



Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net





THE


Knickerbocker,


OR


NEW-YORK MONTHLY MAGAZINE.


VOLUME XXIII.


NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN ALLEN, NASSAU-STREET.
1844.




INDEX.


A.

  Apostrophe to an Old Hat. By J. G. SAXE,                              69
  A Lady on the Rights of Women,                                        79
  A Second Ralph Ringwood,                                              81
  Ascent of Mount AEtna. By THOMAS COLE,                                103
  A Night on the Prairie. By a Buffalo Hunter,                         114
  A Winter Trip to Trenton Falls,                                      133
  A Veritable Sea-Story. By HARRY FRANCO,                              151
  A Few Hints on the Philosophy of Size,                               156
  American Manners and American Literature,                            180
  An Apostrophe to Health,                                             217
  Anacreontic. By 'G. H. H.',                                          275
  A Christmas Carol in Prose,                                          276
  American Ptyalism: 'Quid Rides?'                                     288
  A Pilgrimage to Penshurst. By C. ALEXANDER, Esq.,                    307
  A First Night of Racine. By FLANEUR,                                 345
  Apostrophe to Time. By Miss MARY GARDINER,                           353
  An Alligatorical Sketch,                                             361
  Address and Poem at Boston,                                          387
  A Brace of 'Pellets' from Julian,                                    391
  A Dream. By JOHN WATERS,                                             432
  A Piscatorial Eclogue,                                                46
  A Picture by Murillo,                                                503
  A Song. By JOHN WATERS,                                              516
  Autobiography of the Prairie Hermit,                                 557
  A Dream of Youth,                                                    561
  A New Spirit of the Age,                                             583
  A Day With the great SEATSFIELD,                                     584
  A Thrust with a Two-edged Weapon,                                    590
  Another 'Pellet' from JULIAN,                                        595


B.

  Benthamiana,                                                         282
  Belizarius: A Historical Sketch,                                     337
  Birth-Day Meditations,                                               527


C.

  Coronation of George the Fourth,                                     138
  Curiosities of Foreign and Domestic Literature,                      490
  CLARK'S Literary Remains,                                       495, 578


D.

  Descriptive Poetry,                                                    1
  Drawings and Tintings. By ALFRED B. STREET,                          387
  Disguised Derivative Words in English,                               570


E.

  EDITOR'S TABLE,                              78, 180, 283, 389, 499, 584
  Essay on a Passage in Macbeth. By JOHN WATERS,                       153
  Elementary Treatise on Human Physiology,                             178
  Early Spring at the Homestead,                                       438
  English State Trials under the Popish Plot,                          447
  Exhibition of the National Academy of Design,                        595


F.

  Freedom's Beacon at Bunker-Hill,                                     132
  Fragments from the Greek. By 'G. H. H.',                             361


G.

  Ganguernet: or a Capital Joke,                                        62
  GOSSIP with Readers and Correspondents,      83, 192, 289, 396, 505, 599


I.

  I Follow: from the French,                                           145
  Isabel: the Death of the Young,                                      218
  Idyll: in imitation of Theocritus,                                   323
  Inscription for a Sarcophagus,                                       367
  Italy and the Italians. By J. T. HEADLEY, Esq.,                      498
  Impudence of the French,                                             499


J.

  JOSEPH C. NEALE'S 'Charcoal Sketches,'                               184


K.

  KENDALL'S Narrative of the Santa Fe Expedition,                      382


L.

  Lines to a Fringed Gentian. By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, Esq.,           28
  Lines to Death, the Great Conqueror,                                  44
  Letter to the Editor from Mr. JAMES JESSAMINE,                        58
  Love's Elysium: from the German,                                      61
  Lines to an Evening Cloud,                                            73
  LITERARY NOTICES,                            74, 170, 276, 382, 490, 578
  Lines to Time. By Mrs. J. WEBB,                                      113
  Life's Young Dream,                                                  119
  Life: a Sonnet,                                                      159
  Lines to J. T. of Ireland. By C. W. DAY, Esq.,                       169
  Life and Times of the late WILLIAM ABBOTT,                           187
  Lines sent with a Bouquet. By PARK BENJAMIN, Esq.,                   211
  Legend of Don Roderick. By WASHINGTON IRVING,              262, 324, 418
  Literary Record,                                                     305
  Lines with a 'Floral Messenger,'                                     534
  Lines written under a portrait of Jupiter and Danaee,                 430
  Lines to my Sister. By R. S. CHILTON,                                472
  Legend of the Subjugation of Spain. By WASHINGTON IRVING,            572
  Lines by Prof. Plutarch Shaw, of Tinnecum,                           577
  Life in the New World. By SEATSFIELD,                                581


M.

  Mexico as it was and is. By BRANTZ MAYER, Esq.,                       77
  Music, Musicians, Musical Critics, and Ole Bull,                      80
  Mr. CHEEVER'S Lectures on the Pilgrims,                              388
  MARY MAY: the Newfoundland Indian,                                   523
  Mental Hygiene. By WILLIAM SWEETSER, M. D.,                          581
  Magazine Writing,                                                    589


N.

  Night and Morning. By 'POLYGON',                                     257
  Night-Thoughts: to BLUMINE,                                          436
  North-American Review for the April quarter,                         492


O.

  Old reflections on the New Year,                                      78
  One Reading from Two Poets. By JOHN WATERS,                          218
  On Rivers and Other Things. By do.,                                  349


P.

  Poems of JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL,                                       170
  Professor Shaw, of Tinnecum,                                         549
  Poetry and History of Wyoming. By WILLIAM L. STONE, Esq.,            382


R.

  Reminiscenses of a Dartmoor Prisoner,                      146, 356, 517
  Reves et Souvenirs,                                                  343
  Religious Controversy. By 'FLACCUS,'                                 445


S.

  Song of the New Year. By Mrs. R. S. NICHOLS,                          25
  Stanzas suggested by GLIDDON'S Lectures,                              29
  Sketches of East Florida: St. Augustine,                              45
  Sonnet to the Old Year,                                               53
  Some Thoughts on the Country,                                         70
  Scenes and Scenery in the Sandwich Islands,                           77
  Sicilian Scenery and Antiquities. By THOMAS COLE,               103, 236
  Some Sentiments on Sonnets, with Sundry Specimens,                   283
  Stanzas to MARY. By Mrs. M. E. HEWITT,                               348
  Stanzas on the Burial of an Infant,                                  460
  Stanzas to Niagara. By CLAUDE HALCRO,                                489
  Stanzas to my Three Departed Sisters,                                556
  Stanzas Written in Indisposition. By the late WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK,  569


T.

  The Idleberg Papers: a Christmas Yarn,                                11
  Thoughts on Color. By JOHN WATERS,                                    26
  The Quod Correspondence,                     30, 120, 245, 368, 473, 529
  Thoughts from Bulwer. By Mrs. M. T. W. CHANDLER,                      52
  The Mail Robber,                                                      53
  The AEneid of Virgil: with Notes by CHAS. ANTHON,                      76
  The Sacrifice,                                                       127
  The Death-Bed. By the 'COUNTRY DOCTOR,'                              128
  The Ruins of Burnside. By JAMES LAWSON, Esq.,                        137
  The Smithy. By ALFRED B. STREET, Esq.,                               155
  Two Pictures: Love Celestial and Love Terrestrial,                   160
  The Hermit of the Prairie,                                           161
  Translation from CATULLUS. By Rev. Geo. W. BETHUNE,                  166
  The Painted Rock,                                                    167
  Thirty Years among the Players of England and America,               175
  The Study of Woman's Life,                                           179
  The American Review,                                                 179
  The North American Review, for January,                              183
  The Alms-House: a New-England Sketch,                                212
  The Tyranny of Affection,                                            222
  The Fratricide's Death,                                              232
  The Spectre Imp. By Mr. GEORGE HARVEY,                               338
  The Church Bell,                                                     368
  The Inner Life of Man. By Mr. CHARLES HOOVER,                   389, 599
  The Floral Resurrection,                                             417
  The Dog-Star Spirit: or, Tray's Reflections,                         431
  The Poet Halleck: Epistle to the Editor,                             437
  The Plague at Constantinople in 1837,                                511
  The Song of Death. By MISS MARY GARDINER,                            523
  The Householder. by JOHN WATERS,                                     528
  The Hearth of Home,                                                  548


V.

  Vicissitudes,                                                         10
  Voices of Affection,                                                 336


W.

  Winter Evening: an Extract. By J. G. PERCIVAL, Esq.,                  24
  What is Transcendentalism?                                           205
  Wanderings of a Journeyman Tailor,                                   281
  What is It? A Lover's Query,                                         489


        +-------------------------------------------------+
        |  Transcriber's Note: The page numbers in the    |
        |  index convert to issues in the following way:  |
        |                                                 |
        |            January, 1844    1-102               |
        |            February       103-204               |
        |            March          205-306               |
        |            April          307-408               |
        |            May            409-510               |
        |            June           511-608               |
        +-------------------------------------------------+






    T H E  K N I C K E R B O C K E R.

VOL. XXIII.      JANUARY, 1844.      NO. 1.




DESCRIPTIVE POETRY.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.


Whatever the poets may say, it is incontrovertible that the great majority
of men look upon the beauties and glories of Nature that surround them
with almost entire indifference. We shall not inquire whether this is the
result of a natural incapacity to perceive and admire the beautiful and
sublime, or whether it is that their impressions are so deadened by
familiarity as to be passed by unnoticed. Probably the former is the case
with the greater number; although we cannot believe with some writers,
that all our ideas of beauty are but the results of association, or of our
perceptions of the proportion, or fitness, or utility of things. When we
say that some things are naturally agreeable, and others naturally
disagreeable, we have said all that we know about the matter; and this
amounts to nothing more than a confession of our ignorance. Yet, if we
admit in all men the existence of a natural sense of beauty, daily
observation shows us that the pleasure arising from it is in most cases
very feeble and evanescent. How many live in the midst of the most
magnificent natural scenery, and never perceive its beauties until they
are pointed out to them by some intelligent traveller! And often if
admiration be professed, it is of that vague, undistinguishing kind, which
indicates little knowledge of the causes why they admire. Even among men
of cultivated tastes, there is much more of affected than real enthusiasm.

If what we have said be true, it is a curious subject of inquiry why
descriptive poetry has been so popular. How happens it that so many who
have looked upon Nature herself with great indifference, have been so much
delighted with the reflection of her image in the pages of the poets? We
suspect, indeed, that a part of the popularity of this class of writers is
factitious. THOMSON, the most popular, is we suspect oftener
purchased than read; and his 'Seasons' are not unfrequently spoken of with
admiration by those who know little of them but the episodes. The chief
interest of the 'Task' is to be sought for in other sources than its
descriptions, notwithstanding the _curiosa felicitas_ of Cowper's diction.

The pleasure which we feel in reading descriptive poetry may perhaps in
all cases be traced to one of the three following sources: the conception
in our own minds of objects corresponding in a greater or less degree to
those which exist in the mind of the poet; the train of associations which
his language awakens; or the moral interest with which he invests what he
describes. In the case first mentioned, the emotions we feel are similar
to those which the sight of the objects themselves would produce; if
beautiful, of pleasure; if terrible, of awe. A painting, which is an
accurate representation of nature, regarded irrespective of the skill of
the artist, would affect us in the same way. But the effects resulting
from this cause are too inconsiderable to require particular mention. The
picture which words are able to present is so indistinct and vague as
rarely to produce any strong emotion. If the objects themselves are
generally looked upon with indifference, much less can a verbal
description of them afford us any great degree of pleasure.

The language which the poet uses often suggests to the mind of the reader
trains of thought and imagery which were never present to his own mind.
Hence many expressions which are in themselves eminently poetic, will
arouse associations, oftentimes, that entirely spoil the passage. On the
other hand, an expression low and vulgar may be ennobled by its
associations, and give dignity and force to the composition. We not
unfrequently meet phrases which have great beauty in the eyes of one man,
which seem flat and insipid in the eyes of another. Every writer who has
attempted dignified or pathetic composition, has felt how difficult it is
to avoid those words which will suggest ideas that are unworthy of the
subject. If, however, the poet is sometimes a loser, he is also sometimes
a gainer from this cause. The reader often finds in his own associations,
sources of pleasure independent of the poet. The light that illumines the
page is but the reflected radiance of his own thoughts, and is unseen by
all save himself.

But it is in the moral interest with which the poet invests the objects he
describes, that the chief source of our pleasure is to be found. The poet
paints Nature, not as she is, but as she seems. He adorns her with beauty
not her own, and presents her thus adorned to men, to admire and to love.
It is by interweaving human sympathies and feelings with the objects of
the material world, that they lose their character of 'mute insensate
things,' and acquire the power to charm and to soothe us, amidst all the
cares and anxieties of our life. The intellectual process which here takes
place is so interesting and important that we shall make no apology for
treating the subject at some length.

It is sufficiently obvious that an accurate description of nature, or a
beautiful work of art, is not poetical. On the other hand, in proportion
as the minuteness of the description is increased, the poetry vanishes.
The traveller who should give us the exact dimensions of the pyramids, the
precise height of the terraces, the width and height of the inner
passages, would give us much more definite ideas of those structures than
he who should paint to us the effects produced on his own mind by their
vastness, their antiquity, and the solitude that surrounds them. So in
descriptions of natural scenery, the geographer who gives us the
measurement of mountains, and rivers, and plains, is much more accurate
than he who describes them solely from the picture that exists in his
fancy. We wish to be rightly understood. We do not mean that vagueness and
generality are essential to poetical description. As on the one hand,
mathematical accuracy, by allowing no play to the imagination, produces a
feeble impression, so on the other the indistinctness arising from
indefinite expressions is equally unfavorable. But in neither is the
poetry of the description dependent on the greater or less degree of
minuteness with which particular objects are spoken of. When Whitbread
described the Phenix, according to Sheridan's version, 'like a poulterer;
it was green, and red, and yellow, and blue; he did not let us off for a
single feather,' he did not fail more egregiously than Thomson in the
following lines, in which, by the force of language, a flock of geese are
made highly poetical objects:

                'Hushed in short suspense
  The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
  To throw the lucid moisture trickling off,
  And wait the approaching sign to strike at once
  Into the general choir.'

The poet indeed must give us a lively and definite image of the scene or
object which he undertakes to describe. But how shall this be done? Simply
by telling us how it appeared to him; introducing those circumstances
which had the greatest effect on his own imagination. He looks on nature
neither as a gardener, a geographer, an astronomer, nor a geologist, but
as a man, susceptible of strong impressions, and able to describe clearly
to others the objects which affected himself. This he will do in the style
which the emotion raised within him naturally dictates. His imagery, his
illustrations, his whole language, will take the hue of his own feelings.
It is in describing accurately the effect, not the cause, the emotion, not
the object which produced it, that the poet's fidelity to nature consists.
Let us illustrate our meaning by two or three examples. In Thomson we find
the following description of a thunder-storm:

                      'A boding silence reigns
  Dread through the dun expanse; save the dull sound
  That from the mountain, previous to the storm,
  Rolls o'er the muttering earth, disturbs the flood,
  And shakes the forest leaf without a breath.
  Prone to the lowest vale, the aerial tribes
  Descend: the tempest-loving raven scarce
  Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful gaze
  The cattle stand, and on the scowling heavens
  Cast a deploring eye, by man forsook,
  Who to the crowded cottage hies him fast,
  Or seeks the shelter of the downward cave.
  'Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all,
  When to the startled eye the sudden glance
  Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud
  And following slower in explosion vast,
  The thunder raises his tremendous voice.
  At first heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven
  The tempest growls; but as it nearer comes
  And rolls its awful burthen on the wind,
  The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more
  The noise astounds; till over head a sheet
  Of livid flame discloses wide; then shuts
  And opens wider; shuts, and opens still
  Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze.
  Follows the loosened, aggravated roar,
  Enlarging, deepening, mingling; peal on peal
  Crushed horrible, convulsing heaven and earth.'

MR. IRVING describes a similar scene in the following terms: 'It
was the latter part of a calm sultry day, that they floated quietly with
the tide between these stern mountains. There was that perfect quiet which
prevails over nature in the languor of summer heat; the turning of a
plank, or the accidental falling of an oar on deck, was echoed from the
mountain side, and reverberated along the shores. To the left the
Dunderberg reared its woody precipices, height over height, forest over
forest, away into the deep summer sky. To the right strutted forth the
bold promontory of Antony's nose, with a solitary eagle wheeling about it;
while beyond, mountain succeeded to mountain, until they seemed to lock
their arms together, and confine this mighty river in their embraces. In
the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of bright snowy clouds
peering above the western heights. It was succeeded by another and
another, each seemingly pushing onward its predecessor, and towering with
dazzling brilliancy in the deep blue atmosphere; and now muttering peals
of thunder were faintly heard rolling behind the mountains. The river,
hitherto still and glassy, reflecting pictures of the sky and land, now
showed a dark ripple at a distance, as the breeze came creeping up it. The
fish-hawks wheeled and screamed, and sought their nests on the high dry
trees; the crows flew clamorously to the crevices of the rocks, and all
nature seemed conscious of the approaching thunder gust. The clouds now
rolled in volumes over the mountain tops; their summits still bright and
snowy, but the lower parts of an inky blackness. The rain began to patter
down in broad and scattered drops; the winds freshened, and curled up the
waves; at length it seemed as if the bellying clouds were torn open by the
mountain tops, and complete torrents of rain came rattling down. The
lightning leaped from cloud to cloud, and streamed quivering against the
rocks, splitting and rending the stoutest forest trees; the thunder burst
in tremendous explosions; the peals were echoed from mountain to mountain;
they clashed upon Dunderberg, and then rolled up the long defile of the
Highlands, each headland waking a new echo, until old Bull Hill seemed to
bellow back the storm.'

We think that no one who attentively reads the foregoing extracts can fail
to see the infinite superiority of the latter over the former, in every
thing that pertains to a faithful representation of nature. Irving has
given us the scene just as he saw it, unmixed with any hue or coloring
with which the mood of his own mind might have invested it. We see the
objects themselves, disconnected from the associations of the spectator.
Had there been a thousand persons looking on, each would have heard the
same sounds, and seen the same sights. There is nothing that is
extraneous. He has given us an exact copy of his original, and nothing
more. Thomson, on the contrary, has not described a thunderstorm as he saw
it, but according to the effect that it produced on his own mind. His
epithets are rarely descriptive of the qualities that exist in the objects
to which they are applied. They have reference rather to the emotions
which their presence produces in himself. Thus, in the first line,
'boding' is not a quality that can be predicated of silence. To the
feeling that the silence preceding a storm is wont to excite, the epithet
is properly enough applied. So with the expression 'dubious dusk.'

In connection with these extracts, we will look at one taken from
SCOTT'S description of the scenery around Loch Katrine:

  'Boon nature scattered free and wild,
  Each plant, or flower, the mountain's child;
  Here eglantine embalmed the air,
  Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
  The primrose pale, and violet flower,
  Found in each cleft a narrow bower;
  Foxglove and night-shade, side by side
  Emblems of punishment and pride,
  Grouped their dark hues with every stain
  The weather-beaten crags retain;
  With boughs that quaked at every breath,
  Gray-birch and aspen wept beneath;
  Aloft the ash and warrior oak
  Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
  And higher yet the pine tree hung
  His scattered trunk, and frequent flung
  Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high
  His boughs athwart the narrowed sky.
  Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,
  Where glistening streamers waved and danced,
  The wanderer's eye could barely view
  The summer heaven's delicious blue.'

The same remarks which we applied to Irving are applicable with some
little restriction here. With one or two exceptions, the epithets mark
attributes that exist in the subjects. Every one can see at a glance the
appropriateness of such terms as _pale_ primrose, _gray_ birch, and
_narrow_ bower. They are not dependent for their effect upon any fanciful
train of associations which their names may excite.

If we compare the above extracts together, we arrive at certain results
which we shall briefly state. We will throw out of view for a moment any
pleasure which the rhythm may give us, as foreign to our present purpose.
Each of these writers is describing a scene from nature. Each of them has
the same object, to interest others by a representation of those sights
and sounds that interested themselves. Scott accomplishes his purpose by
presenting as exact a picture of nature as it is possible perhaps for
words to give. He does not tell us how he is affected by what he sees, and
looks upon neither directly nor indirectly. He does not search for any
resemblances that are not palpable, and founded in the nature of things.
All similes and metaphors which serve to express his own emotions are
carefully avoided. The whole is picturesque and life-like in the highest
degree, yet every circumstance is mentioned in the cool, unimpassioned way
in which we mention any common occurrence.

Thomson accomplishes his purpose by portraying his own feelings; not
indeed in so many words, but by the use of those expressions, and by those
transitions of thought, which mark a state of emotion. The epithet
'boding,' to which we have referred, is an example. It is an indirect
disclosure of the mood of his own mind. At another time it is not
improbable that an epithet of a directly opposite meaning would have been
selected. The reader is affected by it, because by a law of sympathy, we
are affected by whatever reveals the presence of passion in another. It
influences us precisely as the tones of the voice of a person in distress
influence us. Both are expressive of emotion, and we cannot remain
unaffected by them.

This is the main source of the pleasure we feel in reading Thomson's
description. It conveys to us but a very indistinct idea of the subject
matter. Different readers, according to their mental peculiarities, will
be differently affected by it. He does not paint to the bodily eye, but to
the eye of the mind; and he will feel most pleasure who puts himself in
the same position as the poet, and sees with his eyes and hears with his
ears. Unless he can do this, he will derive but little gratification from
the perusal.

Less minute than Irving, and more picturesque than Thomson, Scott will
probably to most readers give more pleasure than either of them. In
conveying lively impressions of natural objects he is unsurpassed, but he
is scarcely less successful in inspiring the mind of the reader with the
same emotions that fill his own breast. There is ever between the thought
and its expression a perfect harmony. It is only when agitated by passion
that he uses the _language_ of passion. Hence we never find that timid
phraseology which so often disgusts us in Thomson; _vox et praeterea
nihil_. No one delights more in the use of figurative language, nor
employs metaphors that more appropriately convey the sentiment that
pervades his mind. In the passage we have quoted are the following lines:

  'Aloft the ash and warrior oak
  Cast anchor in the rifted rock.'

The poet looking up at the trees firmly rooted in the rifts of the rock,
defying the tempest and storm, felt an emotion of pleasure which the sight
of their lofty position, and the apparent danger of their being hurled
headlong at the first blast of wind, contrasted with the sense of their
real security, produced. To express this pleasurable emotion, he fastens
upon the resemblance between a root of the tree and an anchor; a
resemblance not between the things themselves, but between their uses.
Neglecting all the points of difference, and confining his attention to
this single point of similarity, he presents an image which all admit to
be highly forcible and poetical.

The great merit of all descriptive poetry consists in the unity of feeling
which pervades it. Unlike the epic, or the drama, it has none of the
interest which arises from a connected narrative, or the development of
individual character in reference to a certain end. The poet confines
himself to the expression of those feelings which are awakened by the
sight of the beauty and sublimity of nature. Passing, as he necessarily
must, from one object to another, each fitted to excite in his bosom
conflicting emotions, his attention is so much diverted, that none of them
produces upon him its legitimate effect. There is wanting some central
object of interest to which all others are subordinate. Hence is explained
the listlessness of which every one is conscious in the continuous perusal
of the Seasons. We find the greatest pleasure by reading a page here and a
page there, according to the state of our feelings.

It is never in short poems that the descriptive poets succeed best.
L'Allegro and Le Penseroso are gems; but all Milton's genius could not
have made the Paradise Lost readable, were it deprived of its unity as an
epic, and broken up into a series of detached pictures. The Deserted
Village of Goldsmith is the longest poem of this class that we now
remember, having all its parts so pervaded by a common spirit that a
succession of new objects does not impair the designed effect. Sweet
Auburn as it was in its palmy days, and as it is in its desolation,
presents two distinct pictures, yet so closely connected that each
heightens the effect of the other by the contrast. Nothing can exceed the
exquisite art with which Goldsmith has seized upon those circumstances
that tend to make the desired impression, and rejected all others. How
perfect are each of the following descriptions, and how much would their
beauty be marred by the transfer of a single circumstance from one to the
other:

  'How often have I paused on every charm,
  The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm;
  The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
  The decent church that topped the neighb'ring hill;
  The hawthorn-bush with seats beneath the shade,
  For talking age and whispering lovers made.

       *     *     *     *     *

  'The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
  By holding out to tire each other down;
  The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
  While secret laughter tittered round the place;
  The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
  The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.

       *     *     *     *     *

  'No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
  But choked with sedges works its weedy way;
  Along thy glade, a solitary guest,
  The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
  Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
  And tires the echoes with unvaried cries;
  Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all,
  And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall.'

It is by the selection of such objects as have in themselves no common
bond of union, but which combine to raise a certain emotion, that the
essential distinction is to be found between the descriptions of the poet
and the prose-writer. The latter joins objects together as they are joined
in nature, following a principle of association which is simple and
obvious. His resemblances are usually such as are cognizable by the
senses; a likeness in the sensible qualities of things. The poet's
principle of association is in the effect produced on his imagination.
Things which have not in themselves a single point of similarity, are
connected together, because they produce the same emotions of pleasure, or
pain, or hope, or melancholy. A beautiful illustration of this is found in
the opening stanzas of Gray's Elegy:

  'The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
  The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

  Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
  And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
  Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
  And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.'

A summer evening in the country is associated in most minds with images of
mirth and joy. Thus Goldsmith has described it:

  'Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,
  Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
  There as I passed with careless steps, and slow,
  The mingling notes came softened from below;
  The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
  The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
  The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
  The playful children just let loose from school,
  The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whisp'ring wind,
  And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.'

With what consummate skill, if indeed it be not rather the instinct of the
poet, has Gray avoided all mention of those objects which might awaken
associations discordant with the mood of his own mind! Each epithet is
full of a plaintive melancholy. There is not one that does not contribute
something to the effect; not one that can be omitted; not one that can be
altered for the better. Yet there is scarcely one that is descriptive of
any quality actually existing in its subject. The fitness of each is to be
felt rather than seen.

In the selection of those circumstances and objects which Gray has
enumerated, he was governed by the effect which each had upon his own
feelings. He looked upon nature in the reflected light of his own heart.
He was mournful in view of the destiny of man; and wandering amidst the
graves of the lowly and obscure, he saw all the external world 
with the hue of his own sad thoughts. The melancholy spirit within him
transformed all things without into its own likeness. His imagination,
darting hither and thither, and governed in its flight by laws too subtle
and delicate to be analyzed, reposed itself for a moment amidst the gloom
of the historical associations that cluster around the curfew, hovered
over the lowing herd, and followed the ploughman as he homeward plods his
weary way. Goldsmith, recalling the scenes where he had spent many happy
hours, looks upon nature under a far different aspect. Every thing to him
is gay and joyous. He hears not the hollow tones of the curfew, nor the
drowsy tinklings that lull the distant folds. He sees not the wearied
ploughman, caring for nought but to forget his toils in the sweet oblivion
of sleep. He hears but the song of the milk-maid, and the soft response of
her rustic lover; the watchdog's voice, and the loud laugh of the happy
idlers. He sees but the children just escaped from school, running and
leaping, and romping in their innocent glee. Happy himself, he fastens
upon whatever in nature around him seems to sympathise with him, and
dwelling fondly upon it, casts away from his thoughts every thing that can
obstruct the full, free flow of his joyous emotions.

We may remark in passing, what has probably been before remarked by the
attentive reader, that both Gray and Goldsmith, excited as they are by
different passions, refer to the 'lowing herd' as raising on the one hand
a cheerful, and on the other a melancholy feeling. To our thought, the
associations connected with the return of the herds from the fields at
sunset are best fitted to awaken that quiet, reflective state of mind
which is most congenial to the mood of the elegiac poet. To another, these
associations may be of such a character as to produce a directly opposite
effect.

The writer of prose who should describe scenes like these, would aim to
give us a distinct and accurate picture by presenting all their prominent
features, omitting nothing, and grouping them as Nature herself had
grouped them. Such descriptions we daily see in all books of voyages and
travels. Or if the descriptions be of scenes wholly imaginary, their
essential character is not changed. Although they cease to be real, they
do not become poetical. The extract which we have made from Irving is not
poetical. Accurate, vivid, life-like, it is. We cannot read it without a
feeling of pleasure. We admire the genius of the writer; we wonder at the
magnificence of the spectacle which, by a few masterly touches, he has
raised up before us. But there is no more poetry in it than in his
description of Herr Van Tassel's supper table, covered with all the
luxuries of Dutch housewifery. It is true, there may be more of beauty and
sublimity in the scenery of the Hudson, in the gathering clouds and
muttering thunder, than in the sight of dough-nuts and crullers,
sweet-cakes and short-cakes, peach pies and pumpkin pies, slices of ham
and slices of smoked beef; yet the spirit of poetry exists no more in the
one than in the other. Poetry has its abode in the _heart_ of man; not in
the winds, in the clouds, in the mountains, or in the vales. It does not
derive its power from the outward world, but breathes into it its own
breath of life, investing the earth with a beauty which has no existence
but in the human soul, and filling the air with sweet harmonies, which are
unheard save by the inspired ear of the poet.

