the echoes of a prevalent public opinion. We perceive by late
English journals that an _Anti-Duelling Association_ has recently
been formed in London. 'It consists of three hundred and twenty-six
members, including twenty-one noblemen, thirteen sons of noblemen,
sixteen members of Parliament, fifteen baronets, thirty admirals
and generals, forty-four captains R. N., twenty-three colonels
and lieutenant-colonels, seventeen majors, twenty-six captains in
the army, twenty lieutenants R. N., and twenty-four barristers.
They denounce duelling as 'sinful, irrational, and contrary to the
laws of GOD and man;' and pledge themselves to 'discountenance the
practice, both by example and influence.' The association includes,
says a London journal, many members who have been successful
heretofore in 'killing their man.' * * * ONE of the most delightful
as well as most accessible places of summer resort in the vicinity
of New-York, is the 'HAMILTON HOUSE,' a spacious and elegant
_palace_ of an edifice, situated on the south-westernmost extremity
of Long-Island, on the picturesque bluff at the ocean-entrance to
the Narrows, commanding a wide view of the sea, the lower bay,
Staten-Island, and the rich and cultivated fields of Long-Island;
a combination of scenery unsurpassed on the Atlantic sea-board.
Here, amidst healthful and invigorating sea-airs, and charming
views; with spacious and well-ventilated apartments, public and
private; 'tables richly spread;' wines of the best, and the means
of recreation, natural and artificial, in abundance; what could one
want more?--save perhaps the ready attention and courtesy of the
proprietor, Mr. J. R. CURTIS, and these are 'matters of course.' Go
to the 'Hamilton House,' ye invalids and pining wights 'in populous
city pent.' * * * WE find the annexed charming translation in
the hand-writing of Mr. LONGFELLOW, among the papers of the late
lamented WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK:


SUMMER TIME IN GERMANY.

FROM JEAN PAUL.

THE summer alone might elevate us! Heaven! what a season! In sooth,
I often know not whether to stay in the city, or go forth into the
fields, so alike is it every where, and beautiful. If we go outside
the city gate, the very beggars gladden our hearts, for they are no
longer a-cold; and the post-boys can pass the whole night merrily on
horse-back; and the shepherds lie asleep in the open air. We want no
gloomy house. We make a chamber of every bush; and so have my good
industrious bees before us, and the most gorgeous butterflies. In
gardens on the hills sit school-boys, and in the open air look out
words in the dictionary. On account of the game-laws there is no
shooting now; and every living thing in bush and furrow and on the
green branches, can enjoy itself right heartily and safely.

In all directions come travellers along the roads. They have their
carriages, for the most part, thrown back. The horses have branches
stuck in their saddles, and the drivers roses in their mouths. The
shadows of the clouds go trailing along, and the birds fly between
them up and down. Even when it rains do we love to stand out of
doors, and inhale the quickening influence; and the wet does the
herdsman harm no more!

And is it night, so sit we only in a cooler shadow, from which we
plainly discern the day-light on the northern horizon, and on the
sweet, warm stars of heaven. Whithersoever I look, there do I find
my beloved blue; on the flax in blossom, on the corn-flowers, and
the godlike, endless heaven, into which I would fain plunge as into
a river!

And now if we turn homeward again, we find only fresh delight. The
whole street is one great nursery; for in the evening after supper,
the little ones, though they have but few clothes upon them, are
again let out into the open air, and not driven to bed as in winter.
We sup by day-light, and hardly know where the candle-sticks are. In
the bed-chambers the windows are open day and night, and likewise
most of the doors, without danger. The oldest women stand by the
window without a chill, and sew. Flowers lie about every where; by
the ink-stand, on the lawyer's papers, on the judge's desk, and
the tradesman's counter. The children make a great noise, and one
hears the rolling of nine-pin alleys. Half the night through, one
walks up and down the street, and talks loud, and sees the stars
shoot in the high heaven. The foreign musicians, who wend their way
homeward toward midnight, go fiddling along the street, and the
whole neighborhood runs to the window. The extra posts arrive late,
and the horses neigh. One sits in the noise by the window, and drops
asleep, and the post-horns awake him; and the whole starry heaven
hath spread itself open. Oh, GOD! what a joyous life, on this little
earth!

  _Cambridge, July 20._

  LONGFELLOW.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following we derive from the same source with the above. It is
placed in type from the MS. of Mrs. FANNY KEMBLE BUTLER:


THE PARTING PLEDGE.

I.

    YET once again! but once, before we sever,
      Fill me one brimming cup--it is the last,
    And let those lips now parting and for ever,
      Breathe o'er this pledge 'The memory of the Past!'

II.

    Joy's fleeting sun is set, and no to-morrow
      Smiles on the gloomy path we tread so fast;
    Yet in the bitter cup, o'erfilled with sorrow,
      Lives one sweet drop--the memory of the Past!

III.

    But one more look from those dear eyes now shining
      Through their warm tears, their loveliest and their last.
    But one more strain of hands in friendship twining,
      Now farewell all, save memory of the Past!