We have now, we think, sufficiently answered the question, why so many who
read descriptive poetry with pleasure, look with indifference upon what is
beautiful or sublime in nature. The poet is to them like one who gives
sight to the blind. The landscape which formerly lay before their eyes
unregarded, almost unseen, is now 'beautiful exceedingly.' Nature has not
changed; they themselves have not changed; yet there _is_ a change. There
is a glory unseen before, cast over the earth. It is, as it were,
transfigured before them, and made radiant with celestial light. This is
the poet's work. With a keener perception of the beautiful and sublime
than other men; with a greater facility of association, and with the power
to give to language the hue and intensity of his own feelings, he clothes
lifeless nature with the attributes of humanity, making it instinct with
human sentiment and passion. Like Burns, he pours forth his lament over
the mountain-daisy cut down in its bloom, in a few simple words that find
a response in the hearts of all men; and henceforth it is embalmed in our
memories, and shall be as immortal as the star that shines in the far
depths of the heavens. Like Wordsworth, he wanders upon the banks of his
native lakes, and mingles his song with the noise of their waters, until
the faintest whisper of the rippling waves seems but the echo of his
voice. Wherever he goes fruits, flowers, and herbage spring up in his
footsteps. A divine Presence goes with him; Nature speaks to him with her
thousand voices, and he hears, and answers, making sweet music in the joy
of his heart. Nothing is so inconsiderable as to be without the pale of
his sympathy; nothing too humble to stir the fountains of love in his
breast. The solitary flower that blossoms by the way-side, the rivulet far
away amid the hills, is but the starting point of that wondrous chain of
thick-coming fancies, that fill his eyes with light, and his ear with
harmony; as if multitudes of angels were hovering around, and he heard on
every side the rustling of their wings.

Such are the gifts of the poet. They are God's gifts, and are indeed
'wonderful in our eyes.'




VICISSITUDES.


  Hast thou not been where wild winds, freshly blowing,
    Brought odorous gladness on each passing gale;
  Hast thou not been where the pure streamlet flowing,
    In each soft murmur told a gentle tale:

  As the bright flashing of its gushing water,
    Glad as the tones of merriment and glee
  That joyous burst from children in their laughter,
    Swift dashes onward to the boundless sea?

  Hast thou not been where the enamelled mead
    Its beauty gave to the enraptured sense,
  And the crushed lily, from the elastic tread,
    Yielded its life in breath of sweets intense?

  Hast thou not been in spring-time's early hours,
    Where the lone bird its short sweet carol gave
  To the young bursting leaves and budding flowers,
    Beside some wildly-rushing mountain wave?

  Not such the lay it sings in summer hours,
    When love beats high within its little breast,
  And its exulting song it joyous pours,
    Where thick embowering leaves conceal its nest.

  Hast thou not marked, when autumn's gorgeous glory
    Fled in the rushing of the hurrying blast,
  The deep'ning pathos of the moral story
    Sighed in each cadence, as it onward passed.

  Hast thou not heard the ancient forests, bending
    To the far sweeping of the mighty wind,
  Send forth a solemn sound, as though responding
    To voices deep that secret powers unbind?

  Hast thou not stood where ocean madly raging,
    Rolled onward as with overmastering shock:
  'Till hushed the storm, the chafed surge assuaging,
    It gently laved the firm-opposing rock?

  Hast thou not gleaned a lesson to thy reason
    From winter's fostering power and spring's awakening reign;
  Summer's brief heat, autumn's maturing season,
    And learned vicissitudes are not in vain?

  But from the varied page outspread before thee,
    Garner'd of wisdom for thy fleeting days,
  Whether the sunshine or the storm be o'er thee,
    Forward to look with hope, and trust, and praise?

_Newport, Rhode-Island, Dec., 1843._                       E. R. G. H.




THE IDLEBERG PAPERS.

A CHRISTMAS YARN.


At Christmas every body is or should be happy. The genial influence of the
season lightens alike the lofty hall and the lowly cottage. It is the same
at home or abroad, on the land or the billow, in royal purple or in ragged
poverty; here and every where, to one and to all, it is always 'merrie
Christmas.' At such a time there is an obligation due from every man to
society, to be happy, and the more cheerfully it is paid, the better. The
man who would be found scowling and glowering like a thunder-cloud,
cherishing his private griefs or animosities at a time when every other
countenance is glowing with light, and hope, and sunshine, should be
denied all the charities of humanity, and exiled to Kamschatka, or some
other inhospitable clime, to growl and fret with the wild beasts, or the
wilder elements.

How dear is the light of home when glowing with the fires of Christmas!
What though the elements be wild without, or Jack Frost blow his whistling
pipe at the door, or fierce winds rumble down the chimney, and tell of
sweeping gusts and howling storms abroad, if within and around that
charmed circle is breathed the spirit of kindness and affection! Should
the titled stranger or the ragged beggar knock, throw wide open the doors
of thy hospitality; and while prattling infants recount the joys of the
season, and school-boy striplings pursue their holiday sports, and
gray-haired men who have traversed the wide world over, tell how in all
their wanderings they have never passed a Christmas from home; he will
turn his thoughts with a melancholy pleasure to the distant fireside
beyond the sea, and to the friends who are gathered there, and wonder
where the wanderer is spending his Christmas.

With all respect for the ancient and honorable class of 'old bachelors,'
whose sympathy and good fellowship we most earnestly desire, be it said,
that if to any it is allowed to be miserable at Christmas, it surely is to
them. We would not for the world say aught to heighten the sad picture of
their social desolation, by dwelling on the thousand tender endearments of
home, the ten thousand cords of love, of which they know nothing. Certain
it is, that to many of them 'merrie Christmas' brings only pangs of
remorse; and we have known more than one crusty member of the fraternity,
who on such occasions would rush incontinently from the scene and the
sound of merriment, and shut themselves under lock and key, until the
storm was passed, and people have recovered their lost senses.

Such an one, however, we are proud to say, was _not_ TOM HARDESTY, though
bachelor he was, in the superlative degree. Every body wondered how he
managed to preserve his good-humor and vivacity under the frosts of
three-score winters. At the period of this authentic history, Tom was the
village grocer; a station he had filled to his own profit and the town's
convenience until he had become a piece of village furniture, necessary to
its existence as a corporation. His little store, with its great variety
of commodities, adapted to every human want, was in itself a perfect
'curiosity-shop.' Odd-looking boxes, kegs, chests, casks, barrels and
hogsheads, contained his groceries, drugs and dye-stuffs. A few remnants
of domestic prints and muslins, together with stray fragments of
broadcloth, constituted his stock of dry-goods. Then there was a modicum
of hardware and cutlery; a few spelling-books and new testaments for a
book store; and sundry jars and bottles filled with fancy- powders
and liquids, for an apothecary shop. His remaining list of commodities was
made up of hats, caps and bonnets, boots and shoes, tin-pans and
looking-glasses, slate-pencils and sifters; and as his standing
advertisement in the village newspaper duly notified the public, 'other
articles too numerous to mention--call and see for yourselves.' If any
body desired an article nobody ever heard of before, he could find a large
lot thereof at Tom Hardesty's; and if any lucky or ingenious wight had
found or made any thing that nobody else would have as a gracious gift,
let him call on Mr. Hardesty, and it was the very thing he wanted. In a
word, his shop was a grand depot for every article the ingenuity of man
could devise, or his necessities require.

What a blessed convenience was Tom Hardesty! How could we have gotten
along without him? How honest and affable! What long ells and heavy pounds
he gave! And then his tea! how it inspired the village gossip on long
winter nights in a chimney corner! All the matrons of the village were
quite in love with Tom, or his tea; and many an old crone, as she sat
inhaling cup after cup of the divine beverage, has been known to pause in
the midst of her inspirations, and exclaim with uplifted hands, 'God bless
Tom Hardesty!'

And yet Tom Hardesty was a bachelor, and kept 'bachelor's hall.' The only
members of his mess were an orphan boy of his adoption, who waited in the
store, and a brindle cat which the master had honored with his own name.
This point, however, is still wrapt in obscurity, for Tom and 'Tom' were
both so venerable that nobody could swear whether the cat had been named
after the master, or the master after the cat. It had been rumored by
those who should know, that Mr. Hardesty should not be held strictly
accountable for this sin of celibacy, since he had offered his hand, his
heart, and a partnership in his worldly goods, to more than one village
beauty, each of whom had found it impossible to 'love for antiquity's
sake,' and rejected his matrimonial offers accordingly. Still Tom never
repined. His daily experience behind the counter had taught him the useful
lesson, that each applicant does not necessarily always drive a trade, and
the commodity which one rejects may be eagerly sought by another; and
acting on the faith of this philosophy, he lived cheerfully on, cherishing
the hope that even yet some fond heart would beat responsive to his own,
and promise before the competent authority, to 'love, honor and obey' him,
Tom Hardesty.

On a memorable Christmas-eve we enter his little counting-room. A cheerful
fire blazes on the hearth; and at the moment grimalkin is purring on the
rug. Master John, the adopted, is poring over a picture-book, probably an
early edition of Peter Parley's Travels, and Mr. Hardesty is standing
before a broken fragment of looking-glass, diligently brushing his scanty
locks.

'John!' said Mr. Hardesty, turning from the mirror, and looking full at
the boy, 'do I look very old to-night?'

The boy turned up his innocent face, gazed steadily on his master from top
to toe, and answered, 'Sir!'

'Do I look very _old_ to-night, John?'

John scratched his head. 'Not much older than you did this time last
night, Sir.'

'Humph!' said Mr. Hardesty, appealing to the glass, and renewing his
efforts with the brush, while John resumed his reading.

'But, John,' resumed Mr. Hardesty, seating himself beside the boy, 'do you
really think that a middle-aged lady, of right comfortable property, would
have, _could_ have, any rational objection to be called Mrs. Hardesty?'

'I think not, Sir,' replied John, taking up the cat; 'I'm sure you have
been very kind to me and old Tom here, and I know you would be so to her.'

'Very true, John,' said Mr. Hardesty, whose feelings were touched by this
expression of the boy's gratitude; 'but I wish to extend the sphere of my
usefulness; and I may venture to hope--but don't mention it--that in the
course of three or four years, or may-be a little longer, there'll be a
little boy at our house for you to play with; and if it's a girl, John,
you shall marry her when you get old enough. Eh, John! how would you like
_that_?' And the old gentleman chuckled himself into a fit of coughing
that seemed to threaten his longevity, and prevented John's reply to a
suggestion that had never occurred to him as being within the bounds of
the most remote possibility.

Having amused himself sufficiently with these flights of his fancy, Mr.
Hardesty rose from his seat, gave John eighteen-pence for Christmas-money,
stroked his namesake's back, put on his cloak and cap, and after bidding
John be a good boy, and not to mention it, and to take care of the fire
till he came back, left the house on his errand of love.

Christmas eve! Surely the village streets were never so gay before! You
may know there is a moon, for though the sky is darkened with clouds, and
the snow is falling as it never fell before, there is a glow of light
above and around, that would burst on the eye like dim revealings of
fairy-land, but for the mist that floats through the dim upper air, and
seems striving to bind the earth as with a mantle.

What a merry, merry Christmas! Gust after gust comes whirling on,
full-freighted with the virgin snow. There are shouts of revelry that rise
and fall with the sound of the blast. There are hurried footsteps that
glide over the crackling snow. There are merry hearts within those
bounding sleighs, and hands that clasp the hands they love, though wrapped
in countless furs and muffs. Gay steeds dash on with steaming nostrils, as
if their toil were sport; and their bells, as they ring cheerily out in
the sombre night, give promise of marriage-bells to come.

Through all this busy scene Tom Hardesty pressed on, turning neither to
the right nor left, except when he turned a corner. As the wind dashed the
driving snow in his face, he drew his cloak more closely around him, and,
shivering, passed on with cheerful thoughts of love and matrimony.
Sometimes the boys pelted him with their snowy artillery, or old
acquaintances inquired after his health, but he glided on like a dim
shadow, heedless alike of all. By degrees the holiday din of the village
waxed faint in his ears, and as he approached the suburbs, his heart beat
fast while his steps were slow with indecision, for he was approaching the
end of his pilgrimage--the dwelling of Miss Peggy Sidebottom.

While Mr. Hardesty is pausing at the door, stamping the snow from his
feet, and making the accustomed use of his pocket-handkerchief, we will
take advantage of his delay to state, briefly, that Miss Sidebottom,
beside being sole proprietress of the cottage-like mansion aforesaid,
claimed also among her chattels sundry shares in bank, and certain notes
of hand, yielding her sufficient income, without calculating the value of
her personal charms, to make her hand and heart two very desirable items
of furniture in a bachelor's apartments. Her household consisted of
herself, and a nephew and niece, christened Dick and Belinda, orphan
children of a deceased brother. Dick was a wild, rattling scape-grace, as
ever robbed hen-roost or melon-patch; Belinda was nothing, particularly,
except a little, quiet, blue-eyed girl, the pride of her aunt, and a
pattern of propriety to all little girls. That Miss Sidebottom was kind
and motherly to the two orphans, there is no question; but it was rumored
that in consideration thereof she enjoyed a comfortable legacy. It is only
necessary to premise, farther, that Miss Sidebottom had been younger by
some two-score years than she was that night; that she was one of Mr.
Hardesty's best customers; and that after long worshipping her across the
counter, he had suddenly determined to declare his passion with all the
eloquence he possessed; which was not inconsiderable, as many can bear
witness.

Mr. Hardesty knocks and is admitted to the hall. Another door is opened,
and there, in the snuggest corner, and by the snuggest fire conceivable,
sits Miss Sidebottom. The opposite end of the hearth is decorated by
Belinda, while a cat is sleeping on the rug between them. It was a picture
of quiet happiness that touched Mr. Hardesty's heart; and advancing into
the room, he bows with all the elegance of a Beau Brummel.

Miss Sidebottom turned her eyes upon the new-comer, and as they fell on
the familiar and smiling countenance of the grocer, she sprang to her
feet, and exclaimed: 'Why, Mr. Hardesty! I am so glad to see you! Let me
have your cloak and cap, Sir. Come, be seated; draw near the fire.'

Mr. Hardesty kept bowing all this time with as much nobility as was
displayed by the famous stick that was too crooked to lie still; and after
grasping Belinda's hand very affectionately, he seated himself, and drew
near the fire.

'Dear me! what a night!' said Miss Sidebottom; 'ain't it cold out, Mr.
Hardesty?'

Mr. Hardesty replied by shivering palpably, and said he had seen colder,
and he had seen warmer, but it would do. Having said thus much, he
produced his snuff-box, which he extended to the ladies, and then helped
himself.

'I am truly glad, Miss Peggy,' continued Tom. 'to see you situated so
comfortably--I am.' And he smiled tenderly and shifted his chair; but in
doing so, he infringed on the cat's tail, and the animal, as cats are wont
to do, squalled vehemently. Mr. Hardesty bounded from his seat.

'Dear me!' exclaimed Miss Sidebotton, 'don't do that!'

'Positively, Madam,' said Tom, 'I am very sorry, indeed--I am!'

'Poor thing!' said Belinda, taking the injured quadruped in her arms;
'poor thing!--did he hurt its tail?'

''Deed, Madam,' said Mr. Hardesty, stroking the animal's back, 'I wouldn't
have done that for forty ordinary cats. I may say, Madam, speaking
metaphorically, that your cat is of the short-horn Durham stock, and
wasn't made to be trod on.'

'Lor', Sir,' replied Miss Sidebottom, adjusting her cap, 'cats is cats,
and cattle is cattle--that's my sentiments; but as I was going to say, Mr.
Hardesty, I was telling Mrs. Jenkins to-night, not an hour ago, that I
felt a kind of nervous kind of feeling that somebody was coming; and sure
enough, here comes you. You see, Mrs. Jenkins was here to take tea with me
to-night, and beside the baby, why her little Jack and Sally and Bill and
Susan _would_ come, because, they said, pap wasn't at home, and they would
starve if they staid there. And here, sure enough, come they did, before
Mrs. Jenkins had fairly pulled off her bonnet; and stay they would, though
she boxed 'em well; but they didn't mind that, and I told her Christmas
come but once a year, and as it turned out, the poor things _were_ hungry,
in yearnest. And you never see children eat so; I do believe they hadn't
had a good meal for a fortnight. Well, we hadn't got fairly seated after
supper, when rap! rap! at the door, and there was Jake Crow had come for
Mrs. Jenkins; for Jenkins had got into a drunken row, and had his head cut
with a stick. And you never hearn sich a fuss; and Mrs. Jenkins and the
little brats went home crying all the way; and here me and Belinda have
been by ourselves ever since. But poor Mrs. Jenkins! I wonder men will get
drunk and leave their wives and children to starve. _You_ never get drunk,
Mr. Hardesty, do you?'

'Drunk! Madam, drunk!' said Mr. Hardesty, placing his hand over his heart,
and shaking his head emphatically. 'No, Madam; I only get what you may
call intoxicated, and not with liquor neither; and I feel it coming on me
now--I do indeed!'

'Well, well!' replies Mrs. Sidebottom, holding up her hands in utter
astonishment, 'I never heard tell of the like of that before. P'raps its
the cold, Mr. Hardesty.'

'No, Madam,' persisted the old gentleman; 'it's the heat.'

'Dear me! Mr. Hardesty; then I'll open the door.' And Miss Peggy started
to her feet.

'No, my dear Madam, don't, if you please. It ain't this here fire in the
hearth, but,' striking his breast passionately, 'it's _here_, Madam.'

'That's just where Mrs. Jenkins is affected sometimes, and she says
Madeira's the best thing for it; and she has drank nearly all that last
quart I got of you, Mr. Hardesty, and I don't see as she gets any better.'

'Madeira, indeed!' said old Tom, scornfully. 'Madeira, madam, instead of
squenching, would only add fuel to the flame that is consuming me. There
_are_ men as takes to the bottle for it when they despair; but bless your
soul!' he continued, dropping his voice to a whisper, 'I haven't
despaired.'

At this eloquent appeal, Mrs. Sidebottom looked at the fire and said
nothing, until an audible snore from Belinda, who had fallen asleep in her
chair, aroused her.

'Bless me!' exclaimed Miss Peggy, bouncing to her feet; 'look at the child
there! Belinda dear, wake up. Poor dear thing! you had better go up stairs
to bed.' And rubbing her eyes, the child took up a lighted candle, bowed
politely to Mr. Hardesty, and disappeared behind the stair-door.

Miss Sidebottom resumed her seat and looked again at the fire, and Mr.
Hardesty looked at Miss Sidebottom. Presently, that amiable lady turned
her gaze, lighted as it was by an equivocal smile, full upon Tom. In the
space of about fifteen seconds, after trying in vain to interpret that
smile to his own satisfaction, Mr. Hardesty quailed, while his heart
commenced vibrating against his ribs, as though it would burst their
feeble barrier, and take refuge in his waistcoat-pocket. Miss Sidebottom,
however, showed no such symptoms of alarm, and her courage rose as Tom's
fell. By the way, composure in such delicate epochs is like see-sawing;
one ascends as the other descends, until perchance the weaker party fails
to recover his equilibrium, and tumbles off the fence. Diffident young
courtiers should remember this.

Mr. Hardesty was bewildered beyond endurance. How could a man speak more
plainly? And yet he would try once more.

'Let me tell you, my dear Miss Sidebottom, once for all, I'm----'

There was a noise of some one opening the front door, and as Mr. Hardesty
turned his head, Dick entered the room.

'Why, Dicky, where have you been this cold night?' asked his aunt.

Dicky replied that he had been snow-balling, of which there were
sufficient marks on his person. His countenance was flushed and heated,
and he proceeded to say that he was tired, and wanted to go to bed.

At this Mr. Hardesty rose deliberately from his seat, saying it was time
to go.

'But, Mr. Hardesty,' urged Miss Peggy, 'it's cold and snowing; stay all
night there with Dicky,' pointing to a comfortable bed in one corner. 'I
know you are delicate, and it's snowing hard. I'll go and see. Here
Dicky,' and she left the room followed by Dick. Mr. Hardesty looked around
at the comfortable quarters offered him, and determined to remain.
Scarcely had he come to this decision, when the affectionate aunt and
nephew returned, the former telling him not to think of going out on such
a night, and the latter assuring him it was snowing 'like sixty.'

'I'll stay, Madam, and thank'ee too,' said Mr. Hardesty, re-seating
himself. Miss Peggy bade her guest a very good night, and, threatening to
catch him for a Christmas gift next morning, disappeared up the stairs and
locked the door after her. Tom watched her retreating figure until she
disappeared, and then addressed himself to the boy.

'Been snow-balling to-night, eh, Dicky? Fine sport, Dicky; fine sport.'

'I should say it was, Sir, when your side toes the mark and don't run,'
said Dick, placing his damp shoes on the hearth. 'Them shoes'll never run
away with _my_ feet in 'em, certain.'

'Well, Dicky,' continued Mr. Hardesty, stirring the fire, 'you're a brave
boy.'

'Yes, Sir,' said Dick, 'braver than you think for. Catch me napping when
there's work to do, and I am to get a pie for it in the bargain, will
you?' The bare suggestion amused Dick, and as he divested himself of his
damp clothes, he laughed heartily.

'That's just what I was saying, Dicky, and was going on to add, that
snow-balling and such like ain't for me now, but the time was when none
was better at them than I.'

'P'raps not,' said Dick, 'but as I'm rather tired, and don't mind the
cold, I'll get in and warm the bed, and you can come along when you like;'
and the light-hearted boy sprang into his nest, and in less than five
minutes was snoring audibly.

Mr. Hardesty stirred the fire, and as the myriad sparks flew up the
chimney, he wished he had just so many dollars; he would give them all if
_she_ would but love him. Growing weary of this delusive sport, he looked
at his watch, compared it with Miss Sidebottom's yankee clock, and finding
his own time-piece was just five minutes the faster, concluded that both
were wrong just two minutes and a half, and he would split the difference.
He might be mistaken, but if he was he would consult the town clock
to-morrow.

Mr. Hardesty resumed the poker and stirred the fire until its bright blaze
threw a broad glare over the chamber; and out of the glowing coals he
built strange towers and castles, and saw them change by turns into ashes,
and grow dim like his own recent dreams of love. This being a melancholy
contemplation, he lent his ear to a solitary cricket that was cheerily
singing its household song, though the winds were wild without. Presently
the cricket ceased its chirrup, and Mr. Hardesty growing tired of sitting,
yawned, stretched himself, and walked to the window.

Outside, the ground was covered with a wild waste of snow, and the heavy
flakes were still falling. Suddenly it occurred to him that somebody might
accidentally pass that way and recognize him; so he let fall the curtain
and walked across the room. Here, lifting his eyes from the floor, a
looking-glass stared him in the face, and he started back. He turned again
and walked to the bed-side where Dick was sleeping. The boy, he thought,
might one day be his nephew, and he revolved in his mind a thousand
schemes for advancing him in the world and making him a clever fellow.

Mr. Hardesty left the bed-side and looked up at the ceiling. Beyond that,
he thought, was the adored Miss Sidebottom. What a narrow space sundered
them! He walked to the fire-place and looked on the mantel for a book. He
selected an old copy of Burns, and opened at the pathetic ballad of 'John
Anderson.' Mr. Hardesty sat down and read it once aloud. Then he read it
to himself over and over again, until he had gotten it by heart. And then
by degrees the room swam dizzily before him, the fire glowed like a pale
meteor, his eyes closed heavily, the open book fell from his hand, and Mr.
Hardesty was asleep.

He slept and dreamed. Smiles like those of sleeping infancy stole over his
venerable features. In one short moment he was the happiest man alive; his
love had been crowned with success; and putting forth his hand to grasp
the dear shadow, he lost his balance and fell from his chair.

Mr. Hardesty looked around him, wondering. He resumed his seat and rubbed
his eyes. The fire had almost gone out. The wick was long and dim. He
looked at the clock; it wanted just twenty minutes of midnight.

Mr. Hardesty snuffed the candle and commenced divesting himself of his
apparel; placed his boots beside Dicky's shoes on the hearth; threw his
upper garments on the back of a chair, and his nether ditto on the seat
thereof. But his extremities were cold, he thought, and placing a chair
bottom upward on the floor, he put his feet to the fire.

For some minutes Mr. Hardesty stared steadily at the ceiling, beyond which
Miss Sidebottom was sleeping in virgin security; and whether from the
magnetic effect of his constant gaze, or the slumbrous air that pervaded
the room, his eyelids soon closed, and he was again soundly asleep. The
candle burned dimly on; coal after coal was turned to ashes; at last both
went out, and still Mr. Hardesty slept.

Presently there was a stir in the bed occupied by Dick. The boy rose on
his pillow and looked cautiously around him. He called Mr. Hardesty, but
there was no answer. At this Dick put one leg out of bed, and then the
other, and stood firmly on the floor. Gliding cautiously over the carpet,
he stooped over the sleeper, whose deep breathing assured him that all was
safe. Then stepping softly to the chair on which Mr. Hardesty's clothes
were lying, he selected that gentleman's nether garment, then went to the
hearth and lifted the boots, and slipping on his own shoes, glided
cautiously out of the room with his booty. Returning in a few minutes he
again stooped over the sleeper, and then stole to bed, where, after
laughing immoderately yet quietly, he was soon as fast asleep as Mr.
Hardesty himself.

When Mr. Hardesty awoke he found himself still reclining on the back of
the chair. Not a little vexed with himself for lying there all night, he
rose to his feet, and looking around, found that Dick had risen before
him, and the bed was empty. 'Why didn't he wake me, I wonder?' said Mr.
Hardesty.

Mr. Hardesty walked to the window, lifted the curtain, and looked out. The
mists and clouds had cleared away, and left the sky all bright and blue.
The sun had just risen, and was shedding his early splendor on the myriad
snow-drops as brightly as if to atone for the darkness and gloom of
yesterday. It was a cheerful and beautiful view; but Mr. Hardesty heard
the sound of shuffling footsteps overhead; so he turned shivering from the
window to dress himself for the day. 'It'll never do to be caught in this
fix,' said Mr. Hardesty.

His first search was for his boots, but these had been taken out, as he
supposed, to be polished. He would put on his breeches and wait for his
boots. He cast his eye on the pile of clothes, but the breeches were not
there. Then he looked on the floor, and in all the corners of the room,
and then on the bed and under the bed--but in vain. 'What the d----l has
become of my breeches!' said Mr. Hardesty.

It occurred to him at length that by some mysterious power of locomotion
the garment had gotten into the drawer of a bureau that stood in one
corner. He pulled at this drawer most lustily, but it was locked, and Miss
Sidebottom had the key. To add to his discomfiture, he again heard the
sound of footsteps overhead. He had but a moment to spare, and looking
around for a place of retreat, his eye fell on a closet-door that opened
beneath the stairs. Putting on hastily the remnant of his apparel, he
presented altogether an appearance the like of which the writer has never
seen, and will not attempt to describe, and managed to effect his retreat
into the closet just as Miss Sidebottom and Belinda entered the room from
above.

Mr. Hardesty applied his eye to the key-hole, but saw nothing save the
form of either lady as it flitted from time to time across the limited
range of his vision. Presently a conversation began between the two, of
which, however, he could hear nothing except a confused murmur, and
occasionally a most uproarious fit of laughter. Before long the merry
tones of the elder lady were changed to those of anger. Miss Sidebottom
was evidently scolding one of the servants, and then came reiterated
sounds of castigation, interspersed with tongue-lashings, by far the most
terrible of the two. Mr. Hardesty resigned himself to his fate, and was
willing to endure a confinement that revealed to him the evil spirit that
reigned within a form of so much loveliness.

After a while came the indescribable sounds of breakfast; the rattling of
knives and forks, and cups and saucers, suggestive to Mr. Hardesty's mind
of coffee, hot biscuits, and butter. Presently the table was cleared away,
and he caught a glimpse through his key-hole of the two ladies, dressed in
their cloaks and bonnets. In a moment they departed, leaving Mr. Hardesty
sole proprietor.

Each moment of this time was one of intense agony to Mr. Hardesty. Exposed
to hunger and thirst, and cold and insult, what had he done to deserve
such misfortunes? And that was Christmas, too; what a merry day to all the
world without; and in what a contemptible plight was he! What would little
Master John think of his absence; and how much would be sold at his little
store before night? These reflections only enhanced the agony of his
imprisonment; so wrapping himself tightly in the folds of his cloak, he
crouched down in a corner of the closet, and soon fell fast asleep.

Mr. Hardesty slept on until night-fall. So soon as he realized his
situation, he determined to be a prisoner no longer, but to emerge from
his confinement, whatever might be the danger of an exposure. Fortunately
for him, the room was deserted. The ladies had not yet returned from their
visit. Mr. Hardesty approached the window and found it quite dark without.
He had little time left for deliberation, for he heard the sound of a key
turning in the street-door lock, and recognized the well-known voice of
Miss Sidebottom; so hoisting the window, he crawled rapidly through it,
and leaped on the ground.

Mr. Hardesty breathed once more like a freeman; and muttering deep
anathemas against the inhospitable house and all its inmates, he stole
quietly along, with his bootless feet buried at each step in the snow.
Leaving the more frequented streets, and worming his way through bypaths
and dark alleys; now turning a corner, under the direful apprehension of
meeting some acquaintance, and now darting this way or that to avoid a
random snow-ball, he pursued his painful way until he reached home, where
he knocked and was admitted by Master John.

The grocer bolted in, rushed into his counting-room, and throwing off his
cloak, stared wildly at the bewildered boy. 'What do you think of that,
John?' pointing to his denuded extremities. 'How does that become your old
master, Sir?'

Master John, frightened partly at the anomalous appearance of the grocer,
and partly at the sternness of his voice and manner, started back to the
remotest corner of the room, but said nothing.

'What's the matter now, you little fool?' said his master. 'Are you afraid
of old Tom Hardesty? If you are, you needn't be; nobody need be afraid of
such an old coward as I am--darned if they need!' And feeling that he was
growing melancholy, he determined to subdue the propensity, and to that
end commenced cutting the complicated figure entitled a pigeon-wing. This
exhilarating sport soon restored the grocer's good humor, and he laughed
heartily and made such a racket altogether, that the boy gradually
approached him to inquire what it all meant, how he had spent his
Christmas, what had become of his breeches, and all about it.