'WHAT is more ridiculous to a dandy than a philosopher, or to a
philosopher than a dandy?' We thought of this query, while reading a
description, in a communication before us, of a knot of fourth-rate
dandies, the 'apes of apes,' _which_ the writer encountered in the
bar-room of an inn, in one of the fourth-rate towns of Maryland.
Doubtless these artificial 'humans' looked upon our friend as quite
to be pitied that he was not '_one of us_:' 'In their ultra dress,
affected manners, drawling tones, and whey-faces, you might read
the foolish inanity of an existence parallel in every respect to
that of BEAU BRUMMEL, except that his was original absurdity, and
theirs was folly on loan. It was Parisianism adulterated in London,
qualified in Broadway, weakened in Chestnut-street, reduced in
Baltimore, and at last in these provincial decoctions diluted to
the lowest possible degree of insipidity, with scarce a perceptible
tincture of the original liquid. These had no souls by nature; and
the only idea they could inspire was one of humiliation, that apes
were permitted to wear the likeness of GOD's image.' * * * WE annex
below a few random comments from an old and favorite contributor,
(a 'scholar ripe and good,' who holds a felicitous pen,) upon three
or four papers in our May number: 'JOHN QUOD is beyond all praise.
I read the May chapters throughout with unqualified delight. The
passage describing the old lawyer's affixing his own name, in
his confusion, to the blind man's will, aroused me to unseemly,
uproarious laughter; and the _painting_ of Kornicker's manner,
particularly his laugh, is scarcely inferior to COOPER's account of
Leatherstocking's noiseless, inward laugh, the impression of which
could not fade from my fancy in a thousand years. I'll wager my head
that the May number of no Magazine in the world contains a sketch of
more power and humor. As for the '_Lay of Ancient Rome_,' I cannot
praise it too highly. The imitations of ancient manners, and the
_keeping_ with ancient ideas, is excellent, _excellent_ indeed; far
better than the efforts of BULWER, in his 'Last Days of Pompeii,'
or than any other late imitations which I just now remember to
have seen. Fresh from the perusal of ANTHON's 'Horace,' (ANTHON's
classics are entirely unequalled,) and with LIVY in my reach, the
verisimilitude strikes me as almost perfect. You cannot fail either,
to observe that, as in the '_Three Passages in the History of a
Poet_,' there is a great deal of sweet poetry scattered about among
the jewels of delicate criticism and mirthful wit. I believe my
love for the old Greeks and Romans is a little unreasonable; but
it is my first love. I often woo other mistresses, but I always
return to my 'prima donna.' Twelve or fourteen years ago I ingorged
all of SMOLLET, FIELDING, RICHARDSON, SCOTT, and COOPER, at one
intemperate meal, and then lay some months inert and drowsy, like
a huge boa-constrictor after swallowing a bullock. Then again
for several years I dieted on Greek and Roman and early English
literature. Once more I devoured all then published of EDGEWORTH,
BULWER, JAMES, MARRYAT, and I know not how many others, rolled up in
one monstrous mass. I wonder it had n't killed me; but the process
of digestion brought me again to a state of healthful depletion,
and my natural appetite revived. So, although I am delighted with
genius, or talent, or wit, or mere taste, no matter when or where
I encounter it, yet I cannot forget my youthful worship, or forego
my early gods. The death-scene in '_The Young Englishman_,' I do
declare, went to my very heart. I have had since continually before
my eyes the poor youth, flying from his destroyer, whose unerring
dart was already in his bosom. What a mournful comment on that most
affecting passage of Virgil, where the wounded deer flies from the
pursuer, (who is in truth her companion,) with the arrow for ever
in her side--_hæret lateri lethalis arundo_--flies through the
summer forests, all heedless of their greenness, and lies down by
some blue streamlet, helpless and hopeless to die! Seeing the other
day a number of 'GRAHAM's Magazine,' I read in it an article by E.
A. POE, who comes down on your old correspondent 'FLACCUS' like a
mountain of lead! It is clear that 'FLACCUS' has in many places
exposed himself to the charge of unmelodious rhymes, incongruous
figures, and occasionally faulty taste. But there is a difference
between a POPE that sometimes nods, and a CIBBER that _never wakes_!
I am not easily moved, in the matter of poetry; I _think_, at
least, that it must have merit to please me; and I well remember
that FLACCUS's metrical love-tale in your pages seemed to me very
sweet and original, and strongly redolent of the early English odor.
His 'Epistle from my Arm-chair' was in good hexameters, and his
'Address to the President of the New-England Temperance Society'
had a TOM MOORE-ish spice of elegant wit about it, and might have
been written by Mr. POE in about a century of leap-years.' * * *
THE venerable NOAH WEBSTER, full of years and full of honors, has
gone down to his grave, 'like a shock of corn fully ripe in its
season.' Our very earliest associations, like those of millions
of others, are associated with his name. That blue-covered
spelling-book of his, with its progressive lessons of learning
and morality; its pleasant fables and pretty pictures; its large
type and dingy paper--the very _smell_ of that spelling-book--all
are as vivid in our mind as when we first took it to bed with us,
in an ecstacy of enjoyment, some score and a half of years agone.
And then his great philological work, which is now so well known
in both hemispheres, what a monument it is of careful research,
discriminating judgment, laborious industry! It will die only with
the 'land's language.' Mr. WEBSTER has been a frequent and always
a welcome contributor to these pages; and we have even now in our
possession late communications from his pen, of which our readers
will know more hereafter. NOAH WEBSTER was an honor to his country.
He was a scholar; a 'gentleman of the old school,' who lived a life
void of offence toward GOD and toward man; and he died in the full
assurance of a blessed immortality. May he rest in peace! * * *
'_Poetry run Mad_' is inadmissible, on two accounts. In the first
place, it strikes us we have met _parts_ of it at least before; and
in the second, the style has 'outlived our liking.' Nobody but HOOD
manages well this ragged species of verse; a very clever specimen of
which is contained in his '_Custom-House Breeze_,' the story of a
lady-smuggler who would not go ashore at Dover, because there was 'a
_searching_ wind' blowing, which might expose the lace-swathings of
her person:

      'IN spite of rope and barrow, knot, and tuck,
      Of plank and ladder, there she stuck!
    She couldn't, no, she wouldn't go on shore.

        'But, Ma'am,' the steward interfered,
        'The wessel must be cleared.
    You mus'n't stay aboard, Ma'am, no one don't!
      It's quite ag'in the orders so to do,
      And all the passengers is gone but you.'
    Says she, 'I cannot go ashore and won't!'
                'You ought to!'
                  'But I can't!'
                'You must!'
                  'I sha'n't!''


WE have given no notice of CARLYLE's '_Past and Present_,' for the
reason, let us inform the publishers, that we received no copy of
the work. We have perused the book, however; and are compelled to
say that in its style it exhibits no improvement upon the previous
writings of its distinguished author. It is even less clear, to
our comprehension, (or perhaps from the _lack_ of it,) than any of
his former productions. We are sorry to see, moreover, that he is
obliged to _repeat himself_ so frequently. Yet is there much matter
for deep thought in his pages, and sometimes a whole sermon in a
single sentence. His heart bleeds for his suffering fellow-men in
England, Ireland, and Scotland; 'twelve hundred thousand workers,
their cunning right hand lamed, lying idle in their sorrowful
bosoms; asking only for work, and such return for it in food,
clothes, and fuel, as shall enable them to live, that they may still
work on;' yet we do not see that Mr. CARLYLE points out any means
by which these many 'workers' may obtain redress of the 'crowned,
coronetted, shovel-hatted, quack-heads' whose rule he stigmatizes
so severely. Here is a fine passage illustrating the fact that he
only is successful who is 'fortunate for good:' 'Success! If the
thing is _unjust_, thou hast not succeeded, no, not though bonfires
blazed from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote
leading articles, and the just thing lay trampled out of sight, to
all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing. Success! In
a few years thou wilt be dead and dark; all cold, eyeless, deaf;
no blaze of bonfires, ding-dong of bells, or leading articles,
visible or audible to thee again for ever! What kind of success is
that?' It is not possible for Mr. CARLYLE to write a stupid or an
unreadable volume; and it can only be affirmed, in dispraise of the
present work, that it is less forceful and attractive than one or
two of its immediate predecessors. * * * YOU are wrong, Sir 'P. F.,'
_altogether_ wrong. The 'competence' of the tiller of the soil, the
'abundance' of the successful mechanic, and the 'sufficiency' of the
tradesman, we conceive to be better calculated to promote happiness
than 'great wealth,' even when unencumbered. We are not insensible
to the value of money. Our remark was pointed as to the _wants_ that
wealth brings; but the _cares_ of it are not less exacting. 'Don't
you _know_ me?' said a western millionaire, soon after 'the crisis,'
to a friend of ours, with whom he had formerly been intimately
acquainted; 'don't you _remember_ me? My name is ----.' 'Good
heavens! it can't be possible!' exclaimed our friend; 'why, what has
wrought such a change in your appearance? Where's your flourishing
head of hair? where's your flesh gone? what's put that bend in your
back?' 'The times! the times!' replied the 'poor rich man;' as for
my back, I broke that last year, _lifting notes_; some of them were
very heavy.' A grievous and unnecessary burden no doubt they were;
and how much better was the rich man's 'wealth,' with its carking
cares, than the 'abundance' of the contented mechanic?' * * * A MOST
forcible warning to 'nations that know not GOD' is contained in the
following passage from a recent discourse by Rev. GEO. B. CHEEVER:

     'THIS world has been the theatre of a mighty experiment--whether
     nations could be prosperous and permanent in pride and sin. The
     result has been overwhelming. Empire after empire has fallen
     to the ground. I have passed over the ruins of dead and buried
     kingdoms; have seen the shades of departed monarchies, and
     conversed with them, haunting the spots of their former glory;
     and the hollow voice, as if the wind were moaning from earth's
     central sepulchres, has spoken in the words of Scripture, deep
     unto deep, in my hearing, THE NATION AND KINGDOM THAT WILL NOT
     SERVE THEE SHALL PERISH; YEA, THOSE NATIONS SHALL BE UTTERLY
     WASTED! It is a solemn thing to stand in the Colosseum at Rome,
     beneath the shadow of the Parthenon at Athens, within the
     crumbling shrine of the temple of Karnak in Egypt, and to listen
     to the echo of those awful words. These historical materials and
     monuments are so many intelligent chords, which men's iniquities
     have wrought for that great harp of the past, across which God's
     Spirit sweeps with its majestic, awful utterance! GOD grant that
     the history of our nation may not add another tone of wailing to
     the melancholy voices of dead empires!'


We are glad to perceive that the '_American Book Circular_,'
recently put forth by Mr. GEO. P. PUTNAM, of the Anglo-American
house of WILEY AND PUTNAM, London, has been received with a becoming
spirit by the English press. It has been most favorably noticed in
the 'London Review,' 'Examiner,' 'Athenæum,' 'Literary Gazette,'
and other influential journals; and its publication has secured
to the writer the attention and friendship of several of the most
distinguished literary and scientific gentlemen of the British
metropolis. This timely pamphlet, in fact, has opened the eyes of
the English people to the progress of science and belles-lettres
in America, and has served to enlighten them as to the extent of
their literary obligations to this country. Widely noticed by the
press, and stitched in all the principal reviews and periodicals of
England, the 'American Book-Circular' has already been productive of
great good to the reputation of our vigorous but infant 'republic
of letters.' * * * 'FLANEUR,' whom we welcome, has made sundry
inquiries in preceding pages concerning certain terms and sayings
which have long and generally obtained among pen-and-ink writers
of romances and novels, native and foreign. There are other common
sayings and comparative-adages, toward one or two of which we should
be glad to direct the researches of the reader, 'on the present
occasion.' 'Poor as JOB'S turkey,' has always puzzled us. Is there
any authentic record of the personal condition of that afflicted
bird, or of the causes which threw it into a decline? Why has it
been handed down to us as the very CALVIN EDSON of its tribe? 'Not
worth a Tinker's d--n' is another adage, whose origin is involved
in mystery. When was the standard of value established for that
intangible commodity of this particular artizan? Was there ever
a 'sliding scale' for it, or such a thing as a 'first-quality'
article in its kind, before it became a synonym for _nothing_?
We have already asked who that 'DICK' was, who wore such an 'odd
hat-band' that its memorial has been perpetuated even unto this day?
'We shall resume this important subject in our next discourse.' *
* * THE sudden death of WILLIAM ABBOTT, Esq., of the Park Theatre,
has been announced in nearly all the public journals of the United
States. We had the pleasure to know Mr. ABBOTT well. He was first
introduced to us, on his arrival in America, by a private letter
from Miss LANDON, who spoke of his literary and social qualities
in terms of cordial admiration and praise, which subsequent
acquaintance convinced us were well deserved. To marked amenity and
cheerfulness of manner, Mr. ABBOTT united literary acquirements of
great extent and variety; a thorough knowledge of society; and a
frankness of deportment which won, and a sincerity which retained,
many friends. He was a most gentleman-like actor; and will be missed
and mourned not less by his professional brethren than by those
whose acquaintance with his talents and many good qualities was
unconnected with his dramatic career. * * * HOW very prettily this
little Love-passage is rendered! Our correspondent lets us hear from
him quite too seldom:

TO ALMEDA: FROM THE SPANISH.

    THINK you, my love, if ever fate
      Should cast a shadow o'er our bliss,
    That you or I could e'er forget
    In darkest hours our _Good-night Kiss_?

    Ah no! though hopes should melt in tears,
      And fade for ever days like this,
    Sad memory through the longest years
      Would hover round our _Good-night Kiss_.

  _Boston, June, 1843._

  J. T. F.


THE appearance on our table of an exquisitely beautiful card of
invitation to the great _Dinner at Faneuil Hall_ on the Seventeenth
of June (a kindness of the 'Committee of Arrangements,' for which,
although unfortunately adscititious, we desire to render our cordial
acknowledgments) reminds us to speak of _another_ species of card,
from the same press, which we must believe is little known, but
which only _requires_ to be known, to be found in the possession of
every tasteful lover of the Beautiful. Mr. DICKINSON, of Boston,
has recently completed a variety of ornamental cards, of various
sizes, large, medium, and _petite_, one use of which we desire to
indicate to our metropolitan readers; not without the hope also
that the information will not come amiss to our readers every
where; for the cards are 'awaiting' as well as 'under _orders_.'
As frames for medium and small engravings, we certainly know of
nothing so tasteful and so appropriate. In color various; of tints
inconceivably delicate; and with borderings of the most chaste yet
elaborate and distinct _bas-relief_; they are 'just the thing' for
the purpose we have indicated. We shall be happy to afford 'the
ocular proof' to any one who may doubt the justice, or impugn the
good taste, which we conceive to characterize as well the cards
as our encomiums! These admirable specimens of American taste and
skill may be found at the establishment of the Messrs. WOODWORTH's
(late BONFANTI's) and at NESBITT's in this city. * * * THE interest
still excited by the slightest object connected with the name of
NAPOLEON has recently been curiously illustrated by the opening of
a 'NAPOLEON Museum' in London, consisting of a vast collection of
mementos of the great hero and his associates, from the day of his
birth to the time of his burial. Among them is a morceau of his
penmanship in his latter days, on the back of a card, the ominous
nine of diamonds, which has caused a good deal of merriment to the
cockneys, although it strikes us they should 'laugh on the wrong
side of the mouth.' The imperial prisoner appears to have been
making an attempt to commit some English words to memory, and to
have noted down the difference between _hungry_ and _angry_--words
which must have sounded marvellously similar in his ears, from the
mouths of his English visitors: 'Are you 'ungry?--are you angry?' We
do not wonder at his perplexity. His memorandum runs thus upon the
card: 'Are you 'ungry?'--'_Avez vous faim?_' 'Are you angry?--'Etes
vous en colere?' * * * '_Polemics_' is an article catholic and
cogent in spirit and argument, _but_ it is TOO LONG for an essay.
(We wish we could impress upon our didactic correspondents the
necessity of at least _comparative_ brevity!) Rev. THEODORE PARKER,
in the following, has expressed every fact and argument which our
correspondent has expanded over eight letter-sheet pages! Indeed,
himself shall be the judge:

     'WHO shall tell us that another age will not smile at
     our doctrines, disputes, and unchristian quarrels about
     Christianity? Who shall tell us they will not weep at the folly
     of all such as fancied Truth shone only in the contracted
     nook of their school, or sect, or coterie? Men of other times
     may look down equally on the heresy-hunters and men hunted for
     heresy, and wonder at both. The men of all ages before us were
     quite as confident as we, that their opinion was truth; that
     their notion was Christianity, and the whole thereof. The men
     who lit the fires of persecution, from the first martyr to
     Christian bigotry down to the last-murder of the innocents, had
     no doubt their opinion was divine. No doubt an age shall come,
     in which ours shall be reckoned a period of darkness, like the
     sixth century, when men groped for the wall, but stumbled and
     fell, because they trusted a transient notion, not an eternal
     truth. But while this change goes on; while one generation of
     opinions passes away and another rises up; Christianity itself,
     that pure religion, which exists eternal in the constitution of
     the soul and the mind of GOD, is always the same.'


'FANCY'S VISION,' says a correspondent, in a running commentary
upon the poetry of our May number, 'is very well done for a Scotch
song; although I think BURNS and others have too well occupied that
field, for foreign imitators to expect to glean much. It seems a
little unnatural for Americans to compose in the Scottish dialect,
however simple and well-adapted to love-lyrics that English-Doric
may be thought. Some Scotticisms, such as 'bonnie,' 'burnie,'
'wimplin,' etc., are very sweet; but others, in my view, such
as 'hame,' 'drap,' etc., are inferior to the English. Perhaps,
however, the writer is a Caledonian.' To be sure she is; and 'that
makes a difference;' yet we do not disagree in the main with our
correspondent. By the by, speaking of Scottish poetry, here is a
specimen of the true thing. It is from the pen of an esteemed friend
and contributor, and has been widely circulated, and as widely
admired, both at home and abroad:


THE WEE VOYAGER.