'Here, John,' said Mr. Hardesty, seating himself by the fire, 'sit here
and I'll tell you all about it. But what an old fool I am! Here's
twenty-four blessed hours gone, and the d----l a bit or a drop have I had
since last night at supper. Is this my house or not, John? for I've forgot
every thing except one, and wouldn't swear I ain't dreaming, and haven't
been all day.'

The boy gave him every assurance that he was at home.

'Well, John,' pursued the master, 'I think the last time I was here--it
may be a year, or it may be more--I'll be hanged if I know--but I rather
think there was a lot of prime cheese, and a few barrels of crackers. You
haven't sold 'em all, John?'

John smiled, and answered negatively.

'I rather think, too, there were several casks of best three-year-old
whiskey, prime lot; any of _that_ left, John?'

John pointed, in reply, to a row of casks in one corner that answered the
description.

'No! stop, Sir!' said Mr. Hardesty, soliloquizing; 'I think she said
Madeira was good for it. Yes, John, I'll take a little of the Madeira, if
you've any on hand.'

John opened a cupboard door, and producing a black quart-bottle, assured
Mr. Hardesty it was nearly full.

'That'll do, Sir,' said the grocer. 'Set the table; never mind the cloth.
Crackers and cheese and old Madeira, and 'away with melancholy.''

In a few minutes the table was spread according to directions, after which
Mr. Hardesty seated himself near it and did ample justice to the simple
fare.

'You see, John,' said the old gentleman, when his appetite was somewhat
assuaged, 'it's all on account of that old, ugly, and infernal Peggy
Sidebottom. Here's hoping she may--may never drown her sorrows in the
flowing bowl!'

The grocer drank this toast with infinite gusto and replenished his glass.

'Well, Sir, as I was about saying, I went there last night to spend an
hour in a little sociable chat, and was about taking leave----' At this
point the speaker was interrupted by several violent raps at the door.

'Who's that?' inquired Mr. Hardesty, draining his glass.

'It's me,' said a voice from without.

'What do you want?' said Mr. Hardesty.

'Nothin'; what do _you_ want?'

'Who the d----l are you?' said the grocer, in a voice of thunder.

'Dick!' replied the voice.

'Dick what?'

'Dick Sidebottom!'

'What do you want here?' said the grocer, rising and pacing the floor.
'John, where's my cow-hide? Clear yourself, you little rascal, or
I'll----'

'But I've got your breeches and your boots, Sir,' said Dick.

'Oh! you _have_, have you?'--and Mr. Hardesty threw aside the cow-hide,
and opened the door. Dick marched boldly in, deposited his plunder on a
chair, and then looked Mr. Hardesty full in the face with a glance of
perfect innocence. The owner of the recovered booty picked them up,
examined them closely to satisfy himself of their identity, and without
saying a word, put them on in their appropriate places. This done, he
surveyed himself with a smile of approbation, and felt that he was indeed
Mr. Hardesty once more. After helping Dick to a highly sweetened draught
from the contents of the black bottle, he begged of him a detailed account
of the affair of the lost boots and breeches. This Dick proceeded to give;
by telling, in his peculiar and highly figurative manner, how his aunt had
first suggested the feat to him; how he had risen while Mr. Hardesty was
asleep, secured the booty, and hid it in an adjoining hay-loft; how his
aunt had promised him a Christmas pie, and though often requested thereto,
had failed to comply; how she had inflicted personal chastisement on him
for some trivial offence; and how, on reflecting what a kind-hearted old
gentleman Mr. Hardesty was, and what a crabbed old thing Aunt Peggy was,
he had repented of his theft, and determined to make restitution at the
earliest opportunity; 'and there they are on you,' said Dick, in
conclusion, 'and that's all about it.'

Mr. Hardesty listened with due attention to this detail, and then sat for
some time in silence.

'And you can swear to all this in a court of justice, can you?'

'Certainly, Sir.'

'And you'll do it when called on?'

Dick bowed his head in assent.

'Good!' said Mr. Hardesty, grasping the boy's hand. 'Take a little more of
this,' he continued, filling Dick's glass. 'Your aunt shall suffer for
this yet, if there's any law or justice in the land.'

'Ain't there no law,' inquired Dick, pausing in his draught, 'for suing an
old lady for 'sault and batterhim?'

'No, Dicky, I fear not in your case; but if I get any damages, I'll give
you half.'

Dick drained the contents of his glass, and shaking hands most cordially
with Mr. Hardesty and Master John, bade them good night. It is scarcely
necessary to add, that the last surviving male heir of the Sidebottoms was
gloriously drunk in less than an hour, and made such a demonstration of
that fact to his sober and discreet aunt, that she caused his head to be
soused repeatedly in cold water, and then flogged him into sobriety.

It is not to be supposed that the disappearance of the village grocer from
his usual post for a whole day together, and particularly on Christmas,
that busiest of all days, failed to excite a degree of general curiosity
and inquisitiveness as to the cause of his absence; but to the many
inquiries of his friends touching that subject, he only replied by shaking
his head and saying that time would show. Enough had leaked out, however,
to satisfy the public that the affair was shrouded in a mystery that was
worth the trouble of penetrating; so that when on the morning of the first
of January immediately succeeding the year that had just closed, Mr.
Thomas Hardesty and Miss Margaret Sidebottom were summoned each by three
lusty cheers from the town-crier to appear before his worship the police
judge of Idleberg, the populace rushed to the scene of judicial conflict,
until the humble and contracted audience-chamber was crowded to
overflowing.

The witnesses summoned in the case were Mrs. Jenkins, Jake Crow, and
Master Dick Sidebottom. In due time the defendant came into court, leaning
on the arm of her next friend and privy counsellor, Mrs. Jenkins, who as
usual was attended by a bevy of young Jenkinses. Before embarking in this
trying embassy, the ladies, by the way, had gone to the Madeira bottle;
the one complaining of a pain in the breast, and the other of general
nervousness. Mr. Hardesty was unattended, and so were his remaining
witnesses.

The warrant gravely charged the defendant with stealing or causing to be
stolen from the plaintiff, on the night of the twenty-fourth of December
last past, a pair of boots and a pair of breeches, whose respective values
were duly set forth. The reading of this document created quite a
sensation throughout the court-room. Mrs. Jenkins was called and sworn.
She deposed that on the night specified in the warrant, she had taken tea
at the defendant's house; that she was suddenly called home, missing
thereby a great deal of anticipated pleasure; that the defendant passed
the next day, being Christmas-day, at her (witness's) house; and witness
did not at any time see defendant steal or cause to be stolen from
plaintiff the said boots and breeches, nor did she believe Miss Sidebottom
to be capable of such an act; 'and particular,' she said in conclusion,
'from such a pitiful old scamp as Tom Hardesty;' and glancing around
triumphantly at the audience, and scornfully at the plaintiff, she waited
for the court's cross-questions.

'Is that all you know about the case, Madam?' inquired his worship,
smiling.

That was all.

'You can retire. Call Jake Crow.'

Mr. Crow stood in no need of being called, as he marched up to the judge
immediately, and deposed that on the last Christmas-eve night, he had
called at defendant's house for Mrs. Jenkins, as old Jenkins had been
knocked on the head and carried home drunk. (At this Mrs. Jenkins looked
like a carnation pink, and commenced fanning herself violently with her
pocket-handkerchief.) Witness, however, did not enter the house, and knew
nothing whatever of the matter in dispute.'

'You can retire, Mr. Crow. Call Richard Sidebottom.'

Dick had managed, with his usual restlessness, to retire some time before
this from the crowded room, and was breathing the pure air and playing his
boyish pranks in a distant part of the town. The officer who was
despatched for the young gentlemen returned presently, lugging him by the
coat-collar. After being introduced to the court by the usual solemnities,
Dick proceeded to give in detail the events of the memorable night, as
already known to the reader. He also gave an interesting account of the
defendant's oft-repeated cruelties to himself personally; how on Christmas
night he had restored the stolen articles to plaintiff, and how the
rightful proprietor was wearing the same in court.

A general hurrah and stamping of feet succeeded the delivery of this
testimony; at which the judge frowned, and the constable cried 'Order!'
with all his lungs.

'Mr. Hardesty,' said the judge, when order was restored, 'do you feel
disposed to prosecute this suit? I fear I must dismiss the warrant, on the
ground that the court can furnish no relief in the case. What say you?'

Mr. Hardesty arose. 'May it please your worship, the time was, and I care
not who knows it, when I entertained for the defendant in this cause
feelings of the most profound respect and admiration. And I had been led
to hope that my passion was not altogether disregarded; that Miss
Sidebottom would one day become Mrs. Hardesty. And this, Sir, as detailed
to you by the last witness, her own nephew, is the treatment I have
received!' The speaker paused and applied his pocket handkerchief to his
eyes. The audience was touched. 'It ain't the temporary loss of my
breeches; it ain't the long weary hours I spent shivering in that closet;
it ain't the wading home bare-footed in the snow; it ain't the finger of
scorn some gentlemen may p'int at me now, that wounds my heart; but it's
feeling and knowing that the woman I loved better than my own life; the
woman I would have lived for, or died for, to make her happy; that that
very woman----' He could say no more; his feelings overpowered him, and he
sat down.

Miss Sidebottom's sympathies were evidently touched throughout this
harangue. Until now, she had been rocking to and fro in her seat, and when
Mr. Hardesty concluded, she rushed through the crowd, threw herself on his
neck, and kissed him passionately.

'Clear the room!' bawled his worship, starting to his feet. 'Clerk,' he
continued, addressing that official personage, who was standing near,
'write me a license to unite Thomas Hardesty and Margaret Sidebottom in
the holy bands of matrimony. I know they are of age, and don't need any
guardeens.'

The judge sat down, convulsed by his own wit, while the clerk proceeded to
his task. The loving pair looked up and smiled through their tears. 'I
loved you, Tom, all the time; I did indeed. It was all in fun, dear
man--indeed it was!' Tom Hardesty threw his arms around her neck, and
pressed her head to his bosom.

'Come!' said his worship, after reading the license, 'none of your
hysterics here, but stand up and be married.' And married they were; and
the bride, in consideration of her cruelty, paid the costs of the suit and
the marriage fees; and off they marched homeward, amid the deafening
huzzas of the multitude that was gathered in the street.

Happy New-Year! that sealed Tom Hardesty's happiness! Many a changing
season has come and gone since then, and nobody knows but they are the
happiest couple in Idleberg. Mr. Hardesty's first domestic advice to his
bride was to decline Mrs. Jenkins's farther acquaintance, which she did
most readily. The old gentleman has long since despaired of having an heir
direct, but has promised John, who is prospering behind his old master's
counter, that he and Belinda shall marry before long. Mr. Richard
Sidebottom is one of the 'reformed drunkards,' and eschews Madeira
especially. He is now an attorney, _in embryo_, and gives ample promise of
carrying into his profession all the acuteness and cunning which
distinguished his exploits on the memorable night that opened this chapter
in the biography of Mr. Tom Hardesty.




WINTER EVENING.


  The fire is burning cheerly bright, the room is snug and warm,
  We keep afar the wintry night, and drive away the storm;
  And when without the wanderer pines, and all is dark and chill,
  We sit securely by the fire, and sparkling glasses fill.

  And ever as the hollow wind howls through the moaning trees,
  Strange feelings on the boding heart with sudden chillness seize:
  But brightly blazes then the hearth, and freely flows the wine;
  And laugh of glee, and song of mirth, then wreathe their merry twine.

  We think not how the dashing sleet beats on the crusted pane,
  We care not though the drifting snow whirls o'er the heath amain;
  But haply, while our hearts are bright, far struggling through the
            waste,
  Some traveller seeks our window's light, with long and fruitless haste.

  Hark his halloo! we leave the fire, and hurry forth to save:
  A short half hour, and he had found beneath the snow a grave.
  Pile on the wood!--feed high the flame!--bring out our choicest store!
  The traveller's heart grows warm again; his spirit droops no more.

                                                              J. G. P.




SONG OF THE NEW YEAR.

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.


  I have come, I have come from a shadowy clime,
  An heir of the monarch Earth's children call TIME;
  With years yet unborn, I have stood in the hall
  That was reared by our sire, awaiting his call:
  Last eve, as I lay on his bosom at rest,
  I saw slowly rise a white cloud in the west;
  Now through the blue ether, through regions of space,
  It floated up softly, with fairy-like grace,
  And paused 'neath the light of the white-shining stars,
  Whose rays pierced its centre, like clear silver bars;
  The winds revelled round it, unchecked in their mirth,
  As it hung, like a banner, 'mid heaven and earth.

  The soft fleecy folds of the clouds swept aside,
  The winds ceased their revels, and mournfully sighed;
  A car slowly rolled down the pathway of Time,
  A bell slowly tolled a funereal chime:
  A sound in the air, and a wail on the breeze,
  Swift as wave follows wave on tempest-tossed seas;
  Thin shadows swept by in that funeral train,
  As glide o'er old battle-grounds ghosts of the slain.
  I saw the dim spectres of long-buried years--
  The Seasons close followed, in mourning and tears.

  Arrayed in his armor, death-darts in his hand,
  The grim King of Terrors strode on with the band,
  While cold, stark and ghastly, there lay on his bier
  The death-stricken form of the hoary OLD YEAR!
  How bent was his figure, how furrowed his brow,
  How weary he looked from his pilgrimage now!
  The phantoms of Passion, of Hope and Despair,
  With dark, waving plumage, encircled him there;
  The Months stood around, and the bright dancing Hours
  On spirit-wings floated, like birds among flowers.

  A voice sweet as music now smote on my ear:
  'Go forth in thy beauty, thou unspotted Year!
  The old Year hath died 'mid rejoicings and mirth,
  That rocked the stern heart of the rugged old Earth!
  The midnight is passing; away to thy car!
  Thou'lt sail by the lustre of morning's bright star;
  Away!' And I rose from the bosom of Time,
  And fled through the gates of that shadowy clime;
  My car sped along on the wings of the wind,
  While Winter, old man! tottered slowly behind.

  The sky's eastern portals impeded my flight,
  When Morning rose up from the arms of the Night;
  The dawn faintly glowed, and I saw the old Earth,
  And sailed in my kingdom, a monarch at birth!
  'Then give me wild music, the dance and the song,
  For ever!' I shouted, while whirling along:
  'I have come, I have come from a shadowy clime,
  A breath of the monarch Earth's children call TIME!'

_Cincinnati, December, 1843._




ON COLOUR.

      Full angel-like the birdis sang their hours[1]
      Within their curtains green, within their bowers
          Apparelled with white and red, with bloomys sweet.
      Enamell'd was the field with all colours:
      The pearlit drops shook as in silver showers,
          While all in balm did branche and leavis fleit.[2]
          Depart fra' Phoebus did Aurora greit;
      Her chrystal tears I saw hing on the flowers
          Which he, for love, all drank up with his heat.

                                                               DUNBAR.

        [1] Heures, prayers.
        [2] Float.

    1. The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

    2. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me
       beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul.

                                                     A PSALM OF DAVID.


As I walk over the surface of this fair Earth, an erring and a wayward
being, at times dejected by the trials of a solitary and an almost
abortive life, or sustained or elevated by its prosperous incidents; I
sometimes think that no one other blessing of existence hath ever
comforted my heart and restored my soul so much, as the pleasures and
delights of COLOUR. It is my wealth, my joy, my faculty, my fountain!

The recreative pleasure that others find in Music, although this is not
denied is less to me than to them, a restorative and a balm. Music excites,
arouses me; melts me into weakness, or animates me into passionate
exertion; but it is in the green pasture and beside the still waters, in
bowers apparelled with white and red; it is in the tints with which autumn
is bedecked, and Day expires; that I feel I shall not want, and that GOD
restoreth my soul! And it is among huge and solitary mountain masses of
grey castellated rock, in the crevices of which the stinted pine, and the
cedar with its brown and tattered trunk, struggle out a hard and scanty
existence and are yet covered with never-fading verdure--mountains to
which the Saviour of mankind might have retired to meditate and pray--that
I feel that the Lord is my Shepherd, and shall bring me to the green
pastures, and lead me beside the still waters; my Rock! my fortress! and
my high tower!

Sometimes my heart takes a fancy altogether for _brown_ hues; and as you
cannot at all times command these in the country, I seat myself down
quietly in front of a precious Cuyp with which GOD hath endowed me, and
that (except the sky and water) is composed entirely of them in every
gradation and shade; and when I rise up from the contemplation of it, I
feel that it is in brown hues that GOD restoreth my soul.

Sometimes I dwell upon the silvery trunk of the birch-tree, or upon the
darker hue of the beech. Sometimes my soul drinks the full beauties of the
umbrageous chestnut; or revels in the golden berries, and the graceful
branches that seem overladen with them, of the mountain-ash. As I grow old
I wave often in the grey pendulous mosses of the South, or stand in
thought under the gigantick branches of the live oak, with all its leaves
of laurel, and its heroick gesture. GOOD GOD! I say, when I think that we
might all have been born, ate, drank, smoked, grown up, built, propagated,
and died, as thoroughly and effectually as we now do, and all these
precious objects of our sight and joy been made for us--out of the one
desolate colour of an old pipe!

And WATER--that element of Life, that upon the plaintain-leaf looks so
like a molten mass of diamond that you can hardly persuade yourself it is
aught else, might as well have been created of a mere drab quaker-colour;
or not even as bright as a bit of Quartz Rock! and yet have satisfied our
thirst as well as if it had gushed forth from the limpid sources of the
Croton; or been drawn from the transparent body of Lake George; or from
those mountain streams of sparkling chrystal that, in alternate shade and
gleams of light of tropical brilliancy, bound and gush and dance their way
downward from rock to rock to the sound of their own musick, and make
themselves into rivers of joy as they descend along the _Grand Etang_ of
the Island of Grenada!

And WINE, that GOD hath sent to make glad the heart of man, and
hath blessed it in the cup; and which might perhaps have had the same
hilarious effect, though it were of the dingy colour of the ashes of the
grate by which I sit; but which, for our more perfect happiness, He hath
made to outvie the Topaz and the Ruby, in its lustre and its varied hue!

There are many of us who have this one quality, the love of colour, in
common with the magnificent DAVID, whose precious inspiration I have
quoted at the head of my Essay, and who in a thousand passages interweaves
it like a golden thread amid his works; but as in the minds of many
others, it may be a blessing only half appreciated, I have thought that a
few words upon this subject might fall not unfruitfully upon the heart,
perchance of some one young Reader of this article, just opening to the
knowledge of this peculiar work of the great Master of mankind, COLOUR.

Even Music, although itself an occupation revealed to us as of the Angels
of Light, is, except perhaps as they enjoy it--with whom poetry and
modulated sound adapted to the thought are inseparably one--even music is
less refined, less gentle, perfect, unobtrusive. For the enjoyment of
Colour involves no possible interruption of another's tastes; no outbreak
upon the quiet stillness of the day; no intrusion on 'the ear of night;'
nor yet any expression, that by pouring abroad the sensations, might
diminish the deep earnestness of the soul; which, all sight, all ear,
becomes the Recipient. The enjoyment of colour is the Spirit within us
listening to the language of GOD! to the mute expression of His
unspeakable Love! COLOUR--the conception He hath chosen for His bow of
promise in the Heavens! by which He decorates the Earth, and tells of
Himself in the ocean, and in the sky, and by which He restoreth the Soul
of man!

And in that state of celestial existence which attends the redeemed Soul
disenthralled from 'the body of this death,' is it to be doubted, that
among the joys that 'the eye hath never seen, nor the heart conceived,'
there exist colours beautiful beyond all earthly wealth of imagination;
beyond the poet's fancy and the painter's dream? There where the pure gold
of which the city is constructed, is transparent as glass, and each gate
is one pearl, and the very foundations of the walls are of jasper, and
chalcedony, sapphire, emerald, ruby, amethyst and topaz; and the glory of
GOD is the light that lightens it!

But it is not to another world that the joys of colour are postponed, nor
even to another climate that we need look for the precious satisfaction
that they impart. We have not the carpets of flowers of rainbow tints,
that spread themselves over whole prairies of Texas and Mexico, but what a
gem upon the bosom of Earth when it is unexpectedly found among us is the
blue campanula! And the small white lily of the valley, sheltered and
concealed in its green leaves like a hidden tear of Joy, and almost as
rare! And the bright and graceful lobelia cardinalis that loves the
neighbourhood of the still waters. And the fringed gentian of a tint so
cerulean that our true poet derives it from the firmament; as his own
spirit, if left to approach its kindred element, might claim affinity with
the overshadowing expanse of celestial life![3]

    [3] THIS allusion is to BYRANT'S lines 'To the Fringed
        Gentian,' a poem so replete with truth and beauty, that we
        cannot resist the inclination to quote it here.

                                                ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

          Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
          And  with the heaven's own blue.
          That openest, when the quiet light
          Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

          Thou comest not when violets lean
          O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
          Or columbines, in purple dressed,
          Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

          Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
          When woods are bare and birds are flown,
          And frosts and shortening days portend
          The aged year is near his end.

          Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
          Look through its fringes to the sky,
          Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall
          A flower from its cerulean wall.

          I would that thus, when I shall see
          The hour of death draw near to me,
          Hope, blossoming within my heart,
          May look to heaven as I depart.

I speak not to thee of the gorgeous sunsets and of those piles of massy
clouds of living and ever-varying colours on which the Day pillows himself
to rest in a luxurious repose; but open thine heart upon the Eastern bank
of the Hudson at the grey of morning, and look with the Sun upon the
opposite shore; and as the mists arise and are dispelled from before thee,
there shall come change after change of colour neutral and calm and slowly
warming into beauty, until a violet haze shall rest upon the hill-tops and
the cliffs that might outvie the golden haze of Italy, and that shall
raise thy thoughts in silent thankfulness, and educate thee to enjoy the
untold treasuries of colour that glow in upper Heaven; and hope shall
spring forth renewed within thee; and sorrow shall fade from thy widowed,
or thy childless heart; the peace which passeth understanding shall come
over thee; and GOD even thine own GOD shall bless thee; and to thine eyes,
now opened to the wonders of His goodness, all the ends of the Earth shall
_shew forth_ His praise!

                                                          JOHN WATERS.




STANZAS

SUGGESTED BY GLIDDON'S LECTURES ON THE ANTIQUITIES OF EGYPT.

MISS H. J. WOODMAN


  Sublime hath been thy conquest o'er the past,
    Stemming Oblivion's torrent by thy might,
  Reading symbolic records long o'ercast
    By the deep shadows of unbroken night;
  Tracing with reverent finger names of kings
  That long had slumbered with forgotten things.

  The mists that deeply veiled historic rays,
    Thou art dispelling with resistless hand;
  And dynasties that flourished ere the days
    When ABRAHAM forsook the promised land,
  No longer noteless, nameless, boldly claim
  Their lofty tablet in the arch of fame.

  Thy curious finger with a magic key
    Unlocked the store of ages, and the light,
  Flooding the pass of time, sublime and free,
    Decks ruined temples in its vesture bright:
  These are the relics of _thy_ grandeur flown,
  Land of the Pharaohs and their prostrate throne.

  Ere the white stranger's land had trodden been
    By foot of pilgrim, Egypt sat supreme,
  Queen of the nations, and her realm within
    Wealth, learning, power convened--a full, deep stream!
  The bulwarks of her throne were safely reared
  In hearts by which her greatness was revered.

  And now, with Science for his trusty guide,
    The stranger comes to read her mystic lore,
  Tread her deserted cities, stand beside
    Her sculptured temples, eloquent once more;
  Not with man's voice, but with the nobler speech
  Of days beyond our spirit's utmost reach.

  And those proud monuments of youthful time,
    The pyramids, whose lofty sides have borne
  The storms of centuries in that fierce clime,
    And seeming still to smile in speechless scorn,
  When bow the everlasting hills with age,
  Then shall they vanish from the world's bright page.

  A mournful ruin to thy utmost bound,
    A type of glory long since passed away,
  The statue voiceless whence the thrilling sound
    Of gushing music hailed the rising day;
  Thus art thou now, oh Egypt! but the flame
  Of new-born Science gilds thine ancient name.

  And from the dust shalt thou arise once more,
    Not by thine own degenerate sons upreared,
  But strangers who have sought thy verdant shore
    Shall hail thy fallen greatness, still revered;
  Until among the kingdoms of the earth
  Thou shalt appear renewed--a second birth!




THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

HARRY HARSON.


CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

Notwithstanding his having made what most persons would have considered a
hearty meal at Harry Harson's, Mr. Kornicker had nevertheless such perfect
reliance on his own peculiar gastronomic abilities, that he did not in the
least shrink from again testing them. Leaving Michael Rust's presence with
an alacrity which bordered upon haste, he descended into the refectory
with somewhat of a jaunty air, humming a tune, and keeping time to it by
an occasional flourish of the fingers. Having seated himself, his first
act was to shut his eyes, thrust his feet at full length under the table;
plunge both hands to the very bottom of his breeches-pockets, where they
grasped spasmodically two cents and a small key, and laugh silently for
more than a minute, occasionally breaking in upon his merriment to gossip
to himself in the most profound and mysterious manner.

'A queer dog! a very queer dog! d----d queer, old Michael is! Well, that's
_his_ business, not mine.'

As soon as this idea had fully impressed itself upon him, he sat up,
became grave, and looked about in search of the waiter. In doing so, he
encountered the eyes of a short fat man at a table near him, who at the
first glance seemed to be reading a newspaper, but at the second, seemed
to be reconnoitering him over it. Mr. Kornicker observing this, not only
returned his glance, but added a wink to it by way of interest. The man
thereupon laid down his paper, and nodded.

Mr. Kornicker nodded in reply; and said he hoped he was well, and that his
wife and small children were equally fortunate.

The face of the stranger was a round, jolly face, with two little eyes
that twinkled and glistened between their fat lids, as if they were very
devils for fun; and his whole appearance was cozy and comfortable. His
chin was double; his stomach round and plump, with an air of
respectability; and he occasionally passed his hand over it, as if to say:
'Ah ha! beat that who can!' But notwithstanding his merry look, at this
last remark his face grew long; and with a melancholy shake of his head,
he pointed to his hat which hung on a peg above him, and was swathed in a
broad band of crape, terminating in two stiff skirts projecting from it
like a rudder, and giving it the appearance of a corpulent butterfly in
mourning, at roost on the wall.

'Ah!' said Mr. Kornicker, looking at the hat, 'that's it?'

'Yes,' replied the stranger, with a deep sigh, 'that's it.'

'Father?' inquired Mr. Kornicker, nodding significantly toward the hat.

'No--wife,' replied the other.

'Dead?' inquired Mr. Kornicker.

'Dead as a hammer.'

'Was it long or short? consumption or fits?' asked Mr. Kornicker, drawing
up his feet and turning so as to face the stranger, by way of evincing the
interest which he felt in his melancholy situation.

The man shook his head, and was so affected that he was troubled with a
temporary cold in his head; which, having alleviated by the aid of his
handkerchief, he said: 'Poor woman! She undertook to present me with a
fine boy, last week, and it proved too much for her. It exhausted her
animal natur', and she decamped on a sudden. She was a very fine woman--a
very fine woman. I always _said_ she was.'

'And the child?' inquired Kornicker; 'I hope it's well.'

'Quite well, I thank you. It went along with her. They are both better
off; saints in heaven, both of 'em; out of this wale of tears.'

Mr. Kornicker told him to cheer up. He said that every man had a crook in
his lot. Some men had big crooks, and some men had little crooks; and
although this crook made rather a bad elbow in his lot, that perhaps all
the rest was square and straight, and he could build on it to advantage,
especially if it was twenty-five feet by a hundred, which was the ordinary
width and length of 'lots in general.'

Having delivered himself of this rather confused allegory, Mr. Kornicker,
by way of farther consolation, drew out his snuff-box, and stretching out
as far as was possible without falling from his chair, tendered it to the
stranger, who in return leaning so far forward as slightly to raise his
person from the chair, gently inserted his fingers in the box, and helped
himself to a pinch, at the same time remarking, that it 'was a great
comfort, in his trying situation, to find friends who sympathized with his
misfortunes. That he _had_ found it so; and that Mr. Kornicker was a man
whose feelings did credit to human natur'.'

Kornicker disclaimed being any thing above the ordinary run of men, or
that his feelings were more than every other man possessed, or ought to
possess. But the stranger was vehement in his assertions to the contrary;
so much so, that he rose from his seat, and drawing a chair to the
opposite side of Kornicker's table, proposed that they should breakfast
together.

Kornicker shook his head:

'It's against the agreement,' said he; 'it can't be done.'

'But it _can_, Sir--it _shall_, Sir! A man of your sympathies is not to be
met with every day, and must be breakfasted with, whether he will or
not--agreement or no agreement. Don't agreement me!' said the stranger,
lifting up his chair and setting it down opposite Kornicker, with great
emphasis. 'What's the natur' of this agreement?'

Mr. Kornicker assumed a very grave and legal expression of countenance,
and without replying, asked:

'What's your name?'

'Ezra Scrake.'

'I, Edward Kornicker, forbid you, Ezra Scrake, from breakfasting with me,
telling you that it is contrary to a certain agreement, referred to but
not set forth; and I now repeat the request, that you forthwith retire to
another table, and that I be permitted to take my meal by myself.' He
threw himself back in his chair, and looked Mr. Scrake full in the face.

'And I, Ezra Scrake, say that I _won't_ leave this table, and that I
_will_ breakfast with a fellow whose benevolence might warm the witals of
a tiger.'

'Very well, Sir,' said Kornicker, relaxing from his former severe
expression; 'I've done my duty. Old Rust can't blame me. The breach of
contract is not on my part. I'm acting under compulsion. Just recollect
that I desired you to leave me, in case it gets me into hot water, and
that you refused; that's all. Now old fellow, what'll you take? Only
recollect, that each man rides his own pony.'

The stranger nodded, and said that of course he would 'foot his own bill.'