WRITTEN ON SEEING IN A GLASGOW NEWSPAPER THAT THE CREW OF A VESSEL
DISCOVERED A HARE FLOATING IN THE FRITH OF FORTH UPON A SHEET OF ICE
TO THE OCEAN.

BY JAMES LAWSON.

    AN' where are ye gaun ye wee voyager,
      Wi' look sae fleyed or blate?
    An' where are ye gaun ye wee voyager,
      On sic an unco gate?

    Ye're sailin' awa in a cauld cauld bark,
      An' nae a frien' beside ye;
    Ye're sailin' awa in a frail frail bark,
      Without ane helm to guide ye.

    Ye hae nae a mast, ye hae nae a sail,
      Nae bield frae win' to hide ye;
    An' the lift cours' down wi' a threatenin' glow'r
      Sae ill maun sure betide ye.

    The gloamin is mirk, and the gurley sea
      Is yaupin to rin ower ye;
    The big pellocks soom, an' the wild maws wing,
      As watchin to devour ye.

    The wraith of the storm shaws her grim grim face,
      The petrel skreighs aloud;
    An' the yird looks sick, an' the lift as t'wad fa'
      For nature's funeral shroud.

    Then wherefore sail ye in this frail frail bark
      At sic an uncany hour?
    Come your ways wi' me (the skipper then cried)
      Frae gurly ocean's power.

    An' his coggly punt the gude skipper launched,
      Upon the roarin' wave;
    An' stoutly he skulled wi' his stumpy oar
      The voyager to save.

    Then, giegly he reached the wee timid puss,
      An' snatched her frae the flood;
    An' now the wee maukie that sailed the sea,
      Rins in the bonny green wood.

This would be 'ower Scotch,' perhaps, for an English ear, but that
the very _sound_ of the doubtful words is expressive of their
meaning. * * * THE '_Reminiscence of Little Burke_' is not to our
taste. He was an extraordinary urchin, certainly; but like all
_very_ precocious children, he grew to--_nothing_. We have always
utterly detested infant theatricals. We know of no more ridiculous
a sight than one of these dramatic juveniles 'strutting like a
Lilliputian grenadier; trying to knit its brow, and flourish its
little falchion at an over-grown victim of its vengeance,' who is
bending half way down, to hear more distinctly the penny-trumpet
tones in which he is threatened. 'Little BURKE'S' father had no
very exalted opinion of his son's genius! 'Oh, no! by no means!
oh, certainly not!' * * * WE cannot resist the employment of
a line or two, though sadly pressed for space, to commend to
citizens and strangers the establishment of the _American Museum_,
as conducted by its present indefatigable proprietor. It was our
intention to have particularized some of the numerous attractions
of this very popular resort; but as these are constantly changing,
our intelligence would be likely to prove 'JOHNNY THOMPSON'S
news' at the end of the month in which we write. The corps of
gentlemen-singers, for example, who adopted the 'Ethiopian' garb,
were alone worth a walk of miles to hear. Think of a charming
_duet_, in the most perfect time and harmony, on a pair of tongs and
an accordion! * * * WE derive from a lady-friend, to whose kindness
our readers have heretofore been indebted, the stanzas translated
from the German by FITZ GREENE HALLECK, Esq., in preceding pages.
They were withheld originally from publication; the fastidious
taste of the writer suggesting infelicities, which we are certain
will escape the scrutiny of less refined critics of 'the gentle art
of song.' * * * SOME newspaper 'down east' has been instigated to
hint that the lively and gossipping New-York correspondence of the
Washington 'National Intelligencer' is written by JOHN NEAL! As if
it were possible to mistake the pleasant style of Mr. WILLIS, for
the labored yet slovenly _no-style_ of 'OMNIUM SCRIBLERIUS!' One
might as well attribute the authorship of 'Thanatopsis' to 'Sir
WILLIAM MARSH, of Apple Island, Boston Harbor!' * * * THE paper
elicited by the article upon '_Forensic Eloquence_' in our last
number, is somewhat too kindred in character with that excellent
performance, to be at present admissible. As the MS. is left to our
option, however, with permission to 'add, clip, or destroy,' we
annex a passage which will be new to many of our readers:

     'CÆSAR, who was himself an accomplished orator, and knew all the
     windings of the art, was so shaken on the occasion of TULLY's
     oration, that he trembled, dropped his papers, and acquitted
     the prisoner. Many attributed this to the force of TULLY's
     elocution; but it seems rather to have been the effect of
     CÆSAR's art. He played back the orator's art upon himself. His
     concern was feigned, and his mercy artificial; as he knew that
     nothing could so effectually win TULLY to his party, as giving
     him the pride of having conquered CÆSAR.' In relation to the
     different _styles_ of eloquence, the same writer observes: 'The
     pathetic orator who throws a congregation of enthusiasts into
     tears and groanings, would raise affections of a very different
     nature, should he attempt to proselyte an American congress;
     and on the other hand, the finest speaker that ever commanded
     the House, would in vain point the thunder of his eloquence on
     a Quaker meeting. VOLTAIRE tells us, that 'in France a sermon
     is a long declamation, spoken with rapture and enthusiasm; in
     Italy, it is a kind of devotional comedy; in England, it is
     a solid dissertation, sometimes a dry one, which is read to
     the congregation without action or elocution.' A discourse
     which would raise a French audience to the highest pitch of
     enthusiasm, would throw an English one into a fit of laughter.'