These preliminaries being settled, the boy, who had been standing at their
elbow in a state of ecstatic delight at the proceedings of Mr. Kornicker,
with whom he had become familiar, and whom he regarded as a gentleman of
great legal acumen, and in all other respects as rather a 'tall boy,' was
desired by the stranger to hand him the bill of fare, and not to keep him
waiting all day. Having been gratified in this respect, Mr. Scrake
commenced at the top and deliberately whispered his way to the bottom of
the list.

'Beef-steak; shall I say for two?' asked he, looking up at Kornicker.

'Yes, but always under protest, as to our breakfasting together,' said Mr.
Kornicker, winking at him. 'Don't forget that.'

'Of course. Now, my son, what trimmings have you got?' said he to the boy.

''Taters.'

'Are they kidneys, blue-noses, or fox?--and will they bu'st open white and
mealy?'

'They'm prime,' replied the boy.

'Bring one for me; or, stop--are they extra?'

'We throws them in with the steak, gratis.'

'Then bring a dishful, with coffee, bread, and whatever else adds to the
breakfast, without adding to the bill.'

The boy, having no other interest in the establishment than that of
securing his own wages and meals, was highly delighted at this considerate
order of Mr. Scrake, and forthwith disappeared to obey it.

In the meanwhile Mr. Scrake, after having deliberately re-perused the bill
of fare, and not observing any thing else which could be got for nothing,
laid it down, and looking at Mr. Kornicker, who was gazing abstractedly at
the table-cloth, said that he hoped he (Mr. Scrake) was not going to be
impertinent; and as Mr. Kornicker made no other reply than that of looking
at him, as if he considered it a matter of some doubt whether he was or
was not, he elucidated the meaning of his remark, by inquiring who Michael
Rust was.

'The old gentlemen that caters for me,' replied Kornicker, carelessly.

'And does he make you eat alone?'

'If I dine double, he'll stop the prog, that's all.'

'A sing'lar bargain--quite sing'lar; very sing'lar, in fact. Does he keep
a tight eye over you?'

Mr. Kornicker did not exactly know what kind of an eye a tight eye was,
but he replied: 'Sometimes he does, sometimes he don't. He's nigh enough
to do it. His office is overhead.'

'Lawyer, I suppose?--_must_ be,' said Mr. Scrake, drumming carelessly on
the table.

'You're out, old fellow. I'm with him, and should know something of him;
and he isn't.'

'Ah!' said the stranger, leaning back and yawning, and then sharpening his
knife on the fork. 'What is he then?'

Mr. Kornicker raised his finger gently to his nose, winked so violently at
Mr. Scrake that he caused that gentleman to stop short in his performance
to look at him; after which he shut both eyes, and gave vent to a violent
inward convulsion of laughter.

'What _is_ he?' repeated Kornicker, in a tone of high surprise; then
sinking his voice, and leaning over the table, he whispered confidentially
in Mr. Scrake's ear: 'He's hell.'

'No! he isn't though, is he?' said Mr. Scrake, dropping his knife and
fork, and sinking back in his chair.

'Yes he is,' repeated Mr. Kornicker; 'and if you was a certain gentleman
that I know, you'd find it out. _He_ will some day, I rather think.'

'Are _you_ that individual?' inquired Mr. Scrake, with an air of deep
interest.

'No, I ain't, but I suspect some one else is. But come,' said he, 'there's
the breakfast, so let's be at it, and drop all other discussion.'

This remark found an answering echo in the stomach of Mr. Scrake, who
resumed the sharpening of his knife, as the breakfast entered the room,
and did not desist until the steak was on the table, when he immediately
assaulted it.

'Shall I help you? What part will you take?'

'Any part,' replied Kornicker, carelessly.

'Well, it's sing'lar; I never could carve. I'll help you as I would help
myself,' said Mr. Scrake, in his ignorance depositing on Mr. Kornicker's
plate an exceedingly tough piece of dry meat, and upon his own a cut which
was remarkably tender and juicy.

'Do you always help yourself as you have helped me?' said Mr. Kornicker,
snuffing with great deliberation, and eyeing his portion with no very
contented eye.

'Always, always.'

'Then you do yourself d----d great injustice.'

'Ha! ha! good--very good; sheer ignorance on my part, upon my soul. But
you were telling me about this man, this Rust,' said Mr. Scrake, mashing
his potatoes, and entombing a lump of butter in the heart of a small
pyramid of them. 'You said he was hell, or the devil, or something of that
sort. What then? Eh?'

Kornicker, though not at all pleased with the ignorance of his companion,
in the particular branch in which it had just displayed itself, was not of
a sulky disposition, and was easily won into a communicative mood,
particularly as Mr. Scrake begged him, with tears in his eyes, to tell him
which was the best part of a beef-steak, so that he might avoid in future
the mortification of being guilty of a similar error.

As the coffee went down, and the beef-steak followed, Mr. Scrake seemed to
relax, and to forget that his hat hung over his head, commemorative of the
recent retirement of Mrs. Scrake from this 'wale of tears,' and became
quite jocular on the subject of the fair sex, congratulating Kornicker
upon his looks; calling him a lucky dog, and telling him that if _he_ were
him, he'd 'make up to some charming young woman with a fortune, and be off
with her.' He then went into a detail of his own juvenile indiscretions,
relating many incidents of his life; some of which were amusing, some
ridiculous, some tragic, some pathetic, and not a few quite indecent. It
was wonderful what a devil that fat-cheeked, little-eyed, round-stomached
fellow had been. Who could resist the influence of such a man? Not poor
Kornicker; it gradually had its effect upon him, for he in turn grew
communicative; talked freely of Rust, and of every man, woman and child of
his acquaintance. He grew merry over the rare doings which had taken place
in Rust's den. He then descanted upon the peculiarities of the old man;
his fierce fits of passion, his cold, shrewd, caustic manners, his coming
in, and his going out; how long he was absent; how profoundly secret he
kept himself, his doings, his whereabouts, and his mode of life. 'And,'
said he, in conclusion, 'I know nothing of him. He's a queer dog, a
wonderfully queer one. It would take a long time to fathom him, I can tell
you. I've been with him for a long time; and am his confidential adviser,
his lawyer, and all that sort of thing; and yet I've never done but two
things for him.'

'You don't say so!' exclaimed Mr. Scrake, laying down his knife and fork;
and looking at him with his mouth open; 'and pray what _were_ those
things?'

'I sued one man,' (being a lawyer you know,) said he, nodding in an
explanatory way at Mr. Scrake, 'and carried a letter to another.'

'Ah! and who were those fortunate individuals?'

'Poh! I suppose there's no secret about it. The man sued, was one Enoch
Grosket. The other was one Henry Harson; a jolly old boy he _was_ too. I
breakfasted with him; a prime fellow; keeps a d----d ugly cur, though.'

'Enoch Grosket, Henry Harson!' said the stranger, musing; 'I've heard of
them, I think. Who are they?'

'It is more than I can tell,' replied Kornicker. 'That's the mystery of my
situation. I know nothing about any thing I'm doing, or of him, or his
acquaintances.'

'Why, you must know what you sued the man for,' said Mr. Scrake,
earnestly; 'you must know _that_, surely.'

'Yes, but it's a height of knowledge which don't carry much information
with it,' replied Mr. Kornicker. 'I sued him on a promissory note. What he
made it for, or how Rust got it, or any thing more about him, or it, or
Harson, or Rust, I know as little as you.'

The stranger drew himself up, and looking at him gravely, said in a
serious and even stern tone: 'Do you mean to say that you are entirely
ignorant of every thing respecting this Rust; his family, his business,
his acquaintances, his associates, his habits, his plans and
operations?'--in short, that you know nothing more than you have mentioned
to me?'

The other nodded.

'Waiter, my bill,' said he in a peremptory tone.

The boy brought him a slip of paper, on which was written the amount.

He paid it without a word; walked across the room, took down his hat, put
it on his head, and turning to Kornicker, said in a tone of solemn
earnestness: 'Young man, you're in a bad way, a _very_ bad way. Had I
known with what people you were in the habit of associating before I sat
down at that table, Ezra Scrake's legs and yours would never have been
under the same mahogany. A man in the employ of another and know nothing
of him! It's enormous! He might be a murderer, a thief; a man-slaughterer;
a Burker, an arsoner, or any thing that is bad. Young man, in spite of the
injury you've done me, I pity you; nay, I forgive you.'

Mr. Kornicker, was merely waiting for an opportunity to suggest to him
that his company had not only been unsought, but actually forced upon him,
and even under his solemn protest. But before he could do so, Mr. Scrake
was in the street; whereupon, on ascertaining that he was out of the
hearing of Mr. Kornicker, he muttered to himself: 'It was no go. Waited
for him two hours; then spent an hour in pumping a dry well. Enoch
Grosket, has sent me on a fool's errand. Michael Rust knows too much to
trust that addle-headed fool.'

Having given vent to these observations, he deliberately buttoned up his
coat, and walked off.


CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

In a dark room into which even in the day-time the light struggled in such
scanty streams that a kind of twilight was the nearest approach that it
ever made to broad day, but which was now only lighted by a single candle,
that flared and dripped in the currents of air, as they eddied and whirled
about, seeking an escape, sat Tim Craig, and his comrade Bill Jones, the
men with Rust's interview with whom the reader is already acquainted. They
were sitting cheek by jowl on two wooden benches in front of a fire, which
they from time to time nourished with sticks from a heap of wood on the
hearth. The fire however would not burn, but kept smouldering and smoking,
now and then springing up into a fitful blaze, which threw a spectral air
over the room, peopling its dim recesses with all sorts of fantastic
forms, and then expired, leaving it more gloomy than ever. The appearance
of the men, their subdued, whispering voices and startled looks, showed
that at that particular time they were not altogether in a frame of mind
to resist the gloomy influence of the place. The dark, lonely room, with
its large shadowy corners and gaping seams, through which the wind sighed
and wailed, and the pattering of the rain as it swept heavily against the
side of the house and on the roof, all tended to add to the melancholy and
sombre tone of their feelings. Bill drew his bench to the fire, looked
suspiciously about him, and then, as if half ashamed of having done so,
said:

'It's a h-ll of a night! I don't know how it is, but I'm not in trim
to-night. Blow me, if the sight of that old fellow don't make one's blood
cold. I can't get warm; and this bloody fire keeps sputtering and smoking,
as if to spite one.'

Tim Craig, to whom this remark was addressed, turned and looked him
steadily in the face, without speaking; and then his eyes wandered about
the room, as if he were fearful of being watched or overheard, in what he
was going to say.

'Bill,' said he in a low voice, his thin lips quivering; but whether from
anger or any other emotion, was a matter of much doubt; 'd----d if I know
which way to leap! Enoch pulls one way and Rust another. Either of them
could send us to kingdom come. Ugh! how cold it is! Something comes over
me to-night--I can't tell what. I don't half like the job. Bill,'
continued he after a pause, drawing nearer his comrade and lowering his
voice, 'I'm haunted to-night. You know that fellow, the man up town, the
cartman----' He hesitated, and leaned his mouth close to the ear of the
other, while in the dim light his face seemed ghastly; 'the--the man, last
year----'

Jones looked at him significantly; and then drew his finger across his
throat. 'Do you mean that fellow?'

'Yes,' replied Craig in a husky tone, and scarcely able to articulate, for
the choking in his throat. 'He's been _here_ to-night. Three times I've
caught him looking over my shoulder! GOD! There he is again! Light! light!
light!' shouted he, springing up; 'make the fire burn, I say--make it
burn! Heap on wood! heap it on! Do _anything_--but keep HIM off!'

'Why, Tim, you seem to be took bad,' exclaimed his companion, at the same
time getting on his knees, and setting assiduously to work to blow the
fire. 'Come, this is worse than ever. We've got to work to-night; and it
wont do to go into your fantastics.'

He paused in his remarks to apply his breath to the fire, and with such
success, that in a few minutes a bright blaze was dancing up the chimney,
lighting the whole room, and dispelling at once that shadowy appearance
which its great size and dilapidated state had tended to give it.

'There now, that's as comfortable a fire as you can want; and arter all,
what you was just talking of was all fancy,' said he, resuming his seat.
'Dead men stay where you put 'em.'

Craig had been pacing furiously up and down the room, as if to out-walk
some demon that _would_ keep at his side; but he stopped short, and going
up to his comrade, placed his hand on his shoulder and said: 'Bill Jones,
that's a lie! Whoever says so, lies! Dead men _don't_ stay where you put
'em. I've had that man walking with me for hours together. I've had him at
the same table with me, when I ate; I've had him in bed with me--ay, all
night long; and to-night he's been here with his face almost touching
mine. Blast him! if I could but get him by the throat, I'd throttle him!'

'Come, come, Tom, none of this,' said Jones, with more gentleness than his
appearance indicated. 'I'm sorry for you; you must feel bad enough, or you
wouldn't go on so. I've know'd you since we were boys together; and I know
it's not a little matter that works you up, like you are now. Come, sit
down.' He led him to a seat, and kneeling at his feet, took his hand in
both of his. 'Don't give in so, my old feller. Don't you know, when we
were boys, how we all looked up to you; and although I could have doubled
you up, with my big limbs, yet you always had the mastery over me. Ha! ha!
Tim, don't you remember the old schoolmaster, too? Hallo! what now?'

Craig leaned his head upon Jones' shoulder and sobbed aloud. Don't talk of
those days, Bill; it'll drive me mad. Oh! if I was a boy again! But no,
no; I'm a fool,' exclaimed he, springing up, apparently swallowing his
emotion at one fierce gulp, and in an instant becoming as hardened as
ever. 'Am I crazy, to-night, or _what_ ails me, that I've become as
white-livered as a girl? Where's the grog? Give us a sup; and we'll see
what's to be done.'

'There, now you talk right,' said Jones, putting his hand in his
coat-pocket and drawing out a small bottle, cased in leather; 'that'll
wake you up; and now to business. You hav'n't told me what's to be did,
and who you'll go with, Grosket, or Rust.'

'Rust,' said Craig, abruptly; 'he's our man. He can bleed; Enoch can't.
_He_ never fails in what he wants to do; Enoch _does_; but they are both
devils incarnate. I'd rather fight against ten other men than either of
them; but rather against Enoch than Mike Rust.'

'Well, what is it? He told you all about it. I couldn't hear what he
said.'

'He's been on the prowl for two days: God knows what he's arter; but he
wants us to break in a house and steal a girl.'

'The profligate willain!' exclaimed Mr. Jones, with an air of great
horror; 'I'll tell his father of him!'

'It's only a child.'

'Oh! that alters the case,' said Mr. Jones, 'Then I'll tell his wife.
Well?'

'We are to go to the house, get the girl at all hazards, rob the house if
we choose, and bring _her_ here. What he wants of her, who she is, is more
than I know. 'You are to get her, and ask no questions,' that's what he
said.'

'Who's in the house?'

'Only an old man and a woman.'

'The man?--is he used up, or what?'

'He's a bull-dog,' was the laconic reply.

'We'll want _them_ then,' said Jones, pointing to a closet which was
partly open, showing several pairs of pistols on a shelf.

'I suppose so. Bring 'em out, and look at the locks; not the
flintlocks--it's a wet night; get the others. We must have no trifling.'

Jones made no other reply than to take out a pair of pistols, which he
carried to the light, and examined their locks.

'Are they loaded?' inquired Craig.

Jones nodded: 'Two bullets in each! Suppose they twig us?--are we to fight
or run?'

''You had better die than fail.' He said that,' replied Craig, in a low
tone; 'and when I saw his look I thought so too. D--n him! I'm afraid of
him. It'll be no baby-work if they discover us.'

The other robber made no reply, but continued to examine the pistols,
carefully rubbing the barrels, to remove any trace of rust, and working
the hammers backward and forward; after which he put two fresh caps on the
cones. 'All right! I'm ready as soon as it's time. When do you go?'

'Not till an hour after midnight. That's the time when folks sleep
soundest. You could cut a man's throat then without waking him. Don't let
the fire get down,' said he, turning an apprehensive eye toward the
fire-place. 'It's cold, and we've three hours to be here yet.'

Jones, with the same good-natured alacrity which he had before displayed,
threw several sticks on the fire, and then turning to his comrade, said:

'Suppose we rattle the dice till midnight?'

Craig shook his head.

'What say you to the paste-board?'

'No cards for me,' replied the other, seating himself and leaning his
cheeks between his hands, with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes
fastened on the fire. 'I want to be on the move. God! How I wish it was
time! This cursed room is enough to suffocate one. Curse me, but it smells
of coffins and dead men, and is as cold as a church-vault. It goes to a
fellow's very bones.'

There was something so unusual in the mood of his comrade, that Jones at
last started up and said:

'Blast me, Tim, but you must stop this. You're making me as wild and
frightened as yourself. Talk of your beaks, and courts, and prisons, and
bullets, and pistols, as much as you like; but d--n it, leave your dead
men, and coffins, and vaults, and all them 'ere to themselves, will you!
Curse me, if you ain't enough to make a sneak of any man. So just stop,
will you? If you can't talk of something better, don't talk at all.'

Craig took him at his word; and drawing his bench closer to the fire,
maintained his position, without moving or speaking for more than an hour.

Jones, in the mean while, for want of employment, again examined the
pistols; drew out the loads, and reloaded them; then going to the closet,
he brought out two very dangerous-looking knives, and after trying the
points on his finger, proceeded to oil them. This over, he betook himself
to whistling, at the same time, keeping time to his music by drumming his
heel heavily on the floor. This, however, could not last forever; and
finally, wrapping a heavy coat around his shoulders, he stretched himself
at full length in front of the fire, and was soon sound asleep.

Not so his companion. In silence, without stirring, and scarcely
breathing, yet wide awake, with ears alive to every sound, and distorting
every sigh of the wind into the voice of a human being, he sat with white
lips and a shaking hand until the faint chime of a clock, which reached
him even above the noise of the storm, told him that the hour was come.

'Wake up!' said he, touching Jones with his foot. 'It's time to be off.'

Jones, with instinctive quickness, obeyed the call by springing to his
feet, apparently as wide awake as if he had not closed his eyes during the
night.

'All right!' said he, looking hastily about the room. 'Hey! but what's all
this noise?'

'It's a horrible night; all hell seems abroad,' said Craig. 'But come; get
ready, and let's be off.'

'Will we want any of _them_?' asked Jones, pointing to an upper shelf in
the closet, on which was lying a number of uncouth-looking instruments,
the nature of which was best known to themselves.

'Take the small crow; we may want _that_, but nothing more.'

'The bag, too?' inquired Bill.

'No; it's a girl we've to steal; d--n it, I wish it wasn't!'

While he was speaking, he had thrust his arms into a shaggy great-coat,
and was tying a thick woollen wrapper over his mouth, so that the last
remark was nearly lost in it. He then put on an oil-skin cap, not unlike
what is called by sailors a 'sou'-wester,' and stood watching the
proceedings of his comrade, which were by no means as expeditious as his
own; for that gentleman proceeded very leisurely to encase his feet in a
pair of thick woollen stockings, and a pair of shoes more capable of
resisting the wet than those which he then wore. After this, he put an
oil-cloth jacket over his other one, and surmounted the whole by a coat
similar to that worn by Craig.

'One would suppose you was a baby, from your tenderness to yourself,' said
Craig, impatiently. 'You ain't sugar, are you? Do you expect the rain to
melt you?'

'I'm a sweet fellow, I know that,' replied the other, carefully buttoning
his coat to the chin. 'I may be sugar for all I know, shouldn't be
surprised if I was. I've been told so afore this; let me tell you _that_,
my old feller. You ain't in kidney to-night. Take another pull at little
Job,' said he, handing him the bottle, 'and we'll be off.'

Whatever Craig's contempt of the rain might be, it did not seem to extend
to other liquids; for he took the bottle, and applying it to his lips, did
not remove it until the bottom of it was not a little inclined toward the
ceiling; perhaps its elevation might even have increased, had not Jones
reminded him that it being late at night, the vessel could not be
replenished, and that there was a 'small child' to be helped after him,
who hated above all things sucking at the neck of a dry bottle.

Craig permitted the bottle to be taken from his hand, and stood with his
eyes fixed on the floor in deep thought; nor did he arouse himself until
Jones took him by the arm, and said:

'Come on; all's ready.'

Craig started at the words. 'The pistols and the glim?'

'I've got 'em.'

'And the crow-bar?'

'All snug _here_,' said Jones, touching the pocket of his great-coat.

'Good! Follow me.' Craig strode across the room, and went out.

It was a dreadful night. The rain spouted furiously from the
water-conductors, and sped boiling and foaming through the streets. The
wind too caught it up as it fell, and swept it in long sheets through the
streets; and as the two men battled their way along, it seemed actually to
hiss around them, like the long lash of a whip. The tempest had a rare
frolic that night, and right merrily did it howl over the house-tops, and
through the narrow streets; and fast and furiously did the water bubble
and boil, as it dashed on like mad to the deep river, to take refuge in
her bosom from its tormentor the hurricane.

Not a thing was stirring; not a beast. Not a man, except the two felons. A
right glorious night it was for rapine and midnight murder. The house-dog
had slunk in his straw, and the watchman was dozing away, under some shed,
or stoop, or in some dark door-way. There was nothing to stand in the way
of these enterprising men, save the fierce storm, and what cared they for
that? It was the very night for them. If it came to blows, or if a life
was to be taken, the death-cry would be lost in the howling of the wind;
it was the night of all nights for _them_; and so thought Craig and his
comrade, as they toiled along, with their heads bent down to keep the rain
out of their faces.

'Is it far?' at last inquired Jones; 'we've come a mile.'

'Half a mile more,' replied Craig; and that was all that passed between
them, until they stood in front of Harson's house.

'This is it,' said Craig.

He lifted the latch of the gate opening into the door-yard, and approached
the house.

'Where are we to begin?' inquired Jones.

Craig pointed to a small window on a level with, or rather sunk somewhat
below, the surface of the ground, with a kind of area around it. '_There_;
there are iron gratings, but they are set in the wood, which is all
rotten. Quick! try them with the crow-bar; they'll give.'

Jones, with an alacrity and adroitness which showed a long experience in
such matters, after feeling his way to the place, and passing his hand
over the bars to discover their exact situation, inserted his crow-bar
between the stone-work and the wood, and at the very first application
forced the whole out. A wooden shutter which opened from within, being
merely secured by a wooden button, gave way before a strong pressure of
his hand, and left the entrance open.

'Go in quick!--don't keep a fellow in the rain all night,' said Craig, in
a sharp whisper. 'It's only three feet to the floor. Get in, will you?'

'Shut up! Cuss ye!' exclaimed Jones, savagely; 'let me take my own way.'

As he spoke, he inserted his feet, and gradually let himself down until he
touched the floor. In a moment Craig was at his side, and closed the
shutter.

'Now, quick! a light!' whispered he. In another minute, the dark lantern
was lighted, and Craig, taking it up and throwing back the slide, turned
it carefully around the place. It was a cellar, filled with empty barrels
and boxes; and seemed to be a sort of receptacle for rubbish of all
descriptions. At one end was a door leading to the upper part of the
house. It was partly open. Without a word, Craig went to it and ascended
the stairs, which were shut off from the kitchen by another door.

Craig opened this, and crossed the room with a quick yet stealthy step,
but with the air of one perfectly familiar with the precincts. Passing
through the entry, he went into Harson's sitting-room; from there into the
outer room, communicating with the street.

'We'll open the street door, Bill,' said he, 'in case we have to bolt
quick. There,' said he, as he drew back two bolts, and turned the key,
don't forget the road. Leave all the doors open. That'll do. We'll get the
girl first, and then we'll see what's to be done. First door at the head
of the stairs. Quiet, quiet; there's a dog in the next room.'

Stealing up the stairs, they opened the door, and the full light of the
lamp fell in the child's room. They could hear her low, regular breathing
as she slept. Craig handed the light to his companion.

'I'll take her,' whispered he. 'Bring the light so that I can see. There,
that will do.' He bent over her. As he did so, he accidentally stirred the
bed-clothes, and the child opened her eyes; and before he could prevent
it, a single wild cry escaped her as she caught sight of the wild faces
which were bending over her.

'Christ! how she yelps!' exclaimed Craig, in a fierce whisper. He clapped
his hand over her mouth. 'By G-d! there goes the dog too! we must be off.
My chicken,' said he, in a low tone, 'if you understand plain English, you
know what I mean when I say if you whisper loud enough to wake a cat,
you'll get a bullet through your head. Hist! Bill, was that a door
creaking? I can't hear for the d----d dog!' Both stopped and listened.

'It was only the door below,' said Jones. 'Quick! quick!'

Craig caught the child out of bed, wrapped a blanket about her to stifle
her cries, in case she should make any, and moved to the door.

'Turn the light on the door; I can't see. There, that will do. Now then,
it's open, and the game's ours.'

'_Not quite_!' said a stern voice; and the next instant Craig received a
blow from a fist which sent him reeling back into the room.

'Watch! watch! murder! thieves!' bellowed Harson from without, while from
the din, at least forty pug-dogs seemed to be barking in all parts of the
entry.

'Shoot him! shoot him down!' shouted Craig, springing to the door. 'By
G-d! the door's shut, and he's holding it from the outside!' exclaimed he,
pulling it with all his force. 'He's as strong as a bull. Quick! shoot
through the panel! He must stand behind the knob. Fire!'

Instead of obeying him, Bill Jones seized the child. 'Hark ye, old
fellow,' said he; 'shut up, or I'll dash this girl's brains out. If I
don't, d--n me!'

This appeal was heard, and operated upon Harson; but in a different manner
from what they expected, for he relaxed his hold of the door so suddenly,
that Craig fell backward, and bursting into the room, with a single blow
prostrated the burglar, who was bending over the child, and dashed the
light to the ground. His advantage was only momentary; for in a minute
Craig flung himself upon him. But the old man's blood was up. In his young
days he had been a powerful wrestler; and even now the robber found him no
easy conquest, for he said, in a husky tone: 'This won't do, Bill. Drop
the girl and come here. This blasted old fool will keep us all night.'

Instead of obeying him, Jones stole to the head of the stairs and
listened. In an instant he sprang back.

'We must be off, Tim! Some one is coming. Quick! Let loose the man.'

But there were two to that bargain; for Harson had heard the words as well
as the robber, and he held him with a grip like a vice.

'Let go your hold and we'll be off,' said Craig, in a husky voice.

'Never! You shall taste what you are so ready to give!' said Harson,
fiercely.

'Bill, there's no time to lose!' exclaimed Craig, in a stern tone. 'Shoot
him, and have done with it! There, now; I'll hold him.'

The report of a pistol followed; but as it did so, a deep groan came from
Craig. 'You've done for me, Bill. The old fellow dodged. Run! run!--my
rope's out.'

'Can't I help you, Tim?' exclaimed Jones.

'No, no; go! Get off; I'll not blow on you.'

Thus adjured, the robber paused no longer. But escape was now no easy
matter; for at the door he was saluted by a loud voice:

'Hallo! Harry; is this you?'

'No, no, a thief! Grab him, Frank!'

The next instant Jones was in the grip of a powerful man, but he was a
giant himself, and desperate. He flung himself with all his force upon his
adversary, and both went to the floor together; Jones' hand on the other's
throat.

There is something fearful in the grapple of a desperate man, even when
feeble in frame; and in the case of Jones, who knew that every thing
depended on his efforts, and whose fierce spirit was backed by muscles of
iron, the conflict was one of such fury that the very walls of the old
house shook. From step to step, from the landing to the hall, they fought;
tugging and tearing at each other like two dogs, while Harry Harson in
vain hung about them; the darkness and the rapidity of their motions
preventing him from distinguishing friend from foe.

'By G-d! he's an ox for strength,' at last said Frank; 'if you'd do any
thing, Harry, go to the door and sing out for the watch. I'll hold him.'

It might be that in order to utter these words the Doctor relaxed his
grip, or it might be that the knowledge of the increased risk that he
would run gave additional strength to the robber, for he made a single
desperate effort, tore himself from the iron grasp that held him down,
rose to his knee, and striking the Doctor a blow in the face that for a
moment bewildered him, sprang to his feet, dashed Harson from the door,
bounded across the room between the hall and the street-door, and darted
into the street at full speed.

'D--n me, Harry, he's off!' said the Doctor, assuming a sitting posture on
the floor. 'He deserves to escape, for he fought like a devil for it. D--n
him, he's a brave fellow! There's no use in chasing him, I suppose; you
and I ain't cut out for running. If that last crack had hit me on the
nose, it would have smashed it. Come, let's see after the other fellow;
perhaps he's playing possum, and may be off. If you don't stop the barking
of that d----d dog of yours, I'll kill him.' Groping their way back to the
upper floor, from which they caught sight of Spite, rapidly retreating as
they advanced, they found the house-keeper standing in the room which they
had just left, arrayed in a particularly large white night-gown and
wearing a particularly high cap, with a particularly fierce white ribbon
on the top of it, and bearing in her hand a dim rush-light.

'Quick! Martha; more lights, and some brandy!' said Harson, pushing past
her. 'Thank God! _you're_ not hurt, Annie! Come, Doctor, this poor devil
is human,' said he, pointing to Craig, who lay on the floor apparently
dead. 'Look to him; he breathes. I hear him.'

It needed no second appeal; for before he had finished, the Doctor had
turned the robber over, opened his vest, and displayed a wound in his
breast. He thrust his finger in it, and then looking up at Harry, shook
his head.

'He's a case; _must_ go!'

'Poor fellow! God only knows what may have driven him to this. Help me to
put him on the bed.'

Taking him in their arms, they placed him on the bed; and there they sat
and watched him until the dawn of day. The bright sunshine came cheerily
in at the window; the storm had passed, and the sky looked clear and blue,
as if it had never been unruffled. And at that hour, and in that room,
with the golden sunbeams streaming in, lay Tim Craig, his head pressed
heavily back upon the pillow, bound round with a cloth dabbled in blood.
His face was blackened and bruised, and his shirt and the bed-clothes
stained with blood. His breath was short and heavy, and at times, gasping;
his mouth half open, and his dull eye fixed with a heavy leaden stare at
the ceiling. His race was nearly run. He seemed utterly unconscious of the
presence of any one, until the door opened, and Harson, who had gone out,
came in.

He went to the bed, and leaned over the burglar. As he did so, his shadow
falling across the man's face, attracted his attention, and he turned his
heavy eye, and asked, in a husky voice:

'Will I go? What does he say?'

Harson shook his head. 'It's almost over with you, my poor fellow; God
help you!'

The man turned his head away and looked at the wall.

'Do you understand me?' said Harson, anxiously bending over him.

'Yes, yes,' replied the man in the same mumbling tone; 'yes, I'm come for;
my time's up. I was a strong man yesterday; and now! now----! It's very
strange! very strange!' He muttered a few inarticulate words, and then
resumed his old position, looking at the wall, with no sound escaping him
except the low panting of his breath. Suddenly he said, in a louder tone:

'It's all very strange _here_.' He pointed to his head. 'Were you ever at
sea? Yes; well, well--did you ever see a ship toss and swing to and
fro--to and fro--to and fro, and yet keep straight on? Well, my brain
reels and swims in that way. There are dim strange things; men, beasts,
birds, and ghosts hovering about it; but I see straight on, and they are
on all sides of the path; yes, I see it straight, straight, straight and
plain. I'm going on it. They can't make me swerve; but it's awful to have
such company about me on such a journey. Come close to me!'

Harson drew his chair close to the bed and sat down. 'I've sent for a
clergyman,' said he, in a low tone; 'He'll be here presently. You must
endeavor to chase away these thoughts; they are only dreams.'

Craig's thin lips contracted into a smile which was horrible, as without
moving his eyes from their fixed position, he whispered: 'No, no; he won't
do it--he'll not do it. No; I won't blow on you, Bill. Ha! how hot that
bullet was! Lift me up! _He's_ there! Yes, lift me up, so that I may be
above him; up! up! Ha! ha! that'll do. Bill, do you recollect the old
school-master? There! Up! up!'

Harson put his arm under him, and raised him. As he did so, Craig's head
fell against his shoulder, dabbling it with blood. The next instant he
stretched himself out at full length, gave a shudder; a long rattling
breath followed; and he fell back on the pillow--dead.




LINES TO DEATH.

    How vain is human strength to flee,
    Thou mighty ONE! from thee!


  Thou hid'st the scenes that lie the grave beyond--
  Thou hast the secrets of the world unseen;
  Where the loved ones, the beautiful, the fond,
  And all who tossed on life's wild sea have been,
  Have gone in silence at thy dreadful call,
          Great conqueror of all!

  Empires are crumbled at thy dread command,
  And nations rise and nourish but to fall;
  Even earth is thine; and thou e'er long shalt stand,
  And mark its wealth, and power, and beauty, all
  Fade and depart as sunbeams in the heaven
          Vanish and die at even!

  The midnight storm, the tempest raging high,
  The sweeping pestilence, and fell disease,
  Rude winter's blast, and balmy summer's sigh,
  Earth, and the sea whose murmurs never cease,
  All are but agents of thy sovereign will,
          Thy bidding to fulfil.

  Couldst thou to man's earth-fettered soul reveal
  The bliss thou bringest to the pure in heart,
  Would sudden horror o'er his spirit steal,
  When called at last with low-born joys to part?
  Would he not rather sigh for that bless'd shore,
          Where death is known no more?

  Stern Power! though others shudder at thy tread,
  And vainly seek thy arrow to evade,
  Before thy stroke I fain would bow my head,
  Nor grieve to see my transient pleasures fade:
  In thy embrace my sorrows all shall cease,
          For in the grave is peace!

                                                                 H. C.




SKETCHES OF EAST-FLORIDA.

NUMBER FOUR.

ST. AUGUSTINE: THE LAST LOOK.


Our schooner was 'up' for Charleston by the first fair wind; but the
captain was fastidious, and the only fair wind was directly aft. A point
or two off would not do, unless it had been blowing for a day or two and
was likely to continue till the captain could land his passengers in
Charleston. Running in on the Georgia coast was always very delightful to
the passengers, but not at all so to Captain S----. We had taken berths in
the schooner about the middle of April, and when the first week in May had
passed by, we began to think it would be difficult to find the precise
article of air which the captain desired. During this time it seemed to
have become coquettish, giving us all kinds of northerly, all varieties of
east, and a preponderance of westerly wind, finishing off with a sirocco
from the south-west, ('a Boston east wind boiled,' and the only unpleasant
summer wind on the coast,) after which it stopped short; the sand and the
orange blossoms settled again, and every thing hung perpendicular. The
next morning a puff came up from the south in a very blustering manner, as
though it had an immense capital to back it, but proved very short-winded.
Our little craft thinking to beat us, shook its sails out right and left,
and dashed out of the harbor, rounding the point in a handsome manner; but
before reaching the bar it slacked away, till 'small by degrees and
beautifully less,' it came to a dead stand; and the same evening we dashed
back again with a no'th-east-by-east behind us, to the great delight of
promenaders on the sea-wall and the public in general. Ladies rode through
the streets at a hard-gallop; little <DW65>s crept under balconies; and an
individual who shall be nameless performed a feat with a certain Di.
Vernon of that ilk, which resulted in a bill the next morning of some odd
dollars for extra motion, and a severe lesson upon the moralities of
fast-riding. The mid-day weather at this time was decidedly summerish, the
temperature having the _feel_ of about seventy in our latitude, but
ranging there from eighty to ninety degrees.

We were beginning the summer custom of gathering every morning to meet the
'doctor' (sea-breeze) on the square, only a short walk below, which I
prolonged on the sea-wall to the little schooner, examined the labels on
the berths, crushed an orange at the corner shop, and lounged up to the
nine-pin alley to close up the 'unfinished business.' After bowling, if it
was too warm to invent any thing that would not be forgotten before
dinner, the old routine was the order of the day; and back-gammon or
flirtation had it, according as we were nearer the Florida House or the
one 'round the corner.' The thirty or forty others who had helped make the
winter pleasant, had been gone for weeks, and our little parties for
bathing or riding, or any other trifling matter which might be better than
a cigar on the piazza, had that snug kind of personality which is so much
more pleasant than safe, that I half-wished the thirty or forty had gone
much sooner than they did.

I was sitting on the piazza one morning with a number of un-appropriated
blank hours before me, a little embarrassed whether to tease the big bear
in the yard or lean over and give up to it, with the old dog who was
snapping at flies on the floor, when it struck me as something very fresh,
that as the wind was still two points off, I could make one more sally
into the country. Before the thought had time to cool, my horse was
brought to the door, and looking about for a companion, I asked Miss
H----, who hesitated and declined; but I found one in Lieut. T----, who
was that morning going over to Picolata. The distance is eighteen miles,
through an unbroken pine-barren, (one opening only, at Fort Searle, twelve
miles out,) and an under-growth of palmettos of just sufficient height for
Indians to hide in. For a long time the travel over all that portion of
the territory lying south of a line fifty miles north of us, was with an
escort of fifteen or twenty men, who moved at a slow rate, a hundred yards
apart, so as not to present to the Indians more than one or two shots at a
time from any one point.

Notwithstanding the precaution of a strong escort every day, out or in, on
the Picolata road, there had been more downright murdering there than in
any other part of the territory, some having been shot down almost in
sight of Augustine. This was not escort-day, but if it had been, our
horses were not disposed to be six hours in the sun, in going so short a
distance. The little grey steed that I had been using for some weeks was
not by any means a lady's article, but he had been alongside of them in
many a ride on the beach, and so learned the trick of combining the
playful and gallant in a very pretty manner. His ambition was to be always
up to the mark, and a head more if his companion would allow it; but at
the least indication of rivalry his head went down, and nothing less than
iron muscles could keep him from his twelve-mile gait. If not well-matched
it was his delight to dash ahead for a hundred yards, and then stop and
look back, or perhaps return, make a short sweep around his companion, jog
on sociably for a little, and then repeat the manoeuvre; and in doing this
my arms were only sufficient to guide him a little in case he attempted
the barren, and keep him clear of the saw-palmetto. T----'s animal
belonged at Picolata. The quarter-master at the barracks had sent him up
to be taken over, and as we mounted at the Florida House, I could not help
smiling as I recognized the same fellow that the quarter-master had
politely sent me for a similar purpose some time previous. He was
long-bodied and very long-limbed, and having been brought up in camp, his
motion had all the stiffness of the marching step. His point, any two
points being given, was to make the straight line between them in the
shortest possible time, in an unbroken trot; but there was no danger of
his breaking it; he was not capable of a gallop; his limbs couldn't be
brought to it.

We passed out of town at an easy pace, talking over the last night's ball;
and while crossing the bridge the lieutenant called my attention to his
saddle, a cast-iron frame thinly covered with leather, leaving large
rib-spaces on the back, which he commended as being delightfully cool.
'But, my dear fellow,' said I, 'why didn't you get a blanket?' He replied
that after getting accustomed to it, it was much easier than the padded
saddle. 'Do you know,' said I, 'that that horse is a trotter?' 'I'm used
to trotters,' said he. 'You ease up a little in the stirrups?' 'No;
contrary to rules.'

We now entered the barren, and the moment the horses dipped their hoofs in
the sand, the old 'forker,' seeing the problem to be solved, took the bit
in his teeth and started for Picolata. At the first dash the forker went
ahead. He had laid his course, as they say at sea, and no up-helm or
down-helm had the slightest effect upon him. His mind was made up; no
wavering, no playfulness, no scarishness, no looking to the right or left.
Picolata was the point; 'no two ways' to Picolata; he was on the right
way, and he was the horse to do it in double-quick time. The little grey
had evidently thought it was too hot for any thing in his line; but as
soon as he noticed any thing like game in his companion, his head went
down as usual; and after a little hard running, we brushed by the old
fellow, made the requisite heading, wheeled, passing the forker on the
larboard quarter, and made the circuit, to his great satisfaction. 'Here
we go!' said I, as we passed him again; and this time the grey kept 'head
on' for some miles, till at length I succeeded in stopping him, and looked
back. The forker was coming in a bee-line, T---- bobbing up and down 'with
a short uneasy motion,' endeavoring to make a seat of his jacket which he
had stripped off; and as he came nearer I noticed that he was trying to
look very cool and comfortable. We waited till they came up, but there was
no stopping; the forker went by without winking or noticing the grey in
the slightest manner.

Easing up on the reins till we came abreast, 'How are you now?' said I.
'Oh, this is nothing' said T----, turning round a very little with a
highly-charged expression of face; 'a little rough; yes, a little--little
rough; but you observe my seat, Sir--West Point?' 'O yes,' said I; 'very
fine--and cool, I suspect.' But there was not much chance of intelligible
conversation. T---- kept on talking, but his remarks, meant for the
quarter-master, were so barbarously broken, that I could only guess
occasionally at some exclamations, which for point and emphasis were
highly military. Our rate of travel was not, you observe, from five to
ten, or from eight to twelve miles an hour, but exactly ten. That was the
forker's motion, from which there was no deviation. If he was struck, his
heels went up suddenly and very high, but it was no impediment. He
evidently took the blow as a military order for a rear motion; nothing
more, and no occasion for malice. Now, if any body wishes to know about
the face of the country; how bounded, what products, etc., between
Augustine and Picolata, I am unable to give the slightest information from
any notes taken that morning. My perceptions were all _in medias res_; and
I only remember seeing a wild turkey that we scared up, and an alligator
that made for the water while we were a quarter of a mile distant, and
splashed in in a great fright some time after we had passed him.

In little more than an hour we entered the opening at Fort Searle so
suddenly, that I heard the orderly report, as he marched up to the
commanding officer: 'Two gentlemen from Augustine, Sir.' 'Very well,' said
the officer; and he turned to receive the lieutenant, but T---- was past
all dignities. Stretching himself on a bench he ordered brandy-and-water,
and as that was not quite the thing, added a little cherry bounce, and
finished with old Jamaica, and presently went round a corner with a
tumbler of the latter; but whether for external or internal application, I
am unable to say. Without stopping long enough to get stiff, we mounted
again, and after a few closing flourishes from the little grey entered the
city of Picolata, consisting of one house, and were greeted with the
chattering of ten thousand black-birds all in full chorus. A boat coming
up very opportunely, we took passage in her that night, and next morning
were at Pilatka.

A few miles south of that place, there is a small plantation on the river
that had been deserted and the house burned down by the Indians during the
first winter of the war. Some weeks previous, while at Pilatka, Colonel
---- had politely offered me a sergeant and nine men to visit the place,
but shortly after reaching it they complained of the musquitoes and rode
back to the camp, leaving me with the guide and Gen. W---- to finish the
survey. I now found a young physician who was waiting an escort for Tampa
Bay, and we went out alone; and after studying trails for a long time, and
taking directions by the compass, we came in sight of the hammock when
some miles distant, and entering by a winding road that was arched over so
as to be almost dark as night, we emerged, after a quarter of a mile, in a
little round spot in the wilderness, which for quiet beauty was beyond any
thing I had ever before seen. There were some forty acres in the circle,
and yet it looked not unlike a dollar in a tumbler, so high and dense was
the forest. The magnolias, a hundred feet in air, were in full blossom,
their white tops making an unbroken wreath over the area, while the lower
branches of the live-oaks were loaded with the long moss, hanging like
curtains, motionless in the bright light, and not a single bird on the
tree-tops to break the perfect charm of the place. Beautiful, very
beautiful! but how strangely still! A squirrel chattering, or the rat-tat
of a woodpecker, would have been something; but there was not a single
voice out; not so much as the hum of a musquito, though it was the hottest
of summer days.

Why didn't the oaks speak, or the magnolias? If they had, shaken their
white heads, and raising their trailing garments, had all burst out in
some grand anthem, I should only have thought it quite in character; and
if personally addressed, it would have seemed entirely a matter of course.
I should have replied civilly, begged pardon for intruding in so informal
a manner, and backed out as soon as possible; and perhaps the click of a
rifle would have produced the same effect. We rode around the little gem,
and found the charred timbers where the house stood, and a few orange
trees that the Indians had left; but the cool spring was so hid in the
high grass, that we were forced back with parched lips to the flat water
at Pilatka, which place we reached in time for a late dinner; and just as
the evening set in I took passage again for Picolata.

All the boats running on the river were in the government service, and
ours at this time was loaded fore and aft with a company of dragoons,
bound to Black Creek. As we left the dock, another large boat came out in
a pompous manner, and gave us chase; and as the day had been intensely
hot, a large line of clouds rolled over the bluff at the same time,
probably from the gulf _en route_ to the Atlantic, and moving slowly
across the river, gathered their black folds around the pine-tops,
shutting all up, river and forest, every thing but our chimneys, in utter
darkness. And now began a scene which combined little and great in a
manner quite fantastic. Boatmen swearing and yelling to each other as the
boats came near collision, and that infernal scream sounding off through
the pine barrens like some spirit newly damned; horses prancing and
threshing on the bows; men growling at cards, and over head thunder and
lightning leading off the storm in a very brilliant and point-blank
manner; all which was quite rousing and melo-dramatic. While I was
noticing the pilot's manner of steering by flashes, a gentleman came up,
whom I recognised as a resident of St. Augustine; and as he had a horse at
Picolata, we agreed to go over together that night, as the darkness was
rather favorable, and the road being sandy, we could ride rapidly without
being heard.

It was late in the evening when we reached Picolata; and with a good deal
of uproar, men shouting, steam puffing, and half a dozen blacks
gesticulating on shore, we each made a fortunate leap to the dock; and
walking up to the camp in a blaze of pitch-pine, we ordered our horses,
and at eleven o'clock entered the pine woods for St. Augustine. 'I
wouldn't go over to-night,' said the man as he brought up my horse; 'the
rascals have been seen about here within a day or two; for God's sake,
Sir, _don't_ go over to-night!' But this only gave a keener zest to the
ride. I had carried with me every where a double-barrelled gun, but I had
found it an awkward companion, and having been all day in the saddle I
concluded to leave it to be sent over, and mean time trust to my friend's
pistols.

The rain had ceased, and the wind had gone down, but the night was still
so dark that we could only guess at the road by the strip of light over
head, and now and then a flash, which would light up the avenue for a long
distance ahead, and then leave it still darker than before. As we entered
the barren at an easy trot, I was pleased to notice that the darkness or
the storm had tamed my little grey into a very sober humor, and his
companion also was in a very moralizing way. There was no starting at the
lightning, no attempt at running, but with a noiseless tread they stepped
daintily in the sand, pointing their ears hither and yon, and as it seemed
to me, affecting a little scarishness, though what they could hear when
the forest was so breathless, it was difficult to imagine; but every
little while they would both leap some fifteen feet across the road,
(which couldn't be affectation) shiver a little, and then pick their way
carefully as before. We could see nothing, hear nothing; but horses are
keen snuffers, and they might smell when we couldn't; but what was
singular, the vaulting was done from the same side of the road.

We were still keeping up a little small-talk, when some miles in the
forest, both horses, without any jump or start of any kind, stopped
suddenly; and looking ahead, we saw something moving stealthily toward us.
My companion cocked a pistol and challenged; but we only heard a little
grumbling, and I counted him a dead man; but before we had time to guess
about it, something brushed by, and by a flash of light we saw a glitter
of buttons, and a man on horseback. Whoever or whatever he was, we saw him
but a moment, and he was soon out of hearing. With a remark or two upon
the fool-hardiness of the man, we quickened our pace, and went on at a
dashing rate, abreast and Indian fashion, just as it happened; now one
leading and now the other, according to the wind of our horses; and in
this manner we were passing the most dangerous part of the road, when
there was a sudden whizzing about our ears, and the report of half a dozen
rifles. The little grey reared and plunged and I landed--where, I don't
know; but the next that I remember, I was standing alone in the pine
barren. I had been running for a long time; how far I couldn't tell, being
conscious only of dodging often from one tree to another. On looking about
I remarked that the clouds had opened a little, and that there was nothing
to be seen or heard in any direction. Presently I heard a yell, and
looking around, a strapping Indian, with his rifle drawn to his eye, fired
as I faced him, and the ball parted a lock of my hair in a manner very
embarrassing. I levelled upon the rascal, but missed fire; the rain had
wet the powder in the tube. The fellow took no pains to hide himself, but
was very coolly loading again, and had got his ball ready, when I once
more started off at full speed.

It was a sharp race, and a warm one. After running a mile or more, there
was a small stream to be crossed; and with a few well-balanced steps on a
half-decayed log that lay at the edge of the water, I reached the opposite
bank just as my pursuer stepped on at the other end. Hearing a strange
kind of shock, I turned and saw the big six-footed animal astride the log,
twisting and writhing about in great agony. He had slipped and fallen in
such a manner as to pain him almost beyond endurance. I stood on the bank
and laughed at him; and--shall I confess it?--I tried half a dozen more
caps at the fellow, with a most savage deliberateness; to all which he
paid not the slightest attention; but as his strength came gradually back,
I took to my heels again, and fortunately reached the highway....

The last ten miles of our ride that night were passed over in a very
headlong manner: we stopped only once, as we heard the cry of some hounds
on the south side, and then on again, keeping our horses just within their
speed, till at the worst place on the road, we gave up the reins and let
them go. In less than two hours from Picolata, we snuffed the salt air
again; and reaching the open country, walked our horses leisurely into St.
Augustine.

As we entered the city my companion left me; and as I drew rein on the
square, I noticed that the schooner was still at the dock, and all about
the city was quiet and undisturbed. The storm had gone by, its skirts
hanging on the eastern horizon, and forming a back-ground to the light of
the light-house, while the city and bay were bright in the starlight; and
if stars shine any brighter in the small hours, they were doing their best
then. All looked pleasant and quite at home, even to the sentry at the
corner; and there was nothing, you would say, to make one sad; but as I
turned the corner I drew a breath of such yawning profundity that the old
dog at the Florida House started up and growled impromptu. That dog had
held a stout <DW65> all night in the yard, not long before; but
fortunately he knew me, and after smelling, to make sure that all was
right, he followed me into an out-house, when I rolled Bob out of a
cradle, and giving a general order in a low voice for a warm bath in the
morning, found my quarters and went to bed.

At sunrise the next morning I was half awake, grasping at the skirts of a
pleasant dream, when Bob came in, blew about the room for awhile, and
cried out 'Massa, did you order um wom bath?' 'No; clear out! Eh? warm
bath? Yes; warm bath, to be sure.' And Bob went out, and came in directly
with two wenches and a warm bath. 'How's the wind Bob?' 'De wind?' 'Yes;
where's the wind' 'Dun know, Sah.' 'Well, go out in the balcony and see
where it comes from.' Bob shouted through the open window, 'De wind come
from de Souf.'

I made but one spring, and the blacks vanished. Going below, I found the
house in commotion. The schooner was to sail at nine o'clock, and the
signal would be the report of a two-pounder which the captain carried on
his quarter-deck. At eight o'clock I had been all over town from the fort
to the powder house; looked in at the church, where were some fifteen or
twenty kneeling, silent and devotional; and was seated at breakfast, when
we heard the captain's gun, an hour before the time. 'My God!' said I, 'I
can't go without seeing Mrs. J---- and kind Mrs. G----; and then there's
the pretty Di. Vernon!' (I had bade them good-by a dozen times.) I rushed
into the street, and seeing half-a-dozen ladies not far off, gave them a
touch-and-go shake; rushed up a wrong street, then back again, and finally
came out on the square and saw the little schooner's sails bellied out
full; passengers waving their handkerchiefs, and the people all around
crying out to me to hurry, or I should lose my chance. But I _didn't_
hurry. The idea of hurry, after we had waited six weeks! That captain too,
had he been asleep all this time, and just awaked? No; I did not hurry,
but walked leisurely across the square, looking over my shoulder
occasionally to see if ---- was any where in sight, for she had promised
to be at the dock; and passing over the long wharf in the same stubborn
way, I stepped on board the schooner with a stiffer upper lip than I ever
remember to have had in that climate. The moment that my feet touched the
deck, the ropes slipped and away flew the schooner; but in all this 'heat,
haste and hunger,' from a half-swallowed breakfast, and consignments of
pacquets and kind wishes that were left behind, the sentiment of my last
look was burnt to a cinder.




THOUGHTS FROM BULWER.

BY MRS. M. T. W. CHANDLER.


  I.

  It cannot be that earth was given for our abiding place,
  Or that for nought we're darkly doomed the storms of life to face;
  It cannot be our being's cast from 'neath the ocean wave
  Of vast Eternity, to sink _again_ within its grave.
  Else tell me why the aspiring thoughts, the glorious hopes of man,
  Which spring up from his 'heart of hearts,' brook not earth's narrow span;
  Oh! tell me why unsatisfied forever here they roam,
  And seem to claim in higher spheres a refuge and a home.


  II.

  Why is it that the rainbow and the tints of evening clouds
  Dispel the mists in which the world our spirits still enshrouds?
  The chord they strike!--oh, tell me not that it can be of earth--
  The golden heart-string that they touch is _not_ of mortal birth:
  The very buds and blossoms, and the balmy summer air,
  Awake within us shadows vague of things more bright and fair;
  'Tis almost like _remembrance_--oh! would that I could tell
  The meaning of that hidden charm my spirit knows so well!


  III.

  A simple tone can rouse it; a smile, or even a sigh
  Can make the ghost-like shadows flit before my dreaming eye;
  'Tis one of life's deep mysteries; in vain we seek to trace
  The hidden spell's dark origin that chains our feeble race:
  But, oh! may we not fancy, may we not sweetly think,
  'Tis between us and another world a dim mysterious link?
  May we not hope that secret chord from God to man was given,
  To shadow forth within his soul pure images of heaven?


  IV.

  The very stars which pierce the veil far o'er this world of sin,
  And seem to give faint visions of a paradise within,
  In all their hallowed loveliness, their vague and mystic lore,
  Oh! do they not seem beckoning to a purer, holier shore?
  And tell me why the well-loved eyes which here upon us beam
  Gleam radiantly o'er our path, then vanish like a dream;
  My MOTHER! oh! my Mother! shall they find belief in me,
  Who tell me there's no happy land where I shall meet with thee?


  V.

  I _know_ there is a heaven which is peopled not with shades,
  Where the buds and flowers ne'er wither, and the rainbow never fades:
  Where the mourners cease from mourning, and in smiles of joy are drest,
  Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest:
  Oh! there is gladness in the thought; 'tis deep, deep joy to me
  To feel that those I love so well I there again shall see;
  To know that though around them now my very heart-strings twine,
  They'll be forever with me there--forever more be mine!




SONNET: TO THE OLD YEAR.


  Good-by, Old Year! we wait to greet the New,
    And hope within its circling hours to see
    More of content and less of misery.
  Yet, haply, all life's toilsome journey through,
  No happier scenes than thine will meet our view;
    If so, we humbly bow to Heaven's decree,
  With hearts, though wounded, still as firm and true
    As when we first knelt to the DEITY.
  Many will weep, Old Year! while thou dost lay
    Thine aged head within the voiceless tomb.
  _We_ weep, yet on the clouds of grief doth play
    The bow of promise, lighting up their gloom.
  Not so with many hearts that crushed and bleeding lie,
  Whose only thought of gladness is like thee to die!

_Brooklyn, Dec., 1843._                              HANS VON SPIEGEL.



THE MAIL ROBBER.

NUMBER SIX.


LETTER TO THE EDITOR FROM HIS ENGLISH CORRESPONDENT.

Sir: My friends abroad complain that my last letter reached them in small
type, most pernicious to English eyes, and half hidden among the rubbish
of your editorial remarks, literary notices, and chit-chat with your
million butterfly correspondents. Unless I am better served in future, I
shall be compelled to transfer my patronage to the post-office, dangerous
as it is, and liable to the occasional interference of American citizens.
I have conferred with an attorney, who tells me that there is just ground
for an action for breach of trust, in the unfaithful performance of the
duty you have undertaken. It remains with yourself to avert any such
consequence, by attending more strictly in future to the proper conveyance
of my correspondence.

During the last week I have received a note from the gentleman who stole
the letters. This I enclose to you; and as I do not know where to address
him, I will simply reply to him, through the Magazine, that although I
have the highest respect for his talents, I would see him several miles on
his way to the devil, before I would comply with his polite request.

                                Truly yours, etc.,
                                                        ---- ----.


THE MAIL ROBBER'S NOTE.

My Dear Friend: You will be surprised that I have found out your address,
and indeed it required some sagacity. But now that I have, you will pardon
me for broaching a matter in which we are mutually concerned. You must be
aware how horribly I have been used by the Editor of the KNICKERBOCKER,
and all through the share I have unfortunately had in your troublesome
correspondence. He still persists in refusing to pay me a proper
remuneration for my services, for which hitherto, I am sorry to say, I
have received only insult and vexation. I have been advised by my lawyer
to institute a suit at law against the miscreant, and matters are now in
progress toward that desirable result.

In the mean time I have thought proper to apply to your sense of justice
for a partial compensation of the trouble you have caused me. My character
has been assailed, my tranquillity disturbed, and my valuable time taken
up, without a penny of remuneration. Now, Sir, if you think fit to
transmit to the address of 'M. R.,' through the post-office, a hundred
dollars ($100), I will overlook what is past, and resign solely to
yourself what interest I possess in your epistolary intercourse through
the pages of that infamous Magazine. With sentiments of esteem,

                                Yours, as before,
                                                             M. R.


'So shaken as we are, so wan with care,' we begin to wish that we had
never undertaken the publication of these letters. Between two impending
law-suits how shall we muster courage to keep on the even tenor of our
way? Even our staunch friend, the anonymous Public, torments us with
frequent accusatory epistles, charging us with dulness, impiety, and
irreverence for American institutions. All these we must lay on the back
of our Englishman, whose compatriots we confess are apt to assume a
latitude of style hardly tolerated among us. In the mean time, gentle
Public, respected Cockney, and worthy Mail-Robber, we cry you mercy all
round!

                                                ED. KNICKERBOCKER.


LETTER SIXTH.

TO CHARLES KEMBLE, ESQUIRE, LONDON.


  Good Cassio, Charles, Mercutio, Benedick,
  (Of all your names I scarce know which to pick,)
  Colossal relic of the nobler time
  When great JOHN PHILIP trod the scene sublime;
  Ay, true Colossus, for like that which strode
  From shore to shore, while seas beneath him flowed,
  You seem to stand between two generations,
  High o'er the tide of Time and its mutations;
  Be not alarmed; this comes not from a dun,
  Nor any scheming, transatlantic BUNN,
  Tempting with golden hopes your waning years,
  Like 'certain stars shot madly from their spheres,'
  Like MATHEWS or old DOWTON, to expose
  The shank all shrunken from its youthful hose;
  So boldly read, howe'er it make you sigh,
  Nor manager nor creditor am I;
  Yet in some sort you are indeed my debtor,
  And owe me for my pains at least a letter.