D.'s story of '_The Whistling Bridegroom_' is very good, but 'drawn
too fine' for the strength of the fabric. Briefly, it is this: A
clergyman is uniting two persons in marriage; and when he arrives at
the point in the service where he directs the bridegroom to 'take
the bride by the hand,' the former pays no attention to him, but
looks steadfastly upon the floor, and indulges in a subdued whistle.
The direction is repeated, but again the only notice taken of it
is a continuation of the whistling, _sotto voce_. A third time the
_command_ is given, and the only response is the unique musical
accompaniment aforesaid. The clergyman pauses, thinking himself
intentionally insulted, when the blushing bride, who had doubtless
been thinking of other things, raised her eyes, saying: 'He's deaf,
Sir; and it's his way to whistle to himself, when he's any thing
on his mind!' The explanation was satisfactory; and 'the deaf was
_made_ to hear' the next repetition of the important direction. * *
* 'PRETTY good,' but not _quite_ probable, we think, the wonderful
'_Lusus Naturæ_' described by our Kentucky correspondent! _Did_ he
really think we should nibble at that hook? There is a wind-mill, we
are informed, on the coast of Holland, which lays eggs and breeds
young ones; but its family is not near so remarkable as the Kentucky
wonder of our new contributor! Would he have the goodness to 'try
again?' We fancy it must have been with him that the western story
of the '_Prock_' originated; a singular animal, with its legs, on
one side of its body, very short, to enable it to 'graze on the
inclined planes of nature!' It was caught, we remember, by 'heading
it,' which reversed the animal, and rendered his legs useless, by
changing their position! _Vive la Bagatelle!_ * * * THE recent death
of Hon. HUGH S. LEGARE is an event which deserves a particular
record in these pages. He was one of the ripest scholars of whom
the Union could boast; and in all regards reflected high honor upon
our literature. He always wrote from a _full_ mind. Let any one
turn to the papers which he furnished for the 'Southern Review' and
our own New-York Quarterly, and it will be seen how forcibly they
illustrate the justice of this encomium. Had Mr. LEGARE lived, our
readers would soon have had an opportunity of admiring his literary
performances in the pages of the KNICKERBOCKER. In a late letter
to the Editor, written only a few days previous to his leaving
Washington for the last time, Mr. LEGARE incidentally exhibits the
patient research of which he was about to reap an adequate reward,
in the new and high career of public service upon which he had
entered. 'My studies,' he writes, 'have for many years been of a
very severe and serious cast, looking all of them, more or less,
to useful results in active life, and most of them connected with
political economy and jurisprudence.' Works of recondite research
and striking views, such as those of NIEBUR, SAVIGNY, and others of
that illustrious German line, had richly furnished his _adversaria_
and port-folios; and it was from these that he was to have enriched
and diversified our pages. The death of such a man, in the prime of
life and in the midst of his usefulness, is a public loss, which
cannot fail to be widely and deeply felt. Honorable and high-minded
in all the relations of life, Mr. LEGARE met his last hour with
perfect composure. In dying as in living, he was the admiration
of his friends. * * * WE saw the other day what its possessor
termed a '_Dogberry-o'-type_ likeness' of MILLER, the Prophet--a
counterfeit presentment of a cunning old humbug, 'on its very
_face_.' Its exhibition led to a story of one of MILLER'S converts,
which we thought worth remembering. A matter-of-fact old gentleman
in New England, whose wife was a thoroughgoing 'Destructionist,'
was awakened out of his sleep by his 'possessed' rib, one cold and
stormy March night, with: 'Husband! did you hear that noise? It's
GABRIEL a-comin'! It's the sound of his chariot-wheels!' 'Oh, psha!
you old fool!' replied the gude man; 'do you s'pose GABRIEL is such
an ass as to come _on wheels_, in such good sleighing as this? I
tell you it's the wind; turn over, and go to sleep!' We believe
she did. * * * THE '_Confessions of a Belle_' is not a new title,
and it _strikes_ us that we have encountered some of its incidents
before. The _lesson_, howbeit, is an excellent one. THEODORE HOOK
speaks forcibly to this point, in a portrait of one of his female
characters: 'With all this blaze of notoriety, did any body esteem
her particularly? Was there any ONE man upon earth who on his
pillow could say, 'My GOD! what an angel is FANNY WILDING!' Had she
ever refused an offer of marriage? No! for nobody ever had made
her one. She was like a fine fire-work, entertaining to look at,
but dangerous to come near to; her bouncing and cracking in the
open air gave a lustre to surrounding objects, but there was not a
human being who could be tempted to take the exhibition into his
own house.' * * * IF 'J. P. S.' will look once more at our remarks,
touching which he 'begs leave to demur,' he will find that we differ
very little from himself. His pride of opinion runs to a point, and
reminds us of a reply we once heard a quaint old Friend make to the
eager question of a group around him, touching the relative speed
of two steam-boats which were running a race, and a very even one,
through Long Island Sound. 'Don't you think we've gained on her,
in coming the last forty miles?' 'Yes,' replied the Quaker, with
great gravity; 'I should say we _had_.' 'Well, how _much_, should
you think?' 'I maybe mistaken,' responded our Friend, 'but, I should
say, _about an inch_!' We believe this 'close observer' was not
again appealed to for his judgment in the premises. * * * WE do
not much affect parodies, generally, but the following, from the
London '_Charivari_,' is too good to be lost. It is entitled '_The
Macadamized_,' and is set to the air of 'The Monks of Old:'

    'MANY have told of the roads of old,
      What a swamp of muck they were:
    But a Macadam-way, on a rainy day,
      Would make a street sweeper swear.
    For it goes beyond the Slough of Despond,
      In its hopeless state of slush:
    And it grows, ha! ha! to your clothes, ha! ha!
      In spite of the hardest brush.

    'And when it is fine, if the sun should shine,
      You're no better off than before:
    For it turns to dust and at every gust
      It settles in every pore:
    And it tries, as it dries, in a cloud to rise,
      And peppers your coat and your hat:
    And it flies, ha! ha! in your eyes, ha! ha!
      And makes you as blind as a bat!'


'_The Croton Fever_,' by 'STRAWS, JR.' has good points. Some of
its humor is 'rather _fine_,' certainly, but only because it is
_strained_. The satire, however, is in one instance just. A friend
in a sister city, recently returned home from a visit to New-York,
writes us that he is henceforth a Baptist, greatly preferring
_immersion_ to _sprinkling_, of which latter practice of ours, he
entertains a vivid recollection. 'In short,' he writes, 'I never
saw such a set of incorrigible _squirts_ as you have in Gotham.
Morning and evening, every householder, who can afford it, stands
before his door, playing with his machine; now deluging the walk,
now the pavement, and anon flooding his doors, windows, and blinds
with hissing streams of Croton. When you write DICKENS next, just
tell him that the application of the _douche_ to the pigs, from
hundreds of Croton-pipers, has well-nigh driven those quadrupedal
republicans from the thoroughfares. That's _one_ comfort!' Ah! yes;
and clean streets, and murmuring fountains, and cool side-walks,
are 'comforts' also, 'which they of the adverse faction want.' The
grapes are not _sweet_, and 'that's the humor on't!' * * * THE
Idleberg 'chronicle' will be concluded in our next. The loss of a
sheet of the copy (which has now been re-supplied by the author)
is the cause of the delay. The fourth number of 'Meadow Farm'
will also appear in our August number. The following papers are
filed for insertion, or awaiting adequate consideration: 'Greek
Epitaphs and Inscriptions;' 'The Doomed Ship;' 'Thales of Paris;'
'Chronicles by an Antiquary;' 'My Leg, a Sketch;' 'A Defence of
the Pythagorean System;' 'The Novel-Reader;' 'Disguised Derivative
Words in English;' 'MARY MAY, the Newfoundland Indian;' 'An Old
Man's Reminiscence;' 'Polygon Papers,' Number Ten; 'The Birth-Day,'
by 'W. C.;' 'New Version of an Old Fable;' 'The Count of Paris;'
'The Painted Rock;' 'The Hour of Rest;' 'Sing,' by Lady ALICIA JANE
SPARROW, Ireland; 'Orators and Bells;' 'The Maiden's Burial,' etc.
'The Consumptive' is both labored and common-place. 'Neanias' of
Kentucky is not deemed admissible. * * * SEVERAL publications, among
them a Lecture by EUGENIUS A. NISBET, delivered before the Georgia
Historical Society at Savannah, in March last; 'A Voice from the
Vintage,' by Mrs. ELLIS, etc., will receive attention in our next.
Our Philadelphia Friend, in reply to 'N. S. D.,' shall have a place
in the August number.




LITERARY RECORD.


LATE PUBLICATIONS OF THE BROTHERS HARPER.--Independent of the serial
works of the HARPER's, their ALISON, BRANDE's Encyclopedia, etc.,
which they continue to publish with their wonted regularity, and
in their accustomed style of excellence, we have before us, in a
large and well-executed volume, 'A Dictionary of Greek and Roman
Antiquities,' illustrated by numerous engravings on wood, and
containing numerous additional articles relative to the botany,
mineralogy, and zoology of the ancients; by CHARLES ANTHON, Esq.,
the American editor; a work of too comprehensive a scope and of too
great value to be despatched in so brief a notice as the present;
and M'CULLOCH's 'Universal Gazetteer, or Dictionary,' geographical,
statistical, and historical, of the various countries, places,
and principal natural objects in the world, illustrated by seven
extensive and complete maps on steel.' Each article is written with
fulness; the arrangement is concise and clear; and the work may be
referred to on the instant for any subject embraced in its pages.
We should be more indebted to the editor of the American department
if he would give us his valuable _facts_ unconnected with his
_opinions_. His sneer at the voyages of discovery in the north-west,
in connection with his reference to a ship-canal across the
isthmus of Darien, is in bad taste, to say the least of it. Narrow
views in relation to great public enterprises which may chance to
be unsuccessful, are out of place in a noble work like this of
M'CULLOCH, even though they appear in the 'questionable shape' of
acknowledged annotation.


COBB'S JUVENILE READERS.--Mr. LYMAN COBB deserves well of his
country, and especially of its juvenile citizens, for the several
excellent school-books for the young which he has prepared with
great industry and tact, and from time to time put forth. We find
on our table his three progressive 'Juvenile Readers;' and judging
from the necessarily cursory examination which we have been enabled
to give them, we have no hesitation in pronouncing them the best
works of their class we have ever encountered. The author has taken
great pains so to arrange the different lessons as to lead the child
by a regular gradation from easy to difficult reading; to adapt the
subjects to his advancement; and to place before him such matter,
and such only, as shall convey to the juvenile mind correct views,
and just principles of morality. All words of variable or doubtful
orthography are also carefully exhibited. There are numerous other
important merits, and improvements upon kindred works, to which
we have neither time nor space at present to allude, but which we
hope our readers will take occasion to find and admire in the works
themselves. Mr. CALEB BARTLETT, corner of Platt and Pearl-streets,
is the New-York publisher of Mr. COBB's series.