  Not long ago, conversing at the Club
  Which Londoners with 'GARRICK'S' title dub,
  We both confessed, and each with equal grief,
  That poor Melpomene was past relief;
  So many symptoms of her dotage shows
  This nineteenth century of steam and prose.
  Nor in herself, said you, entirely lies
  Th' incurable complaint whereof she dies;
  'Tis not alone that play-wrights are too poor
  For gods or men or columns to endure;[4]
  Nor that all players in a mould are cast,
  Every new Roscius aping still the last;
  Nor yet that Taste's too delicate excess
  Demands perfection and despises less;
  But mere indifference, that worst disease,
  From bard and actor take all power to please.
  How strive to please? when all their friends that were,
  To empty benches empty sounds prefer;
  And seek, like bees attracted by a gong,
  The fairy-land of tip-toe and of song;
  Whether a voice of more than earthly strain
  Be newly sent by Danube or the Seine,
  Or some aerial, thistle-downy thing
  Float from La Scala on a zephyr's wing.
  Say, might a SIDDONS, conjured from the tomb,
  Again the scene of her renown illume?
  Could her high art, (ay, even at half price,)
  The crowd from 'La Sonnambula' entice?
  No; dance and song, the Drama's deadly plagues,
  RUBINI'S notes, and ELLSLER'S heav'nly legs,
  Would nightly still bring amateurs in flocks,
  To watch the bravos of the royal box.

    [4] By the word 'columnae,' Horace (though BENTLEY knew it not)
        evidently meant the columns of the Roman newspapers.

  While thus, between our filberts and our wine,
  We mourned with sighs your mistress's decline,
  You half indulged the fond imagination,
  That what seemed death was but her _emigration_.
  Perhaps, quoth you, and 'twas a bold 'perhaps,'
  Ere many years of exile shall elapse,
  The wand'ring maid may find in foreign lands
  More loving hearts and hospitable hands.
  Perchance her feet, with furry buskins graced,
  May shuddering walk the cold Canadian waste,
  And rest contented with a bleak repose
  In shrubless climes of never-thawing snows.
  Yes, in those woods that gird the northern lakes,
  Pathless as yet, and wild with shaggy brakes,
  Or in the rank savannahs of the south,
  Or sea-like prairies near Missouri's mouth,
  Fate may conduct her to some sacred spot,
  Where to resume her sceptre and to--squat.
  Some happier settlement and simpler race,
  Where, though her worship lack its ancient grace,
  New days may dawn, like those of royal BESS,
  And every stream a Stratford shall possess;
  Where, though in marshes resonant with frogs,
  And rudely housed in temples built of logs,
  The nymph, regenerate in her classic robe,
  May see revived the 'Fortune' and the 'Globe.'

  Such was the dream your fancy dared to mould
  Of what yourself had witnessed here of old;
  When with your twins--your FANNY and your fame--
  Among our cousins of the west you came;
  But you mistook a momentary fashion
  For a deep-seated and enduring passion:
  Now to your own a friend's experience add,
  And judge what grounds your glorious vision had.
  Beyond that Cape which mortals christen Cod,
  Where drifted sand-heaps choke the scanty sod,
  Round the rough shore a crooked city clings,
  Sworn foe to queens, it seems, as well as kings.
  On three steep hills it soars, as Rome on seven,
  To claim a near relationship with heaven.
  Fit home for saints! the very name it bears
  A kind of sacred origin declares;
  Ta'en, as I find by hunting records o'er,
  From one BOTOLFO, canonized of yore,[5]
  Whom bards have left nor epitaph nor verse on,
  Though in his day, sans doubt, a decent person:
  This town, in olden times of stake and flame,
  A famous nest of Puritans became;
  Sad, rigid souls, who hated as they ought
  The carnal arms wherewith the Devil fought;
  Dancing and dicing, music, and whate'er
  Spreads for humanity the hell-born snare.
  Stage-plays especially their hearts abhorred,
  Holding the Muses hateful to the Lord,
  Save when old STERNHOLD and his brother bard
  Oped their hoarse throats and strained an anthem hard.

    [5] The name of Boston, in Lincolnshire, is said to be derived
        from ST. BOTOLPH--quasi BOTOLPH'S town.

  From that angelic race of perfect men,
  (Sure seraphs never trod the world 'till then,)
  Descends the race to whom the sway is given
  Of the world's morals by confiding Heaven.
  These of each virtue know the market price,
  And shrewdly count the cost of every vice;
  So, to their prudent adage faithful still,
  Are honest more from policy than will.
  As if with heaven a bargain they had made
  To practise goodness and to be well paid.
  They too, devoutly as their fathers did,
  Sin, sack, and sugar equally forbid;
  Holding each hour unpardonably spent
  Which on the ledger leaves no monument;
  While oft they read, with small but pious wit,
  Th' inscription o'er the play-house portals writ,
  In a bad sense--'_The entrance to the Pit._'

  Among this godly tribe it was my fate
  To view a triumph they enjoyed of late,
  Which, lest the chroniclers who come hereafter
  Omit, and cheat our children of their laughter,
  I, a DAGUERRE-like sketcher of the time,
  Will faintly shadow as I can in rhyme.

  Once these Botolphians, when their boards you trod,
  Received you almost as a demi-god;
  Rushed to the teeming rows in frantic swarms,
  And rained applauses not in showers but storms.
  But should you now their fickle welcome ask,
  Faint shouts would greet the veteran of the mask;
  And ah! what anguish would it be to search
  For your old play-house in a bastard church!
  To find the dome wherein your hour you strutted,
  Altered and maimed and circumcised and gutted;
  Become in truth, all metaphor to drop,
  A mongrel thing--half chapel and half shop.
  Long had the augur and the priest foretold
  The sad reverse they doomed it to behold;
  Long had the school-boy, as he passed it by,
  And maiden viewed it with presaging eye;
  Oft had the wealthy deacon with a frown
  Glared on the pile he longed to batter down,
  And reckoned oft, with sanctimonious air,
  What rents 'twould fetch if purified with prayer;[6]
  While through the green-room whispered rumors went,
  That heaven and earth were on its ruin bent.

    [6] At the late opening of the 'Tremont Temple' in Boston, the
        new proprietors chanted what they called a 'Purification
        Hymn,' of which we give one stanza:

        'Satan has here held empire long--
          A blighting curse, a cruel reign;
        By mimic scenes, and mirth and song
          Alluring souls to endless pain!'

  Too just a fear! The vision long foreseen
  Has come at last; behold the fallen queen!
  The queen of passion, stripped of all her pride,
  Discrowned, indignant from her temple glide.
  With draggling robe, slip-shod, her buskin loose,
  She flies a barren people's cold abuse;
  Summons her sister, who forbears to smile,
  And leaves to rats the desecrated pile,
  Which dogs and nags already had begun,
  Unless by blows and hunger driv'n, to shun:
  For well-bred curs and steeds genteel contemn
  A stage which Taste had sunk too low for them;
  Whereon the town had seen, without remorse,
  A herd of bisons and a hairless horse!

  Behind the two chief mourners of the band
  A sad procession followed, hand in hand;
  Heroes un-heroed, most unknightly knights,
  Wand-broken fairies, disenchanted sprites;
  Dukes no more ducal, even on the bill,
  Milk-livered murd'rers too ill-fed to kill;
  Mild-looking demons that a babe might daunt,
  Witches and ghosts most naturally gaunt;
  Lovers made pale by keener pangs than love's,
  Unspangled princesses with greasy gloves;
  Wits very witless--grave comedians mute,
  And silent sons of violin and flute.

  After these down-look'd leaders of the show,
  Who creep like Trajan's Dacians, wan and slow,
  Comes a long train of underlings that bear
  Imperial robes that kings no more may wear;
  With truncheons, helmets, thunder-bolts and casks
  Of snow and lightning--bucklers, foils and masks.
  As tow'rd the steep of Capitolian Jove
  When chiefs victorious through the rabble strove,
  With all their conquests in their trophies told,
  And every battle mark'd with plundered gold;
  When the whole glory of the war rolled by,
  And gaping Rome seemed all one mighty eye,
  Behind the living captives came the dead,
  Poor noseless gods, and some without a head,
  With pictures, ivory images and plumes,
  And priceless tapestry from palace-looms;
  Ev'n such, although Night's alchymy no more
  The crinkling tinsel turns to precious ore,
  Appears the pomp of this discarded race,
  As heaped with spoil they quit their ancient place,
  Bearing their Lares with them as they go--
  Two dusty statues and a bust or so;
  With mail which once a Harry Fifth had on,
  Triumphal cars with all the triumph gone;
  Goblets of tin mixed up with Yorick's bones,
  Bags made of togas--barrows formed of thrones,
  Whereon the majesty of Denmark sat;
  Fie! Juliet's petticoats in Wolsey's hat!
  Swords hacked at Bosworth, fasces, guns and spears
  Rusted with blood before, and now with tears.

  Enough of this: kind prompter, touch the bell!
  Children of mirth and midnight, fare ye well!
  The vision melts away, the motley crowd
  Is veiled by Prospero in a passing cloud;
  Like his dissolving pageantry they fade,
  The vap'ry stuff whereof our dreams are made;
  No more malignant winter to beguile,
  Nor start the virgin's tear, the judge's smile;
  Save when some annalist, like me, recalls
  The ancient fame of those degraded walls;
  Or till an age less hateful to the Muse
  To their old shape restore the anxious pews.

                                                          T. W. P.




LETTER FROM JAMES JESSAMINE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.


SIR: It has not been until after much reflection on my own part, and I
must say, very civil encouragement on that of my friend MR. JOHN WATERS,
whose acquaintance I have chanced upon some months back, that I have
determined to venture, either in the form of an advertisement extra, or
possibly by your very polite admission of this self-introductory letter
into your fashionable pages, to submit to the view of the more refined and
intellectual part of the society of the Atlantic cities and particularly
to that of New York, the peculiar claim that I conceive myself to possess
upon their consideration and regard.

I have been hitherto deterred from taking this decisive step, as well by
the very disturbed and almost turbulent state, which, since my arrival in
this country, appears to have characterized its monetary concerns--alas!
my dear Sir, those horrid yet necessary evils and grievances of life!--as
by some expectations I had cause to entertain soon after I set foot upon
your hospitable shores, of the immediate death of a maiden aunt in
Cornwall, upon which incident, and her continued celibacy, depend very
much all my present reversionary hopes.

The health of the old lady being however at my latest intelligence
unexpectedly reinstated; the cotton crops coming forward as I understand
to good markets, and the wonderful discovery having been made of
converting western pork into sallad oil; the Tories being put down, and
the banks having entered into what some time ago seemed the _paulo post
futurum_ of specie payments; I desire to share in the general tide of
prosperity; I launch myself upon it at its flood, discard all reserve, and
shall descend at once without farther preface into the midst of what I
have to say.

I came out then some time ago _ostensibly_ to kill a trout or two in some
of your delicious streams; and indeed I may without presumption say en
passant that few professors of the Rod excel me either in the niceties of
my throw, the cool self-possession with which I take my fish, or the
indomitable perseverance and perfect tact with which I drown and then land
him with a single hair. I say _ostensibly_, for I have now no desire to
conceal from you the ulterior objects that I had in view of either making
a book to replenish my purse, or of establishing myself for life in this
your rising land of freedom and big crops.

I have had 'good luck to your fishing' sung to me more than once by most
sweet voices, and have realized it to my heart's content in the way of
trout; but this is all. Since I arrived in America there have been no less
than three travelling historians upon the ground, with whose energy of
conception, art of fabrication, facility of combination, capacity of
bitterness and established name, I could not enter the lists. And as for
matrimonial projects, foreigners seem to me to have no longer any hope of
success in consequence of the entire pre-occupation of this walk of life
by a regularly drilled and educated corps of young Americans, bred up
avowedly with no other pursuit; who talk, think, dream of nothing else
than fortune by marriage; and with a shrewdness and intelligence of
calculation that entirely distance the foreigner, (but which seem
wonderfully after the nuptials to forsake them _in stocks of another
description_,) know at a glance the value, expectations, hopes, and
dependencies of each young marriageable lady even before she comes out; so
that instead of being able to accomplish a purpose of this kind, I find it
quite as much as I can do to avoid falling in love beyond repeal with the
refinement, gentleness, grace, and untold sweetness that distinguish the
portionless beauties of New-York.

Indeed this class to which I have adverted of licensed fortune-hunters is
so numerous; the fortunes themselves except to the initiated are so
uncertain; and the entire want of that most useful profession, _les
courtiers de mariage_, is so grievous to all incidental visitors, that I
have often thought how admirable the arrangement would be, if the young
ladies were at once to adopt as a fashionable decoration some tasteful
head ornament, on which should be inscribed, in distinct but graceful
characters, some one of such legends as the following, which should
indicate the incontestible possessions of the wearer:

    $30,000 State of New-York Fives.

    My face is my fortune.

    $200,000 Indiana State Bonds.

    2 lots on Broadway, 4 in the Bowery and 1 on Union-Square.

    Nothing but truth, discretion, intelligence and grace.

    $60,000 Alabama Sterling Bonds.

    The Tongues, and what you see.

    $27,000 on indefeasible Bond and Mortgage.

    A House and Shop in _Maiden-Lane_ with fixtures, and a careful
    tenant at 1400 a year on lease three years unexpired.

    Musick--four pianos done up since this time last year.

    30,000 Pine trees and three saw-mills in Saint Lawrence county:
    N. B., well situated!

    A large Manufacturing Establishment with unbounded
    Water-privileges, in Ulster.

    Life and Trust--40 shares daily recovering.


The young gentlemen might wear appended to the third button-hole of the
left breast, epigrammatical notices of 'THE EXPECTATIONS' in which they so
generally abound, as follows:

    Uncle Asa has the phthisick, I am his heir.

    As I STAND, less my tailor's bill of $1800.

    Plenty of LOTS, covered partly with water, partly with
    parchment.

    In full and successful business, owing only four times our
    capital, due us five times, chiefly in Mississippi. Expect to
    retire in two years and enjoy life.

    Two-and-six-pence in my pocket, with great but indefinable
    hopes.

    A _promising_ young member of the Bar. Three suits;--[Symbol:
    pointing hand] one of them in court. Grant me my fourth!

A young lady, whose nice tact and discriminating judgment are only
rivalled by her sweetness of disposition and exquisite personal
attractions, has divided the world of beaux into three generick classes:

    1. The Rich who are afraid of us;

    2. The Poor whom we are afraid of;

    3. The Detrimentalists.

The plan I propose would aid manifestly in the due classification of all
assistants at a ball. It is not to be thought that the sex is governed by
any mercenary motive; but in the present organization of society a certain
degree of attention to the mode in which matrimonial establishments are to
be sustained is absolutely imperative.

Conceive then Mr. Editor how this explicit course would remove the
ordinary impediments on both sides. One single _tour de Valse_ and the
whole affair might be adjusted! The gentleman forsakes the lady's eyes and
fixes his own upon her tiara; she hers upon his eloquent button-hole.
During the slow movement they have deciphered the mottoes, have
ascertained, (no small desideratum in a crowded ball-room!) each the exact
value of his or her partner; they have arrived in thought, as far as mere
expediency goes, each at a decision; and are ready for question and answer
at the close of the accelerated step.

By the way, as the waltz is now conducted, the employment of the eyes
during the slow sentimental movement seems frequently to the lady a matter
of some degree of embarrassment; and the method I propose would
effectually remove any thing of the sort. There could be no want of an
object on which to rest them; no looking with a fixed gaze over the
partner's shoulder; no consulting of the cornice; no care-fraught
expression; no reluctant or displeased look, as if the lady would have
fain declined; no indeterminate thoughts, no indefinite sensations; no
languishment; and above all never more the portentous, the ominous look
which often in that entrancing dance exhibits to us the mysticism of the
Sybil, without one ray of her inspiration.

No; then would the lady look, read, decide, and dance the while. 'This
might do!'--then would she sparkle. 'Ah this would never do!'--then would
she become placid, tranquil, and complete her tour with contentment; for
as I think some one else has before me wisely observed, _the end of doubt
is the beginning of repose_. Then would the faces of the ladies generally
become vastly more attractive than at present during the enjoyment of the
waltz; for singular as may seem the remark, although I have assisted at
several New-York balls, I have met two countenances only throughout the
whole galaxy of beauty that, in dancing the Waltz, have indicated either
joy or undisturbed gratification: the one, is that of a little sylph-like
beam of pleasure, who might well carry upon her beautiful hair,
'unincumbered lots,' as her wedding-portion; who gains our hearts while
she laughs at us; and who, because I chance to be within half a score of
her father's years, threatens to call me her _vieux cheri_--while the name
of the other, if I dared write it, would recall the most tasteful and
fashionable costumes of France, with the sweetest poetry of Scotland.

But alas my master! I have gone prattling on without saying a word of my
own pretensions until my letter has gained such a length that I am forced
to defer them to another number, while I subscribe myself, dear Mr. Editor
of the KNICKERBOCKER,

                                Your most faithful servant,
                                                  JAMES JESSAMINE.




LOVE'S ELYSIUM.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF MATTHISSON BY WILLIAM PITT PALMER.


  GROVE! embathed in peace celestial,
    As in dew the rose's bowers,
  Where Hesperia's golden fruitage
    Ripens amid silver flowers;
  Where a rosy- ether
    Ever cloudless bends above,
  Through whose calm abysses never
    Breathed the sigh of slighted love.

  PSYCHE, with a strange emotion,
    Half enraptured, half dismayed,
  Just escaped her earthly vesture,
    Trembling greets thy glimmering shade:
  Where, O joy! no misty mantle
    Veils her primal purity;
  And her immaterial pinions,
    Like an angel's, wander free.

  Ha! e'en now o'er paths of roses,
    Glorious shape of light, she sweeps,
  Tow'rd the shadow-peopled valley
    Where the sacred Lethe sleeps;
  Thither drawn by magic suasion,
    As by gentle spirits led,
  Fain she sees the silver billows,
    And their flowery shores outspread.

  Kneeling low with sweet foreboding
    Griefs oblivious draught to taste,
  Softly shines her trembling image
    In that faithful mirror traced;
  As from ocean's tranquil waters
    Fair the cloudless moon outbeams,
  Or from crystal stream reflected
    Hesper's golden cresset gleams.

  Not in vain she quaffs of Lethe;
    For, anon, within the stream
  Sinks the night-part of her being,
    Like the phantom of a dream;
  And from out the vale of shadows
    Bright she soars on fearless wing,
  To the hills whose golden blossoms
    Smile in everlasting spring.

  What an awe-inspiring silence!
    Softer calm than zephyr breathes
  Murmurs in the laurel foliage
    And the amaranthine wreaths:
  Thus in sacred stillness rested
    Air and wave--in such repose
  Slumbered nature, when from ocean
    ANADYOMENE rose.

  What an unaccustomed glory!
    Earth! though fair Aurora be,
  Never from her vernal features
    Shone such magic light for thee:
  Lo! the ivy's glossy tendrils
    Bathed in purple lustre gleam,
  And the flowers that crown each fountain
    With a starry splendor beam!

  Thus in silvan wilds the dawning,
    When the modest Cynthia spied
  From the skies her sleeping lover,
    And descended to his side;
  While the fields were bathed in brightness,
    And in magic tones expressed,
  Heavenly greetings murmured sweetly--
    Hail, ENDYMION the blest!




GANGUERNET: OR, 'A CAPITAL JOKE.'

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY JOHN HUNTER.


Mine is called Ganguernet: I say mine, for you have all had yours; every
one, at least once in his life-time, has met with one of those little fat,
ruddy, burly men, with straight close-cropped hair, low forehead, grey
eyes, broad nose, puffed-up cheeks, the neck between the shoulders, the
shoulders in the stomach, the stomach upon the legs; a sort of a Punch
figure, rolling, bawling, laughing, hallooing; one of those fellows who
come stealthily behind you, clap their hands on your head, and cry out
suddenly: 'Who's this?' Who pull away your chair at the moment you are
going to sit down; who snatch from you your handkerchief just when you
wish to use it; and who, on these occasions, when you look at them with an
angry air, answer you with a broad grin, and a stare of imperturbable
assurance: '_A capital joke!_'

You have had yours; and mine is named Ganguernet. My first acquaintance
with him was at Rheims. He was a complete adept in his profession, and as
a regular joke-player, master of all the tricks of his trade. Well skilled
was he in the art of attaching a piece of meat to the bell-rope of a
porter's lodge, so that all the wandering dogs about town would snap at
the tempting bait, and awaken the mystified domestics ten times a night.
Very expert was he also at cutting tradesmen's signs in two pieces, and
substituting one for another. On one occasion he took the sign of a
hair-dresser, cut it in two, and added the latter part to that of one of
my neighbours; so that it read as follows: _Monsieur Roblot lets out
carriages and false toupees, after the Paris fashion_.

But if M. Ganguernet was not the most agreeable companion in the city,
still less so was he in the country, where indeed his presence, to me at
least, was always a perfect nuisance. He knew how to scatter the hair,
adroitly clipped from a brush, between the sheets of a friend, so that the
victim, before he had been a quarter of an hour in bed, would become
furious with the itching. He would pierce the partition between two
sleeping apartments, so as to pass through it a piece of twine which he
had cunningly fastened to your bed-clothes, and then, when he found that
you were asleep, he would gently pull the string, until the covering was
all drawn down to your feet. You awake half-frozen, for Ganguernet always
chooses a cold damp night for this trick, draw up the covering, wrap
yourself carefully up, and very innocently resume your slumbers; then
Ganguernet, gently pulling his cord, again strips you naked; again you are
benumbed with cold; and when you begin to utter imprecations in the dark,
his detestable voice is heard bawling through the hole: 'What a capital
joke!'

Did Ganguernet chance to fall in with one of those simple-minded
individuals, whose countenances invite mystification, he would steal from
him during his sleep his coat and pantaloons, whose dimensions with needle
and thread he would contrive greatly to diminish. He would then awaken his
victim, begging him to dress himself as soon as possible, and join a
hunting-party. The unsuspecting subject of the joke, thus suddenly roused,
would try to put on his pantaloons, but could not get into them. 'Good
Heavens!' exclaims Ganguernet, with affected astonishment; 'why, what is
the matter, my dear Sir?--you are terribly swollen!' 'Am I?' 'You are
indeed, prodigiously!' 'Do you really mean it?' 'I may be mistaken, but
come dress yourself, and let us go down, and see what the others say.'

'But I cannot get on my clothes.'

'Ah! that's it, you are so puffed up. It must be a thundering attack of
the dropsy!'

And this would continue, the poor fellow, pale and trembling, in vain
endeavoring to get on his clothes, until the tormentor, with a hideous
chuckle, would come out with his famous sentence: 'Ha! ha! a capital
joke!'

There was one of his tricks which appeared to me to be truly abominable.
He played it upon a person reputed to be a brave man, but who was
nevertheless horribly frightened. One night, after getting snugly into
bed, this gentleman felt something cold and slimy along side of him, he
touched it with his foot; it seemed a round elongated body; he placed his
hand upon it; it was a serpent coiled upon itself! In an ecstacy of
terror, he leaped from the bed with a cry of disgust and horror, when
Ganguernet made his appearance, shaking his fat sides and roaring out:
'What a capital joke!' It was an eel-skin filled with water, that had
caused the panic. The enraged gentleman would have broken the head of the
joker, but Ganguernet throwing a pitcher of water over the sans-culotte
sufferer, made his escape, yelling out at the top of his voice: 'A capital
joke!--a capital joke!' The master of the house and his guests came
running in at the outcry, and with much difficulty succeeded in pacifying
the mystified individual; assuring him that Ganguernet, though fond of
fun, was in the main a charming good fellow, a pleasant boon companion,
and one without whom, especially in the country, it was impossible to
drive away ennui.

Our readers may perhaps think with us, that, on the contrary, this man was
one of those insufferable beings who are constantly intruding upon the
pleasures and comforts of others; like a dog in a game of nine-pins,
overturning with his paws all the arrangements of your joys and sorrows;
more insupportable, and more difficult to get rid of than the dog, they
lie in ambush to pounce upon you, and disconcert by a word or a trick the
feelings you may enjoy, or the projects you intend.

Among characters of this description, there are some whom their
common-place attempts at wit consign to contempt. These performers confine
themselves to vulgar and stale jokes. To thrust the head through the paper
window-pane of a cobbler, and ask him the address of a minister of
finances, or an archbishop; to stretch a cord across a staircase, so as to
cause those who descend to take, in the words of a punster, a _voyage sur
la rein_, or 'a voyage upon the Rhine;' to wake up a notary in the middle
of the night, and send him in great haste to draw up a will for a client,
whom he finds in good health; these and a thousand other silly pranks of
the same nature, are the stock in trade of a jester; and no one knew them
better than did Ganguernet.

He had, moreover, invented some original tricks, which had given him a
colossal reputation among the admirers of this branch of the fine arts.
The only truly witty one I ever knew him to perpetrate, took place at a
country-house where a large party of us were assembled. Among the guests,
Ganguernet had singled out a lady of some thirty years, rather fantastic
in her manners and appearance, who was doatingly fond of Parisian
elegance, and who preferred the pale face of a well-looking youth of
rather shallow intellect, to the coarse, purple visage of Ganguernet. Our
humourist endeavored in vain to render this youth ridiculous in the eyes
of the lady, who regarded his simplicity as a poetical absence of mind,
and his credulity as an indication of sincerity and honest good faith. One
evening, after a brisk defence of the pale-faced youth on the part of the
lady, which was listened to by Ganguernet with a patience and a peculiar
expression of the eye which boded no good, we had all retired to our
apartments. In about half an hour, the house resounded with loud outcries
of 'fire! fire!' which seemed to proceed from the hall upon the
ground-floor. Every one hastened thither, men and women half-dressed, or
half-undressed, which ever you please. They entered pell-mell, candlestick
in hand, and there found Ganguernet stretched upon a sofa. To the
reiterated questions that were put him as to the cause of the clamor, he
answered not a word; but taking the pale-faced young man by the hand in a
very solemn manner, and leading him up to the fine lady, gravely said to
her: 'I have the honor, Madam, of presenting to you the most poetic genius
of the company in a cotton night-cap.' We all burst into a shout of
laughter, but the lady never forgave Ganguernet, nor the cotton night-cap.

All the jokes which Ganguernet played, however, were not prompted by
vengeance; a spirit of fun merely being the grand principle of most of his
tricks. Before we come to the occurrence which showed this man to me in
his true colors, I must relate a few more of the humorous pranks in which
he took the greatest pride. Opposite his residence at Rennes there dwelt a
worthy pair of venerable citizens, who were the sole occupants of a small
house, which was their only possession. Once a week this honest couple
were in the habit of dining, and having a little game of piquet with a
relation, who resided at some distance from their abode. On these
occasions they were usually regaled with curds and whey, which they
moistened with sparkling cider; and not unfrequently a bowl of punch
concluded the repast; so that the worthy pair commonly returned home about
eleven o'clock, singing and staggering along in a state of happy
elevation.

On a certain fatal Sunday evening, these good folks returned to their
abode, both of them pretty much, 'how came you so.' They arrived at the
door of their next neighbour, which they recognized, and then proceeded on
ten paces farther, which was just the distance to their own door. The
husband, after fumbling in his pocket for the key of the street-door,
pulled it out, and sought the key-hole; but no key-hole was to be found.
'What has become of the key-hole?' cried he. 'You have drank too much
cider, Monsieur Larquet,' said his wife; 'you are looking for the
key-hole, and we are still before the wall of neighbour Bompart.'

'That is true,' replied Monsieur Larquet; 'we must go a few paces
farther.' They walked on; but this time they went too far, for as they had
before recognized the door of their right-hand neighbor, they now found
themselves in front of that of their neighbor on the left hand. Their own
door ought to be between these two doors. They return, groping along the
wall until they come to a door, which to their consternation they again
find to be that of their right-hand neighbor! The honest couple become
alarmed about the soundness of their wits, and begin to suspect that they
must certainly both be tipsy. They recommence their inspections from the
door of their neighbor on the right, and again come to the door of their
neighbor on the left. They constantly find these two doors, but not a
vestige of their own: their door has disappeared--vanished! Who could have
taken away their door? Terror seizes them; they ask each other if they
have become demented; and dreading the ridicule which would be cast upon
honest citizens who could not find their own street-door, they grope about
for more than an hour, feeling, poking, inspecting, measuring; but alas!
there is no door; there is nothing but a wall, an unknown wall, an
implacable wall, a desperate wall! At length, terror completely overpowers
them; they utter loud cries, and call lustily for assistance. The
neighbors are attracted by the noise, and after some time, it is
ascertained that the door of the distracted couple has been carefully
bricked up, and plastered over; and when all are trying to discover who
could have played such a pitiful trick upon these honest people,
Ganguernet, who from an opposite window, in company with some kindred
spirits, had been enjoying the tribulation and despair of Monsieur and
Madame Larquet, Ganguernet shouts out his everlasting refrain: 'A capital
joke!' But, answered the neighbors, these poor folks will take their death
of cold.

'Bah!' replies he; 'a capital joke!'

The incensed neighbors petitioned the king's attorney to moderate Monsieur
Ganguernet's strong inclination to play his mischievous pranks; and the
magistrate sent our hero to prison for some days, in spite of his skilful
defence, which consisted in incessantly repeating: 'A capital joke!--what
a capital joke, Mr. Magistrate!'

Notwithstanding his excessive vanity, Ganguernet did not, however, make
boast of all his exploits; and there was one, the authorship of which he
constantly denied, possibly in consequence of a threat that was held out
of cutting off the author's ears, should he be detected. The trick in
question was prompted by the contempt in which he was held in a certain
aristocratic circle; and the subject was no less a personage than an
ancient dame of high birth, and great pretensions, who mingled in the most
fashionable society of Rennes.