NEW MUSIC: 'THE FORSAKEN.'--Mr. J. L. HEWITT, 239 Broadway, has
sent us '_The Forsaken_,' a song sung with effect by Mr. SINCLAIR,
and written and _composed_ by JAMES LAWSON, Esq. The 'words' were
originally furnished to the KNICKERBOCKER by their author, and
were thence transferred to many American journals with cordial
commendations. The music is, we think, of a highly pleasing
character; and we are not surprised to learn that the 'Song' is in
very general request. It is not given to _every_ clever man, we can
tell our friend and correspondent, to excel both in poetical and
musical composition, as himself has done in the instance before
us. We know, for example, a poet 'of the first water' who failed,
on a memorable evening not long ago, in improvising a solo for a
jews'-harp, 'then and there being' in the hands of a legal friend,
who was making the little instrument 'discourse most eloquent music'
It was _rather_ a rich scene than otherwise.


AGRICULTURAL PRIZE ESSAYS.--A well-printed pamphlet of an hundred
and forty pages lies before us, containing an 'Essay on the
Preparation and Use of Manures,' and on 'Farm Management,' by WILLIS
GAYLORD, Esq., editor of 'The Cultivator,' one of the most widely
circulated journals in the United States. The first essay is an
elaborate consideration of the laws of nutrition; the preparation
and distribution of animal, vegetable, and mineral manures; and
the second is a well-digested compend of all the various kinds of
information and directions necessary to the successful management
of a farm. The useful pamphlet concludes with essays upon plans
for farm-houses and out-buildings, (illustrated by several
clearly-engraved wood-cuts,) by Mr. JOHN J. THOMAS, Macedon,
New-York, Mr. G. D. MITCHELL, Salem, Conn., and Mr. T. M. NIVEN,
Newburgh.


BATTLE OF BUNKER-HILL.--The small but very comprehensive volume
recently put forth by Mr. C. P. EMMONS, of Charlestown, (Mass.,)
containing 'Sketches of Bunker-Hill Battle and Monument, with
Illustrative Documents,' should be in the hands of every
American, who desires a record of this most important battle of
the Revolution. In the preliminary remarks on the opening of the
struggle, and the description of the great battle itself, there
is nothing included that is irrelevant, while every thing is
embraced that could add to the truth or force of the picture. The
illustrative documents are of very great interest. On the English
side, we have extracts from General HOWE'S orderly-book, letters
from Generals GAGE and BURGOYNE, and several other British officers,
together with divers grumbling extracts from the English newspapers,
touching the result of the 'victory.' On the American side, we
have the proceedings of the Committee of Safety, the accounts
sent to England and to Congress, with descriptive letters from
Colonel STARK, Mr. ISAAC LOTHROP, and Rev. Dr. ELLIOT. An account
of the inception, progress, and final completion of the Monument,
accompanied by a sectional engraving of the structure, appropriately
closes the volume.


FROISSART'S CHRONICLES.--Who that has ever read the stirring
Chronicles of Sir JOHN FROISSART, but will rejoice to learn that an
excellent edition of them, upon a new and clear type, and with all
the original engravings, is being issued in numbers from the office
of the New World? We have never found such a historian as Sir JOHN.
Give him a battle to describe, a hero worthy of his pen to hand
down to posterity, and what a love of his theme, what _personal_
enthusiasm, does he throw into his glowing records! We have
sometimes thought that our worthy and world-renowned progenitor,
DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, of blessed memory, derived no small portion
of his fervent historical style from a familiar study of his great
predecessor. Be that, however, (and every thing else,) as it may,
here are the glorious 'Chronicles' of Sir JOHN FROISSART, accessible
to all, for a comparative trifle; and the more who embrace this
occasion to read them, the fewer stupid people will there be in the
country--in our humble opinion.


PORT-CHESTER SEMINARY.--This boarding school for young ladies and
gentlemen is in Westchester county, in a beautiful situation, and
of easy access from the city. It has now for its Principal, RUFUS
H. BACON, A. B., a fine scholar, and well skilled in the discharge
of his important trusts. The design of the Principal and his
subordinate teachers is, to impart a full and thorough knowledge
of the branches of a good English education; to fit young men for
college and the counting-room; and to prepare the pupils for honor
and usefulness, by softening their manners and improving their moral
perceptions. Kindness and attention to their neatness, health,
and comfort, are not lost sight of. The terms are low, though the
references are very high, being all 'O. F. M.'--'our first men.'


THE BOSTON 'CHRISTIAN WORLD.'--We have looked through several
numbers of this very various and well-supplied weekly journal, with
invariable and increasing interest. It is edited, as we learn, by
GEORGE G. CHANNING, a brother of the late lamented Dr. CHANNING,
assisted by a number of Unitarian clergymen, and is widely sustained
throughout the United States by the patronage and contributions
of the members of that religious denomination. It is beautifully
printed with a large, clear type, upon paper of a fine color and
texture. The mechanical department is in the hands of an artist in
his profession, to whose good taste and careful supervision this
Magazine has heretofore been much indebted, and for which it here
renders its acknowledgments.


'NEW PICTORIAL BIBLE.'--The Messrs. HARPER may well pronounce this
'the most splendid and richly-illustrated Bible ever published in
the world.' It is to be issued on the cheap plan, in numbers, on
foolscap folio sized paper, and will be embellished with _sixteen
hundred_ historical engravings, more than fourteen hundred of which
are from original designs by CHAPMAN, made expressly for the work,
and executed in the most finished manner, at an expense of over
twenty-five thousand dollars! Those who subscribe early will have
the advantage of proof impressions.

       *       *       *       *       *

+ A NOTICE of 'Classical Studies, or Essays on Ancient Literature,'
'The Karen Apostle,' and 'The New Purchase,' were in type for the
present number, and will appear in our issue for August.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's note:

The + indicates a symbol in the original of a hand with finger
pointing to the right.

(Example: + A NOTICE of 'Classical Studies, or Essays)

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.

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





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Knickerbocker, Vol. 22, No. 1,
July 1843, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 47819 ***