Among other customs of the old school, which this lady retained, were the
following: First, that of never mixing in the society of those of plebeian
descent, such as Ganguernet: and secondly; that of always being carried in
a sedan-chair by porters, when she went abroad. One evening she went to a
ball, given by the first president of the court of assizes, a ball at
which Ganguernet was also present. She left about midnight, carried as
usual in her sedan-chair through a pelting shower of rain. At the moment
she got under one of those loop-holes in the eaves-gutters, through which
the rain pours down into the street in long dashing cascades, two or three
shrill whistles were heard on the right and left hand. Immediately four
men in masks made their appearance, at sight of whom the porters,
abandoning their charge, took to their heels; but at the moment when the
noble dame believed herself on the point of being assassinated, a terrible
dash of cold water upon her head took away her breath, and almost deprived
her of consciousness. The top of the chair had disappeared as if by magic,
and the gutter poured its contents directly into the vehicle, the occupant
of which in vain attempted to force open the door. She beat and thumped
against it with fury, mounted the seat, and like an incarnate fiend,
invoked the divine wrath upon the vile miscreants, who were giving her
such a cruel shower-bath; and who only replied to her invectives by
profound bows, and the most humble salutations. The worst part of this
wicked trick was, that the lady wore hair-powder, and the mystifiers
carried umbrellas.

My acquaintance with Ganguernet continued about ten years. In the low and
vulgar circles of society which he was fond of frequenting, he was held up
as the most jovial, the best-natured, and the most amusing fellow in the
world; although there were some, whose sense of propriety and moral
feelings were not entirely destroyed, who held him in merited contempt.
For my own part, I always had a dread of the man. That odious smile,
forever hanging on those large red lips, singularly annoyed me; that
imperturbable gayety, exhibited on all occasions of life, troubled me like
the constant presence of a hideous phantom; that phrase, which he appended
like a moral to every thing he did, that detested phrase, 'A capital
joke,' sounded in my ears as doleful and sombre as the Trappists' motto,
'_Brother, we must die_!'

There was a fatality about the man; and it was destined that a life should
be sacrificed to his mad propensity for mischief. A day came, on which his
famous words, 'A capital joke!' was to be pronounced over a tomb.

On the eve of my departure from Rennes, some friends invited me to join a
hunting-party, of which I learned that Ganguernet was to make one. This
name took from me in advance half the pleasure I had anticipated. I
however repaired early in the morning to the house of one of our friends,
Ernest de B----. On my arrival I found Ganguernet there with some others
of the party. Ernest had just finished a letter, which he sealed,
directed, and placed upon the chimney-piece. Ganguernet, in his usual
inquisitive and impertinent manner, took it up, and read the direction.
'Ah ha!' said he; 'so you correspond with your pretty cousin, do you?'

'Yes,' said Ernest, with an air of indifference; 'I have informed her that
we intend visiting her chateau this evening, at about seven o'clock, to
take dinner there. There are fifteen of us I think, and we shall run some
risk of having but poor fare, if she does not get timely notice.'

Ernest rang for a servant, and gave him the letter, without any of us
noticing that Ganguernet disappeared for a moment with him. We set off on
our expedition. While engaged in the chase, it so happened that Ganguernet
and myself took one side of the plain on which we were hunting, while the
rest of the party pursued their sport on the other.

'We shall have some fun this evening,' said he to me.

'How so?' replied I.

'Would you believe it? I have given a louis to the servant that he should
not carry the letter to its address.'

'And have you taken it?'

'No, pardieu! I told him we were going to have a little joke this evening,
and that he must carry the letter to the lady's husband. He is sitting
this moment as president of the court of assizes, and when he finds that
he is going to have fifteen stout fellows, with keen appetites, at his
house this evening, he will be in a devil of a rage. He is as miserly as
Harpagon; and the idea of our laying his kitchen and wine-cellar under
contribution will put him in such a humor, that he will have no scruple in
condemning a dozen innocent men, so that he may reach his country-house in
time to prevent the pillage.'

'If this is the case,' said I to Ganguernet, 'it seems to me to be a very
malicious jest.'

'Bah! a capital joke! And the best of it will be when we all arrive at the
chateau. The others, ravenous with hunger and thirst, will expect to find
there an excellent supper. But there will be nothing--absolutely nothing!'

'And do you think, Sir,' replied I, 'that this will be any pleasanter to
me than to the rest of the party? And you yourself, will you not be one of
the principal dupes of your frolic?'

'Let me alone for that! Look you here; I've got a cold fowl and a bottle
of Bordeaux in my game-bag, and you shall have half.'

'I thank you,' said I, 'but I had rather find Ernest, and notify him of
your trick.'

'Ah! good heavens! my dear Sir,' said Ganguernet, 'you cannot take a
joke.'

I left him, and apprising our friends of the affair, inquired where I
could find Ernest. I was told that he had gone in the direction of the
chateau of his cousin, toward which I proceeded, intending to give Madame
de L---- notice of the trick of Ganguernet. At a turn of the road I
perceived Ernest at a distance, going toward the chateau. I increased my
speed in order to overtake him, and made so much haste that I arrived
almost at the same moment with him, so that he had just passed the gate as
I reached it. As I was about entering, the gate was violently pulled to,
and immediately I heard the report of a pistol, and then a voice cried
out: 'Villain! since I have missed you, defend yourself!'

I hastily sprang to a grating in the wall, about the height of my head,
which opened into the court-yard, and there witnessed a frightful
spectacle. The husband, sword in hand, was attacking Ernest with desperate
fury. 'Ah! you love her and she loves you!' cried he, in a voice hoarse
with passion; 'you love her, do you? and she loves you! Your turn first,
and then hers!'

The letter from Ernest to his cousin, conveyed by the malicious
interference of Ganguernet to her husband, had apprised him of a secret
which had remained hidden for more than four years; and before redressing
the wrongs of society as a magistrate, the president of the court had
hastened to avenge his own as a husband.

In vain I cried, in vain I called by name the two cousins. Monsieur de
L---- with blind fury drove Ernest from one corner of the court to
another. Suddenly a window opened, and Madame de L----, pale, with
dishevelled hair, and terror painted on her countenance, appeared.

'Leonie!' cried Ernest, 'withdraw!'

'No! let her remain!' exclaimed Monsieur de L----, 'she is a prisoner; you
need not fear that she will come to separate us.' And he again rushed upon
his cousin with such fury that the fire flew from their swords.

'It is I--it is _I_ who deserve death!' cried Madame de L----; 'kill
_me_!'

I added my cries to theirs. I shouted, I shook the grating. I tried to
scale the wall, when suddenly, urged on by despair, bewildered,
distracted, Madame de L---- threw herself from the window and fell between
her lover and her husband. The latter, completely beside himself with
passion, directed his sword toward her. But Ernest turned it aside, and in
his turn casting off all restraint, exclaimed with vehemence: 'Madman!
would you kill her? Well, then--defend yourself!' And immediately he
commenced a violent assault upon his antagonist.

I could do nothing to separate them; neither could Madame de L----. The
unfortunate woman had broken a limb in the fall, and lay groaning upon the
pavement. It was a dreadful combat. Nothing can express the violent terror
which seized me. Already the blood of the two cousins began to flow, which
only served to increase their rage. I had succeeded with some difficulty
in climbing to the top of the wall, and was about to leap into the court,
when I perceived some of our friends approaching. Ganguernet was at their
head; he drew near, calling to me:

'Halloo! what's this? Why, you bawl like a man getting flayed; we heard
you a quarter of a league off. What the devil is the matter?'

At the sight of this detested wretch, I rushed upon him, seized him by the
throat, and forcing him violently against the grating, I cried to him in
my turn: 'Look there, miserable jester!--'a capital joke!' is it not?--a
'capital joke!''

Monsieur de L----, pierced through the heart by a plunge of his
antagonist's sword, was lying by the side of his wife.

Ernest has left France to die in a foreign land. Madame de L---- committed
suicide the day after this horrible duel.

'A CAPITAL JOKE!'




APOSTROPHE TO AN OLD HAT.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.


  COME forth, Old Hat! I'll pluck thee from the ditch,
  Where thou hadst well nigh found a grave, 'unwept,
  Unhonor'd and unsung.' I'll rescue thee
  A moment longer from oblivion,
  Albeit thou art old, bereaved of rim,
  And like a prince dethroned, no more canst boast
  A crown!
            Would thou couldst talk! I'd e'en consent
  That thou shouldst steal my prating grandame's tongue,
  And so procure her silence and thy history.

  Time-worn, adust, degraded as thou art,
  Thine ancient quality doth still appear;
  And this fine web, malgre thy present mien,
  (A batter'd cylinder of dingy brown,)
  Proclaims that once, some dozen years ago,
  Thou wert a good and fashionable hat.

  Perchance thou first wert perch'd right jauntily
  A-top some dandy's poll; a most convenient block
  To keep thee in good shape, and serve beside
  One purpose more--to advertise thy brethren.

  Mayhap a lawyer, in thy pristine years
  And his, with thy possession much enhanced
  His meagre sum of personal estate;
  And, in phrase professional, call'd thee 'chattel'--
  A vile distinction for a beaver hat!
  A lawyer's hat!--alack! what teeming store-house oft
  Of mischiefs dire; ill-boding parchment; 'writs,'
  With hieroglyphics mystical inscribed;
  Invention curious of graceless men,
  And in sad mock'ry named 'the grace of God!'
  What mighty 'suits at law,' begot and born
  Within thy strait enclosure, yet survive
  Thy tenth successor! And what mighty 'suits
  In chancery,' (so named from CHANCE, who sits
  Alternate there and in the legal courts,)
  Still flourish, endless as the heap of words
  Which mark the spot where Justice lies entomb'd!

  Perhaps at first thou wert allow'd to crown
  The 'honorable' head of some grave senator;
  Or judge astute; or member of 'the other
  House;' pregnant perforce with weighty matters;
  'Petitions' humbly praying to abolish
  Slavery and 'hard times.' 'Bills' to promote
  The better culture of morality
  And morus multicaulis! Mayhap a brief
  And formal letter to a brother member,
  In courteous phrase requesting leave to shoot him.
  'Notes,' 'Resolutions,' 'Speeches' of vast length,
  And just adapted to produce what thou
  Hast wanted many a year--a decent _nap_.

  Perchance an editor, by some mysterious accident
  Made passing rich with five-and-forty shillings,
  First bore thee off in triumph; 'tis pity then
  Thou canst not speak; else should we hear
  Of much before unpublished; of countless 'bills'
  Unpaid; of libels prudently suppress'd;
  Of 'Stanzas' much, of 'Lines' innumerable;
  And love-sick 'Songs' to goddesses mundane,
  All wickedly committed to the Persian's god!

  Thou mayst have crown'd a parson, and couldst tell,
  If thou hadst power of verbal utterance,
  Of 'the divinity that stirred within thee'
  In shape of sermons; faithful or smooth-tongued,
  As he who wrote them chanced to covet most
  The smile of God or man. A lover's hat
  Thou surely wert, (since all men love,
  Who have a head,) and oft no doubt hast given
  To scented billet-doux and amorous rhymes
  Thy friendly guardianship; secure from aught
  Save lifting winds and porter's curious eye.

  At second-hand 'tis ten to one thou wert
  A Jew's possession, got in honest barter;
  Next, John the ostler's; last of all, past doubt
  A vagrant's hat; the equitable purchase
  Of an ill-sung song. Till quite worn out
  With rain, and wind, and sleet, and other 'ills
  Thy race is heir to,' the beggar cast thee
  From his plebeian pate--and here thou liest.

_St. Alban's, Vermont._




THE COUNTRY.


There is something very pleasant in the country, particularly about
Thanksgiving-time, when families gather together from north, south, east
and west, around the huge roast turkey, and many pairs of jaws masticate
vigorously in gratitude for blessings received. At this season of the year
the bird which was fortunate enough to excite the enthusiasm of
Brillat-Savarin, and to be the theme of many chapters in his immortal
'Physiologie,' is the emblem of our republic. A bald eagle indeed! Who
ever heard of a roast eagle? But a turkey:

  'The state of a fat turkey, the decorum
  He marches in with, all the train and circumstance!
  'Tis such a matter, such a glorious matter!
  And then his sauce with oranges and onions;
  And he displayed in all parts! for such a dish now,
  And at my need, I would betray my father.'

What native American does not respond _Amen!_ from the depths of his
stomach to these appetizing verses of Beamount and Fletcher? But higher
far rises the gastronomic phrenzy of the Travelled, who have known the
bird, grand in his stuffing of chestnuts, sublime when swelling with the
bliss-bringing truffle!

And the country is at all seasons a pleasant idea, if properly considered;
but beware of the man of one idea, if that one be Country, as you would of
the _homo unius libri_. If you cannot distinguish timothy from clover, and
beets from carrots; if, agriculturally speaking, you don't 'know beans;'
he will annihilate you with his rural wisdom. For his whole existence is
in the soil. He worships things under the earth. Dust he is, and to dust
he shall return; (the sooner the better!) He prattles of potatoes, talks
of turnips, harangues about horse-radish, knows no composition except
compost. Speak to him of manners, and he will answer of manures. Like the
Egyptians, he worships a bull; and has all the fondness of Pythagoras for
beans. His only literature is Liebig's Animal Chemistry; his lighter
reading, the Cultivator and the New-England Farmer.

Such an one was whilom a citizen with protruding abdomen and white cravat,
who having realized a something in business, exchanges the counter for the
country; buys his acre or two, erects his manor-house, with a grass-plat
in front and a tree or two behind; and with a little straw hat on his
head, a linen coat on his back, and a hoe in his hand, saunters around his
limited possessions, as leisurely and as frequently as an old horse in a
mill, perfectly content with his place, his plans, and himself.

Call not upon him unless with double-soled boots and strapless trowsers;
and choose a cool day for the visit, if it must be made; for not over
'hill and dale,' but over rock and gully you must march; through ploughed
land and through weeds, through bowers of grape-vines and _bosquets_ of
Lima beans; scratched by the thorns of the gooseberry and brushed by the
long dew-covered leaves of the Indian corn. Numberless shrubs from a foot
to eighteen inches in height he will point out to you, and name them with
long names: 'This is the Prota Goras,' 'and that the Demo Creitus;' shrubs
which, if you had encountered them when alone, you might have eradicated
as weeds, in a moment of generous activity. And when muddy, breathless and
dripping, you reach the highest point of his possessions, he will wave his
hand majestically over some twenty feet of grass, and pointing to three
trees and a white fence in the _distance_, talk of scenery!

Nevertheless, convinced as we are that the taste for country-places is on
the increase, we think it advisable to suggest a few hints for the
instruction of the aspirants after rural felicity. Saratoga and the like
are no longer indispensable places of resort, but it _is_ indispensable to
be out of town for three months of the year, if you would not be out of
fashion during the remaining nine. Select then a bare and stony spot, for
as your object is employment, the more improvements you can make the
better you will be pleased, as you take it for granted of course that
improvements cost almost nothing. On the highest part of this ground you
will build your house: an airy situation is invaluable in warm weather;
and then a view is so desirable. In the choice of a style of architecture
some difficulty arises. You may either have a clap-board Parthenon, with
Corinthian columns in front and Doric columns in the rear, painted white,
to flash back the rays of the sun, or which is perhaps more fashionable, a
Gothic cottage, with steep roof, rustic pillars, fantastic barge-boards,
and numerous pinnacles painted brown, with oak-stained doors. This style
looks well in the situation we have described; the absence of trees
bringing out more fully the beauties of the architecture. It is attended
with one or two inconveniences; scarcely however, worth mentioning: Gothic
windows always leak, and the sloping roof makes the second story a little
_ovenish_ in temperature, and _garrety_ in smell. Whichever of the two
styles you adopt, you must not fail to refer your plans to some bustling
little architect, who will be sure to write articles about himself in one
of the weeklies, and will probably give a drawing of your house, and call
you the 'intelligent, gentlemanly, and high-minded proprietor.' After you
have removed the stones, manured the ground, and planted grass, you will
have a lawn; and after you have dug deep holes and set out tall thin
consumptive trees, you have a wood. Secure the whole with white fences;
throw rustic bridges over the _impassable_ streams; sprinkle red dahlias
and tiger-lilies here and there; buy a bull-dog to set on any small child
who may be reckless enough to trespass; and lo! you have a country-seat as
well as a town-house, and can invite your city friends to fill your one
spare room in regular rotation.

In the important matter of a name, you must decide for yourself; but
surely with Walter Scott and Lord Byron and the innumerable
_What-d'ye-call-'em_ dales, _Thingumbob_ brooks, and _So-and-so_ woods, to
choose from, you can have no difficulty in fixing upon a suitable one.

But, says an amateur rustic, I have no fondness for floriculture,
horticulture, or agriculture; what am I to do? Buy a horse, and take a
gallop of some twenty miles or so, and if the horse does not shy you off,
or bolt you off, or kick you off, and you do not fall off, or he does not
fall under you, you will probably arrive at home safe; but as you walk
from the stable to the house, you will quote from George Colman's parody
of the Lady of the Lake:

  'Hunter rest, for thou must own
  _Leather lost_ and empty belly,' etc.

Have you a fondness for fire-arms? Then procure a gun and dog, and sally
forth before day-light. Walk five miles through swamp and thicket without
starting a bird. Sky cloudless; heat intense. Suddenly dog's tail begins
to beat half-seconds; up whirrs a bird, who is out of sight in a moment;
so is the dog, who indulges in an animated chase. You shout yourself
hoarse; at length succeed in catching dog, and try to thresh him with
decayed sticks. A little while after, dog comes to a point again. This
time he stands beautifully. You walk slowly up, trembling with excitement,
both barrels cocked. Why don't the bird get up? You glance inquiringly
around, and at length discern a wood-turtle fast asleep near the stump of
a tree. Then, if an irascible man, you curse. So passes the day. Now and
then a bird springs; off fly both of your barrels, aimed at vacancy, and
hurling showers of No. 8 into space; and you arrive at home late in the
afternoon, sore-footed from much travel and stiffness of boots, and alas!
without a feather except a small quail which your dog caught in his mouth.

No more shooting? Try fishing then. Sit all day on a rock watching your
float, or cork, or _dobber_, as the Dutch boys call it, dance merrily over
the waves, occasionally disappearing under the surface, when the hook
catches a weed. Does not even this suit you? Then, dear friend, buy a boat
of from four to six tons burthen, properly rigged and ballasted; also buy
a red shirt, a small low-crowned straw hat, some tar to smear over your
hands, and learn the first stanza of 'The sea! the sea!' to make every
thing seem more nautical and ship-shape. Hoist jib and mainsail, and
venture out. After you have drifted a mile or two, it will fall a dead
calm, and the boat (Gazelle? Wave? Gull?) will float two or three hours,
the sun flashing back from the glassy surface of the water, burning your
face to the color of bricks, and almost frying the eyes out of your head.
Then is the time to sing 'The sea! the sea!' and to take some Monongahela
to still the qualmishness you begin to experience. At length the wind
rises, and your boat, after many _yawings_, dashes away before it.
Suddenly, without any voluntary or visible agency on your part, the
main-boom sweeps from one side to the other, carrying your hat overboard
in its passage, and dipping the gunwale deep under water. Agitated by this
significant gesture, you steer straight for the wharf. In attempting to
round-to, the bowsprit comes in contact with the piles and renounces its
allegiance to the bow. The boat drifts away from the landing, and finally
deposits you high and dry on the beach.

What! Disgusted with this, too? Then take our advice, and like a
reasonable man, stay in town.




TO AN EVENING CLOUD.

BY A YOUNG LADY.


  Thou beautiful cloud, a glorious hue is thine!
  I cannot think, as thy bright dyes appear
  To my enraptured gaze, that thou wert born
  Of Evening's exhalations: more sublime,
  Light-giver! is thy birth-place, than of earth.
  Wert thou not formed to herald in the day,
  And clothe a world in thy unborrowed light?
  Or art thou but a harbinger of rains
  To budding May?--or in thy subtle screen
  Nursest the lightnings that affright the world?
  Or wert thou born of th' thin aerial mist
  That shades the sea, or shrouds the mountain's brow?
  Whate'er thou art, I gaze on thee with joy.

  Spread thy wings o'er the empyrean, and away
  Fleetly athwart the untravelled wilds of space,
  To where the Sun-light sheds his earliest beams,
  And blaze the stars, that vision vainly scans
  In distant regions of the universe!
  Tell me, Air-wanderer! in what burning zone
  Thou wilt appear, when from the azure vault
  Of our high heaven thy majesty shall fade;
  Tell me, winged Vapor! where hath been thy home
  Through the unchangeable serene of noon?
  Whate'er thy garniture, where'er thy course,
  Would I could follow thee in thy far flight,
  When the south wind of eve is low and soft,
  And my thought rises to the mighty source
  Of all sublimity! O fleeting cloud,
  Would I were with thee in the solemn night!

                                                                B.




LITERARY NOTICES.


  HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO, with a Preliminary View of the
  Ancient Mexican Civilization, and the Life of the Conqueror,
  HERNANDO CORTES. By WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. In three volumes. New-York:
  HARPER AND BROTHERS.

We have awaited the appearance of these very elegant volumes with deep and
anxious interest. The ability, industry and taste which the author
displayed in his 'History of Ferdinand and Isabella,' which won for him a
noble reputation in the most cultivated states of Europe, still more
endeared his name to his own countrymen, and led them to look, with the
highest hope and the most pleasant anticipations, to the future efforts of
his elegant and fascinating pen. We have for some time known that he was
assiduously engaged in collecting materials, and preparing from them a
history of the famous Conquest of Mexico; an event which, although of a
very splendid and romantic character, was still but vaguely known, even in
accomplished and well-informed literary circles. The facts relating to it
were nowhere recorded in an authentic and connected form; for it has not
been until within the last fifty years that the attention of historians
and general scholars has been turned in this direction. The labors of
Spanish antiquarians since that time, conducted as they have been with
great skill and industry, and under the supervision and encouragement of
the government itself, have been abundantly rewarded; and a vast number of
original documents have been accumulated in the public and private
libraries, which shed floods of light upon all historical events connected
with the conquests of Spanish armies, or the discoveries of Spanish
fleets, and have thus placed within the reach of writers at the present
day materials for lack of which even the able histories of ROBERTSON and
his contemporaries became meagre and unattractive. The historians of our
era are making the best possible use of these copious and invaluable
collections. The first result of their efforts was WASHINGTON IRVING'S
magnificent 'Life of COLUMBUS,' one of the most polished and perfect works
of its class in the English language, and which has done as much for
American literature abroad as it has for its eminent author at home. Then
followed PRESCOTT'S 'Ferdinand and Isabella,' pronounced by the best
critics on both sides the Atlantic to be one of the most interesting and
valuable histories ever published: and here we have, in his 'History of
the Conquest of Mexico,' drawn from the same rich source, a work eminently
worthy to succeed its brilliant and most 'illustrious predecessors.'

Within the limits which restrain us, we can of course do nothing more than
intimate very vaguely the general character and scope of this great work;
nor are we sure that even this is not quite a useless labor, as it must
find its way at once into the library of every literary gentleman
throughout the country, and be read with the greatest avidity by men of
every class. One of the most valuable portions of the history is the
extended view which Mr. PRESCOTT has presented, at the opening of the
work, of the character and civilization of the ancient inhabitants of
Mexico. The Spaniards conquered no tribe of untutored savages, roaming, in
the wild lawlessness of the aborigines of our section of the western
continent, over the sunny plains and smiling fields of Anahuac: they found
a people there who, centuries before the discovery of the western world by
Columbus, possessed the arts of civilization, and had reached a point of
intellectual and moral culture in many respects surpassing that of the
most renowned nations of the other world. We are surprised to find the
high degree of refinement which they had reached. The sciences, especially
of mathematics and astronomy, were understood to a degree of nicety
scarcely attained by the Romans in their palmiest days. Their political
organization was of a wonderfully perfect character; and their laws, and
especially the organization of the judiciary, the department by which they
were to be interpreted and administered, were stamped by a clear insight
into the nature of moral obligation, and the mutual duties and rights of
the members of society, which strike us with the utmost astonishment.
Their mythology, with the single exception of the sanction it gives to
human sacrifices, indicates a much nearer approach to a knowledge of the
true God than the popular faith of the Greeks or Romans; and sentiments
are recorded as having been uttered by a prince of the Tezcucan tribe,
guided solely by the light of his own indwelling reason, which were worthy
of Plato or of any sage that has ever lived, unenlightened by the hopes of
revelation on which Christians build their faith. The history of such a
people, dwelling centuries ago upon our own continent, shrouded as it has
heretofore been in darkness and vague uncertainty, under the lucid and
brilliant pen of Mr. PRESCOTT becomes more attractive than any offspring
of the fancy or imaginative fiction could possibly be. This preliminary
sketch occupies nearly half of the first volume; and we have never read
any similar effort of the same extent with equal gratification.

We can of course give no outline of the main portion of the work, the
history of the train of events by which the whole Mexican empire fell into
the hands of the conquering Spaniard. It is one of the most romantic
narratives which ever bore the seal of truth. Its prominent actors are men
of eminent genius, who performed exploits worthy the greatest captains of
Europe or Asia; and the history of their lives abounds with interest and
instruction. Mr. PRESCOTT has a most happy historical style, glowing with
all the warmth and shining with a far more substantial brilliancy than
that of BANCROFT; and blending the strict truth of accurate narrative with
the free flow of a fine imagination, all under the control of an exquisite
taste, with more success than that of any other American writer, IRVING
perhaps alone excepted. The authorities upon which he relies for his facts
are uniformly given in notes, and the fullest information is presented in
the same form, on all points which concern the accuracy and completeness
of the work. We read the following passage in our author's preface with
profound regret: 'For one thing, I may reasonably ask the reader's
indulgence. Owing to the state of my eyes, I have been obliged to use a
writing-case made for the blind, which does not permit the writer to see
his own manuscript; nor have I ever corrected, or even read, my own
original draft.' Mr. PRESCOTT may well consider this as an ample excuse
for any errors of typography; of which, by the way, we have not discovered
even one. We were already aware, on the best authority, that WASHINGTON
IRVING had prepared to take up the ground so ably occupied by our author;
a fact to which Mr. Prescott alludes in the following graceful terms:

    'It was not till I had become master of my rich collection of
    materials, that I was acquainted with this circumstance; and had
    he persevered in his design, I should unhesitatingly have
    abandoned my own, if not from courtesy, at least from policy;
    for though armed with the weapons of Achilles, this could give
    me no hope of success in a competition with Achilles himself.
    But no sooner was that distinguished writer informed of the
    preparations I had made, than with the gentlemanly spirit which
    will surprise no one who has the pleasure of his acquaintance,
    he instantly announced to me his intention of leaving the
    subject open to me. While I do but justice to Mr. IRVING by this
    statement, I feel the prejudice it does to myself in the
    unavailing regret I am exciting in the bosom of the reader.'

We cannot take leave of this splendid book without making mention of the
truly elegant style in which it has been issued by its liberal publishers.
It yields in no respect to the finest issue of the Boston, and we had
almost added, of the London press. The three volumes are large octavo, of
about five hundred pages each, containing elegant portraits and
illustrative maps; and yet the whole is sold for six dollars!


  THE AENEID OF VIRGIL, WITH ENGLISH NOTES, CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY; a
  Metrical Clavis and an Historical, Geographical and Mythological
  Index. By CHARLES ANTHON, LL. D. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

The cause of sound classical education in America is more deeply indebted
to Professor ANTHON than to any other scholar in the country; and the debt
of gratitude already incurred is almost daily increased by the unwearied
efforts of this distinguished linguist. Beside the voluminous and
unequalled Dictionaries which he has compiled and published, he has in
course of preparation a series of the most popular Latin authors, in which
his principal aim is to adapt them to the use of scholars in our academies
and higher schools. Another volume of this series, containing the AEneid,
has just been issued. It is usually among the earliest Latin works placed
in the pupil's hands, and yet there are few which require a more intimate
and extended acquaintance with Roman history, domestic habits, mythology,
geography, and indeed with every thing relating to the Romans as a nation
and society, in order to a perfect understanding of its character, and a
genuine relish of its beauties, than this. We doubt the policy, or
propriety indeed, of placing in the hands of those who are learning the
elements of a foreign _language_, poems of an elaborate and elevated
character for text-books. No one, for the purpose of learning English,
would take up MILTON'S Paradise Lost before the Vicar of Wakefield or
BUNYAN'S Pilgrim's Progress; for aside from the fact that he would not
thus be introduced to the simple dialect of ordinary life, its classical
and doctrinal allusions, its technical terms, and the profound knowledge
of men, of books, and of nature which it embraces, would render it almost
a sealed volume to any but those who have already become cultivated and
accomplished scholars. And although the case is materially different in
learning the ancient languages, since the object is not to speak or write
them, but to become familiar with the great works which are written in
them, it would be unwise if not useless to teach a pupil to read VIRGIL
without at the same time providing him with the means of thoroughly
understanding and appreciating his poetry. For these he is usually
dependent upon the verbal expositions of his teacher, who, even if he
chance to be well qualified for the task, seldom has sufficient time for
its proper discharge.

Many attempts have been made to supply this want, and some of them have
been attended with very fair, though not full, success. COOPER'S edition
has had the most copious notes, but they are not always accurate, and are
often upon passages of comparatively little difficulty. GOULD'S notes are
better, but they are much more sparingly introduced, and do not indeed
elucidate the really intricate points. The historical and mythological
references in both these editions are quite scanty; and they must both in
our judgment speedily give place to this of Dr. ANTHON. The critical and
explanatory notes to this are all that could be desired. They occupy more
than six hundred pages, or quite two-thirds of the book, and relate to
every point of interest or of doubt in the whole AEneid. They are full,
accurate, and perfectly satisfactory. The author tells us in the preface
that they comprise the results of all the study and research of modern
European scholars, and embrace every thing which has been brought to light
up to the present time. They are very copiously and clearly illustrated by
neat and perspicuous engravings, which frequently do more than pages of
description to give a distinct impression to the scholar's mind. The
construction of Roman ships, the mode of a naval battle, the style of
conducting a siege, the form of chaplets, of temples, of household
utensils, of coins, ornaments, and in fine, the exact structure and
appearance of every thing pertaining to Roman history or Roman life, are
thus rendered more familiar to the eye than they ever could be to the ear
of the student. The metrical clavis scans all the difficult lines
contained in the book, and the general index clearly and briefly
elucidates all the references which the poem contains to men, incidents,
and localities. With these recommendations, aided by the typographical
clearness and beauty which the publishers have given to it, this edition
of the AEneid must be heartily welcomed by scholars and students (all
rivalry to the contrary) throughout the United States.


  MEXICO: AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS. By BRANTZ MAYER, Late Secretary of
  Legation to Mexico. In one volume, octavo, pp. 426. 'New World'
  press: J. WINCHESTER.

We looked through a large portion of this work while all its sheets were
not yet through the press, and were enabled with some confidence to
predict that it would create no small sensation in the literary world. Mr.
MAYER has a free, unpretending style, which renders all that he writes
eminently _readable_; a merit in which many far more practised writers are
as signally deficient. The programme furnished in the announcement of the
work has been well filled up. Many of the ruins and antiquities here
described have never before been visited or mentioned by any traveller. A
detailed account is furnished of the present social and political
condition of Mexico; an elaborate description is given of the antiquities
to be found in the museum of the capital, and of the ancient remains
strewn from California to Odjaca. A record is presented of the author's
journeys to Tezcoco, and through the _tierra-caliente_; and a full account
of the agriculture, manufactures, commerce, resources, mines, coinage, and
general statistics of Mexico is given. There is beside a complete view of
the past and present _history_ of the country, with vivid pictures of the
domestic manners and customs of the people. The whole is illustrated by
numerous drawings from the pencil of Mr. MAYER, which have been engraved
on wood by BUTLER, in that excellent artist's best style. We scarcely
remember to have met with a work so profusely embellished; and the
literary and pictorial artist being one and the same person, the reader is
helped to a far more life-like view of the scenes and things described and
depicted than he could have obtained under circumstances less favorable to
the strict fidelity of pen and pencil. The publisher has evinced great
liberality in the pictorial department of the volume, having expended
upward of twelve hundred dollars on the illustrations alone. The volume is
printed upon a fine and white (though somewhat too thin) paper, with a
large clear type. The work can scarcely fail to attain, what indeed it
well deserves, a wide diffusion.


  SCENES AND SCENERY IN THE SANDWICH ISLANDS, AND A TRIP THROUGH
  CENTRAL AMERICA: being Observations from my Note-book, during the
  years 1837, to 1842. By JAMES J. JARVES, Member of the Oriental
  Society, etc. In one vol. pp. 341. Boston: JAS. MUNROE AND COMPANY.

Those of our readers who may have seen a previous work of Mr. JARVES, on
the history of the Sandwich Islands, which was noticed in this Magazine,
will perhaps remember the following passage in the preface: 'It was
designed to interweave with the civil and political account of the nation,
a series of sketches, illustrative of their present life and condition,
and other interesting points, which would have enlivened a bare narrative
of facts; also to have pictured the wondrous natural phenomena of that
prolific portion of the Pacific, the great volcanic eruption of 1840; and
a full account of the mightiest of craters, the gigantic _Lua Pele_, of
Kilanea, in Hawaii. But it would have swelled the volume to an unwieldy
size. At an early period will be presented an additional volume, which,
without being connected with the present, will give in detail all that is
necessary to form a correct view of the Hawaiian Islands, their condition,
prospects, the every-day concerns of the people, and missionary life as it
now exists; the two to form a succinct whole, illustrating each other.'
The volume before us has been written in fulfilment of the foregoing
pledge. In it the writer has attempted to delineate that which came within
his immediate observation, during a residence of four years on the Group.
As a description of the familiar life of a people, in a novel and
interesting position, one which may with propriety be termed a state of
transition from barbarism to civilization, it will attract the attention,
and interest the sympathies of readers of all classes. A portion of the
sketches have been previously published in journals, and had some
circulation both at home and abroad. The volume is executed by the eminent
Boston printer, DICKINSON, and is illustrated with fine maps and plates.




EDITOR'S TABLE.


THE NEW YEAR.--We are standing once more together, reader, at that fairy
vestibule which opens rich with hope and bright to expectation upon
another twelve-month; a coming lapse of time that like a swell of the
ocean tossing with its fellows, heaves onward to the land of Death and
Silence. At such a time, although it seem not meet, it may be, to indulge
in sad thoughts and pensive recollections, who can refrain from giving a
backward glance to years that have passed like a weaver's shuttle, and
woven our 'checkered web of life?' Shall we not for one moment remember
too, even at this joyous season, the loved and lost who have gone before
us, to solve the great mystery of life, and the momentous secrets of death
and the grave? Shall we not remember that _we_ too are passing away; and
in thoughtful mood, pause to ask with the poet:

  'ANOTHER year! another year!
  Oh! who shall see another year?
  Shalt thou, old man, of hoary head,
  Of eye-sight dim, and feeble tread?
  Expect it not! Time, pain, and grief
  Have made thee like an autumn leaf;
  Ready, by blast or self-decay,
  From its slight hold to drop away;
  And some sad morn may gild thy bier,
  Long, long before another year!

  'Another year! another year!
  Oh! who shall see another year?
  Shall you, ye young? or you, ye fair?
  Ah! the presumptuous thought forbear!
  Beside this church-yard's peaceful bounds,
  Pause ye, and ponder o'er the mounds:
  Here beauty sleeps; that verdant length
  Of grave contains what once was strength;
  The child, the boy, the man are here--
  Ye may not see another year!'

While however we give to emotions like these their appropriate vent, we
are not called upon to forget that there is much that is inspiring and
delightful in the commencement of the year. The time-honored custom of our
metropolis has made it a point of peculiar radiance; a halcyon period,
when heart's-ease would seem to be the general feeling, and smiles the
social insignia. Then the visit is exchanged between friends whom perhaps
the departed year had somewhat alienated; old associations are revived,
and cordialities that had well nigh been forgotten are strengthened and
renewed. As the lip is wetted with friendly wine, the bosom expands in the
generous warmth of honest enjoyment; the cold formalities of factitious
station give place to undisguised welcome and open-handed cheer. The rich
and the poor meet together, and the spirit of pleasure is with all. As the
parties go their rounds, and familiar forms and faces appear to greeting
eyes, the _necessity_ of friendship and the desolation of its absence come
home to the mind. It is felt that comfort is lost when allied to
selfishness, and that it is good to be respected or beloved. And as those
meet between whom the year has passed in sullen estrangement; upon whose
anger many an evening sun has descended; a relenting spirit obeys the
mingled voices of Memory and Friendship: the kind resolve is made and
followed; so that instead of the thorn to goad and wound, there springs up
in the pathway of the Reconciled the olive or the myrtle. How sweet is the
sight of human goodness, struggling to surmount the petty passions which
discolor its beauty, and bending to the benign suggestions of that pure
and gentle principle, _peace with man_! Doubtless there are many severe
strivings with natural pride, before these ends can be reached; but the
new year awakens such throngs of conciliatory sentiments, that it is
impossible to resist them. The call is made; the oversight or neglect
explained; the breach is closed; and friendship is paramount! Months of
reverses and cares and disappointments are lost in that initial day, whose
span is golden from sun to sun; a lapse to be remembered with quiet
satisfaction in trials to come. Indeed, a moment's reflection will assure
any contemplative mind that resentment is the most pitiful passion that
can agitate the human breast. True, there is such a thing as '_spirit_,'
but how often is it ill-directed! How often magnified by little causes
into an importance wholly incommensurate with the object desired! It is
the province of new-year visits to crush these poisonous weeds of our
path, to quench their noxious tendrils, and to substitute in their stead
the balm of friendship and good-will. For such an object the morning of
the year is most auspicious. The grand festival of our SAVIOUR'S nativity
has but lately ended, and a preservation of the era of good feeling is
enjoined both by Precept and Hope. Who can resist such appeals to that
kindness which increases the happiness of its possessor? With these
reiterated words of counsel and of affection, let us take present leave of
our readers, by wishing them in hackneyed phrase, but with unhackneyed
spirit, a HAPPY NEW-YEAR!


THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.--We wish it were possible to transfer to this printed
page the beautiful chirography of the annexed communication, which
proceeds from the pen of a lady who, with a few others of her gentle sex,
sat out the reading of the lecture upon the '_Rights of Women_,' by Mr.
JOHN NEAL, at the Broadway Tabernacle last winter, and which was so
heartily laughed at by the press and the town for a day or two after. It
is gratifying to remark that _women_ themselves have been the prominent
satirists of the characteristic absurdities put forth on the occasion
alluded to. But to our fair correspondent: 'APPEAR, bright Spirits of the
ancient Nine! (for you were women, and can well appreciate my appeal)
arrayed in all the panoply of your charms! Thou, MINERVA! aid me with thy
wisdom! Ye, most lovely GRACES! attend me with the power of honey-like
persuasiveness! And thou, JOHN NEAL! arrayed in the drapery of the softer
sex, gracefully to maintain the lofty eminence whereon thou standest,
assist me with the glorious power of thy overwhelming eloquence, while I
assert the high prerogative of Woman! Yet when I dwell on the brilliant
efforts accomplished by thy mighty genius in our behalf, the pen falls
powerless from my despairing hand, and I can merely point to thee as the
potent champion of our down-trodden rights! Instead of dwelling in dull
obscurity, victims to the caprice of men; mending their thread-bare
clothing and scolding servants--base, unwomanly pursuits!--instead of
listening in silence to the storms of political debate; instead of
remaining within the shadow of our own roofs, and gathering around the
domestic hearth the thornless roses of existence; rendering home a haven
of rest to the weary and care-worn; instead of slumbering idly, in the
security of our mansions, when the torrent of war rolls over the land;
instead of girding then our brothers for the stormy fight, bidding them
GOD-speed; instead of ignobly bending before the tyrannical power of Man,
thou, O! astute NEAL! wouldst have us pluck the laurel-wreath from our
kinsman's brow, and bind it on our own. Thou wouldst have us rise in all
the dignity of offended 'equality,' and boldly assert the holy right of
'_free suffrage to all_!' Why, forsooth, should _we_ rather be confined to
the narrow circle of home than our friends of the other sex? Are we not as
capable of sounding the loud alarm of war, of mingling in the strife and
tumult of the battle-hour, as the ladies of antique Amazonia, or the
warrior-_men_ of our own day? Have we not intellect enough to cope with
the WEBSTERS, the CLAYS, and the WRIGHTS, in the halls of Congress? Is not
our dignity sufficient to maintain, with honor to our country and
ourselves, the various offices of the government? Why may not our superior
talents elevate us to the lofty station of the presidential chair?--to
become Ambassadresses, Generalesses, Stateswomen? Surely our intellect is
as lofty, as noble, and as clear as that in which proud man exults. Arise
then, Women of America! Study immediately the tactics of military
discipline; proceed to the green savannahs of Florida; wrest their
authority from those who now possess it, and deck your own brows of
loveliness with the wreaths of conquest and of glory. March to the halls
of legislation; demand from statesmen there assembled the concession of
'woman's rights,' and desert them not till that 'vantage ground' is well
secured. Then, ladies, will you be enabled to cast aside with disdain the
bonds of domestic confinement, which insure merely your peace and
happiness; to mingle your shrill cries with the tumult of contending
armies, confounding confusion itself with your loud clamors! You may then
unite your voices with the shouts of opposing factions at the momentous
periods of election, huzzaing for your candidates, and gathering all your
influence to win success for them. So shall you nobly fulfil the high
destiny allotted you, instead of longer enduring the degrading cares
attendant on the happiness of your fathers' and your husbands' homes. So
shall you take by storm the hearts of men as well as the citadels of your
enemies; forcing them to admire those female 'braves' who so kindly
relieve them of the weighty burden of their cares.' Capital! This
mock-heroic is just the vein for a theme so ridiculous as the insane
crudities here touched upon. By the by; a private note advises us that
'there have been recent symptoms of chuckling exhibited by the 'champion
of women,' on the supposition, real or assumed, that the attention of the
legislatures of several States had been diverted toward 'woman's rights'
in the matter of personal property between man and wife, by reason of the
lecture aforesaid!' It is unnecessary perhaps to add, in justice to the
public sense, that the action of three or four States upon this subject
had a far different origin, as their legislative records will abundantly
show.


OLE BULL.--We confess ourselves among the uninitiated in the mysteries of
music. We are quite aware that it is not a little dangerous for one who
would not lose _caste_ in society to assert that he does not greatly
admire that ill-assorted compound of '_strains_' which is usually
designated by the hackneyed phrases of 'brilliant execution' and
'difficult passages;' passages which Dr. JOHNSON wished were 'not only
_difficult_ but _impossible_:' we cannot force an admiration nor affect an
enthusiasm which we do not feel. Indeed, we have always had great sympathy
for the amateur of fashion who aspired to great refinement of taste, to
exhibit which, in one branch of art, he gave on one occasion an
entertainment of instrumental music. While the musicians were _all_ at
work, he seemed delighted with the performance; but when one instrument
chanced to be engaged upon a solo, he inquired, in a towering passion, why
the others were remaining idle? 'It is a _pizzicato_ for one instrument,'
replied the operator. 'I can't help that,' replied the virtuoso; 'let the
trumpets _pizzicato_ along with you; they're _paid_ to do it!' Now in
regard to musical knowledge and taste, this hopeful amateur has many a
counterpart in this day and generation, and in this same city of Gotham.
In the case of OLE BULL, however, there has been no call for _affected_
admiration. He has _compelled_ not only admiration but enthusiasm; not
indeed by mere artistical 'execution,' although in this he is acknowledged
to be preeminent, but by the creations of _genius_, which 'take the full
heart captive.' Let the distant reader imagine an audience of three
thousand persons awaiting in breathless expectance the entrance upon the
Park-stage of this great Master. The curtain rises, and after the lapse of
a moment, a tall manly person, with a frank, ingenuous expression of
countenance, emerges with an embarrassed salutation from the wing, and
with another somewhat less constrained, stands in front of the orchestra,
the focus of every eye and glass in that brilliant assemblage. Pausing for
a brief space, as if to collect himself, he raises his bow, and with a
slight motion, beckons to each member of the orchestra in turn, who 'start
into sound' at his bidding as if touched by the wand of ITHURIEL. When the
tide of harmony has reached its flood, and is gradually ebbing back to
fainter sounds, the Master raises his instrument to his shoulder and lays
his ear upon it, as if listening for his key-note amidst the tones that
are serpentining through his brain. When to the audience 'nothing lives
'twixt these and silence,' a strain which has at first a dying fall
imperceptibly swells on the ear. It is _the_ instrument, beyond all
peradventure; and from that moment you are 'all ear.' While you are
wondering why you never knew before that there was such a _volume_ of
sound in a violin, a passage of infinite pathos arrests your _heart_, and
you find your eyes moistening under its influence. It subsides into
tremulous tones that retreat farther and farther from the ear, until they
seem to come from a mile's distance; anon, they begin to approach again,
and swelling gradually upon the 'aching sense,' almost overpower you with
their fulness of melody. This transcendent effort of genius reminded us of
the phantasmagora, or 'magic lantern;' for what the lessening and
enlarging figures of that instrument are to the _eye_, OLE BULL'S magic
sounds are to the _ear_. We had intended to allude in detail to several of
the performances of this great Master; but we lack the requisite space. We
can only instance the 'Norwegian Rondo,' the 'Themes from BELLINI,' and
the 'Carnival at Venice,' as eminently justifying the fervent enthusiasm
which they excited. It was no unnatural combination of splendid
sinuosities, of small notes split into hexagonals, and attenuated into
tremors that were 'no great _shakes_' after all, which entranced the
audience; it was full, rich tones; it was melody, harmony, that won their
loud and almost irrepressible applause. We have not yet had the pleasure
to hear VIEUX-TEMPS, the distinguished violinist recently arrived among
us. His numerous friends and countrymen in the metropolis rank him even
above OLE BULL. We are inclined, however, to trust the comparison made by
an eminent brother-artist, who assisted at his first concert:
'VIEUX-TEMPS,' said he, 'is a very accomplished _artist_; but OLE BULL is
a magnificent _genius_.' We shall have something to say of VIEUX-TEMPS,
ARTOT, and Sig. CASSELA, in a subsequent number of the KNICKERBOCKER,
should time and occasion serve.


A SECOND 'RALPH RINGWOOD.'--We have a western correspondent, a 'man of
mark' in his region, and far from unknown elsewhere, who has seen a good
deal of the world, and whose entertaining epistles always remind us of the
graphic '_Experiences of Ralph Ringwood_,' as recorded in these pages by
WASHINGTON IRVING. Here is a fragment of youthful reminiscence, fresh from
his mint, 'which it is hoped may please;' and if it _does_, we will use
our 'selectest influence' to induce him to write out for us a series of
papers containing his complete autobiography, which we have good reason to
believe would overflow with romance and strange vicissitude: 'I was
raised,' he writes, 'as we western folks term it, in a small village some
fifteen miles from Boston, and when about sixteen years of age I paid a
visit to the metropolis for the first time in my life. When I first
arrived there I spent some hours in trying to hunt up an old play-mate who
had been bound apprentice to a Boston mechanic some two years previous. I
could hear nothing of him, however, and so gave up the search. But one
day, while sauntering down the main-street, and wondering at all I saw, I
suddenly encountered a strange sight. It was _a sheep_, dead and dressed,
but moving along the side-walk in an upright position, and apparently
without help! Puzzled at this phenomenon, I turned round as it passed me,
in order to observe it more closely; when to my astonishment I discovered
a boy behind it, who with the sheep on his back was shuffling along the
walk, stern-foremost. I was still more astonished when I recognized in
this lad my old and long-sought playmate. 'DICK, my boy!' said I, grasping
his hand warmly. DICK seemed a little embarrassed at first; but after a
moment's hesitation, he threw down his load spitefully, and seizing my
hand returned my grasp as cordially as it had been given. 'For GOD's sake,
DICK,' inquired I, 'how long is it since you commenced walking backward?'
'Not a great while,' replied he, with a grin. 'To tell you the truth,
FRANK, I saw you looking in the jeweller's window there, and knew you at
once; and as I didn't care to be seen by an old comrade with a sheep on my
back, I was in hopes to escape your observation by walking in the manner
in which you saw me.' 'And that was the very thing which led me to
discover you,' I replied; 'you might have passed me in the ordinary way,
nineteen times in every twenty, without being recognized.' 'Well, it's all
one now, since you have found me out,' said DICK. 'But what, after all,
are you going to do with that measly-looking animal?' I inquired. 'Eat
it,' replied he, with a comical twist of the nose; 'I have to lug one home
every day; we apprentices live on them altogether. I'm a sheep myself,
almost; _b-a-a-h_!' and here he imitated the cry of that animal so
naturally, that I had no doubt of the truth of his statement. After a few
moments' conversation, chiefly about home, the clock struck ten, when DICK
suddenly resumed his load, and after giving me the directions to the 'old
man's' house, and exacting a promise to call and see him in the evening,
he started for home. At the appointed hour in the evening, I called to see
him, as agreed upon, and found him waiting for me. But what a
different-looking personage from the one I met in the morning! He was now
very smartly dressed in a small black frock-coat, and drab gaiter-trowsers
strapped tightly over a pair of nicely-polished boots. On his head a black
velvet cap, from which two enormous tassels were swinging, was setting
jauntily on one side, while in his hand he carried a little silver-headed
cane, with which he occasionally rapped his legs. In my unsophisticated
eyes he was a very paragon of gentility, and I couldn't help contrasting
him with my own countrified appearance. However, I had but a moment for
reflection; for sallying into the street, with me at his heels, DICK at
once proposed going to the theatre. I agreed without hesitation, for the
big play-bills had been staring me in the face all day, and on them were
emblazoned in large capitals the names of COOPER and FINN, who were to
play together that evening in one of SHAKSPEARE'S comedies. When we
arrived at the play-house, DICK took me aside, and pointing to the little
window in the office, proposed that I should go and purchase the tickets;
'because,' said he, 'the box-keeper knows me.' I couldn't exactly
comprehend why the fact of his being known to the box-keeper should
prevent his purchasing the tickets himself. However, I supposed it was all
right, and so I crowded up to the little window, and after awaiting my
turn, obtained two pit-tickets, for which I had to pay out of my own
pocket, of course. Dick took them from me when I returned, and then again
resuming the lead, he conducted me into the lobby of the play-house. Here
he handed the tickets to the door-keeper, at the same time nodding his
head toward me, in order to intimate to that gentleman that I was under
his special patronage, and that the other admission was intended for me.
Once seated in the centre of the pit, DICK seemed to be in his glory. He
ogled the ladies in the boxes, and whistled and shouted and stamped, and
cried 'Physic!' until I thought he would split his throat. But when at
last the gloomy curtain rose and the stars of the evening stood glittering
before us, he clapped and shouted so much louder and longer than all the
rest, that the whole audience gazed at him with admiration. He would have
gone on applauding, I verily believe, until the end of the play, had not a
tall gentleman, with a red handkerchief round his throat, and carrying a
long pole, rapped him over the head, and peremptorily shouted 'Silence!'
From that moment DICK was as mute as a Quaker, until the end of the play;
when rushing out and dragging me after him, he proposed that we should go
and finish the evening at a celebrated coffee-house, kept by 'a particular
friend of his,' and where he had agreed to meet some half-dozen
fellow-apprentices. Here we stayed until a very late hour, drinking and
smoking, telling stories and singing songs. As it grew later, our
companions one by one walked or reeled out of the bar-room, until we two
were left the only tenants, save the landlord. The latter then commenced
closing the house, and hinted pretty strongly that it was high time we
were going. I turned to DICK, who had been remarkably silent for some
time, when to my utter dismay I discovered that he was perfectly
insensible from drink. I looked up to the landlord for counsel. He was a
short, _squab_ man, with a bulbous excresence growing out from between his
shoulders, that I suppose passed for a head, though it looked like a wen;
a kind of expletive, to wear a hat on, or to fill up the hollow of a
shabby wig. 'What shall we _do_ with him?' said I. 'Hustle him out!' cried
he; 'hustle him out! he didn't get his liquor here: I've no room for such
company!' I then endeavored to put my companion upon his feet, but his
legs bent under him, and his whole body seemed as limber and lifeless as a
wet rag. 'You can't do any thing with him in _that_ way,' continued the
landlord; 'if you want to get him home to-night, you must take him on your
back and carry him there yourself. He'll be bright enough in the morning.'
I saw no other way of proceeding; and so, being strong and athletic
myself, while DICK was of slight proportions, I managed, with the
assistance of the landlord, to get him upon my back, and then started for
his master's house. As my burthen was perfectly speechless, I had plenty
of time for uninterrupted thought as I trudged along; and I couldn't help
contrasting the apprentice of the morning with the apprentice of the
present moment. _Then_, though rather coarsely dressed, and smooched with
the marks of labor, he blushed at being caught with a sheep on his back,
though he had come honestly by it; but _now_, though bedecked in the
habiliments of a gentleman, he was being carried home himself like a beast
on the back of a companion. On reaching his master's house I laid him down
upon the door-sill, where he commenced breathing intensely through his
nose, while I fumbled round for the handle of the bell, which I rang. The
'old man' himself came to the door, and looking down at his apprentice,
shook his head sorrowfully. Then turning to a black domestic, who with a
candle in her hand stood grinning behind him, he said, 'Here's DICK come
home drunk again, Dinah; you must take him up stairs and get him to bed in
the best way you can.' The old gentleman turned away with a tear in his
eye, and I also departed, leaving DICK, who had come to his senses a
little, struggling in the arms of the brawny black, and vainly trying to
kiss her polished cheek. Thus ended my first youthful adventure in a
city.'


GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--We encounter in our personal
correspondence not a few comments, pro and con, upon the papers on '_Mind
and Instinct_,' which appeared in the last two numbers of the
KNICKERBOCKER. Our friend and correspondent, 'HARRY FRANCO,' among others,
in a gossiping epistle to the Editor, writes as follows:

    'I HAVE been considerably interested in your correspondent's
    paper on mind and instinct; only I rather wonder at his laboring
    to prove a theory which few are inclined to question. But he
    does not after all, it appears to me, draw the right conclusions
    from his argument. All living beings have a mind, or reason, or
    what you will, which prompts them to do all that their animal
    functions are capable of performing. In this respect man is as
    much governed by instinct as a brute. My neighbor's dog every
    night when I come home walks up to me, wags his tail, and looks
    in my face, and says in his way, 'How are you?' His master gives
    me a nod, takes his pipe from his mouth, and says the same. But
    when a stranger comes to my door, neither the dog nor his master
    salutes him; but were he to fall into the brook, they would both
    run to pull him out. Are they not both influenced by exactly the
    same feelings? If I should ask my neighbor to endorse my note,
    he would look sulky, hem! and haw! and refuse; if I should
    attempt to take a bone from his dog, the brute would snarl and
    growl, and perhaps bite me. Do you see any marvellous difference
    between the two animals? A near neighbor of mine, about six
    months since, had a little boy of four years old, who had a
    spaniel of which he was very fond. One day during the absence of
    the father, the child was taken ill with the croup; the mother
    was alarmed, and it so happened that her servants were away, and
    she had no one to send for a physician. The poor woman was in
    great tribulation, for in spite of all her efforts the child
    grew worse. In about an hour after the child was taken ill, her
    father's carriage stopped at the door, and her mother made her
    appearance. Her father's house was about two miles distant. The
    grandmother said that Carlo, the sick child's dog, 'came running
    into the house, all bespattered with mud, and flew about and
    acted so strangely that she knew something must be the matter
    with little Billy, her grandson, and she came to see what it
    was.' Until then, the mother of the child had not noticed the
    absence of the dog from the room, for the boy was playing with
    him when he was taken sick. The child remained ill three or four
    days, and then died; and during the whole time the dog never
    left his bed-side; he watched by the corpse until it was buried,
    and then took possession of the little boy's chair, which he
    would allow no one to touch, not even the child's mother. Every
    day he absented himself for three or four hours; and the father
    one day going to look at his child's grave, found that the dog
    had almost scratched his way down to the coffin. He was after
    this kept within doors; but he refused to eat, and in a short
    time died in the chair of his little master. If I had time, I
    could tell you a story almost as touching, in relation to a pig,
    an animal that phrenologically speaking has generally been
    looked upon as somewhat deficient in the region of the
    sentiments.'

NOW that our attention has been awakened to the subject, we find in our
casual reading the testimony in favor of 'mind in animals' greatly to
increase and multiply. OLEUS MAGNUS, Bishop of Norway, in a work written
in Latin some two centuries ago, tells us of a fox that, in order to get
rid of the fleas which infested his skin, was accustomed to swim out into
a lake with a straw band held high and dry in his mouth. When the
water-hating vermin had all escaped from his submerged body to the dry
straw, down dived Reynard, leaving his tormentors 'at sea,' and rising
again beyond the scope of safe jumping. 'Curious, isn't it?' A
correspondent at Rochester, 'who experienced much satisfaction in the
perusal of the article' above alluded to, was yet 'a little dissatisfied
with the closing portion of it.' The proposition of the writer to 'abstain
entirely from animal food,' on the score of humanity, he considers
'especially ridiculous.' He has 'the gravest authority for stating, that
every drop of water that quenches our thirst or laves our bodies, contains
innumerable insects, which are sacrificed to our necessities or comforts;
each ingredient in the simplest vegetable fare conveys to inevitable
destruction thousands of the most beautiful and harmless of created
beings. From the first to the last gasp of our lives, we never inhale the
air of heaven without butchering myriads of sentient and innocent
creatures. Can we upbraid ourselves then for supporting our lives by the
death of a few animals, many of whom are themselves carnivorous, when the
infant who has lived for a single day has killed an infinitely greater
number of human beings than the longest life would suffice to murder by
design? Or, if we sacrifice either our lives or our comforts by
scrupulously denying ourselves the use of animal food, can we derive much
consolation from considering that we spare a few scores of beings, when we
involuntarily, but knowingly, are every moment massacreing more than the
longest life-time would suffice to enumerate?' . . . A REFERENCE to the
case of '_Rachael Baker, the American Somnambulist_,' in a late London
Magazine, has recalled that remarkable phenomenon very forcibly to our
mind. RACHAEL BAKER resided within four miles of 'the house where we were
born;' and the first exhibitions of her religious exercises during sleep
took place alternately at the homestead and the residence of a relation in
its near vicinity. We remember as it were but yesterday the solemnity
which sat upon the faces of the assembled neighbors, as they awaited the
signal-groan from an adjoining apartment, to which, at about seven P. M.,
the Somnambulist usually retired for the night. When the door was opened
the crowd pressed in. The sleeper, dressed in white muslin, lay straight
and motionless in bed; her eyes closed, her face white and inflexible as
marble; and her fingers with livid marks beneath the nails, clasped meekly
upon her bosom. Flecks of foam were visible at the corners of her mouth,
and her lips moved 'as if they would address themselves to speech,' for
some seconds before any audible sound came from them. At length, however,
in a clear silvery voice she opened with prayer; a prayer fervent,
devotional, and evidently direct from the heart. When this was concluded,
and after the lapse of a brief space, she began an exhortation, in
language pure, beautiful, often eloquent, and occasionally rising to a
noble sublimity; and then closed with prayer. If interrupted with a
question, as she frequently was, by clergymen, medical gentlemen, and
others, she answered it with readiness, and with a felicity of language
surpassing belief.  'RACHAEL,' said a clergyman to her in our hearing one
evening, while in the midst of her discourse, 'why do you engage in these
exercises? and why----' She interrupted the speaker with words to this
effect: 'I, even I, a worm of the dust, am but a feeble instrument in the
hands of HIM who hath declared, 'I will pour out of my spirit upon you;
and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy; your young men shall see
visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. And on my servants and on my
handmaidens I will pour out in those days of my spirit, and they shall
prophesy.' Even _so_ FATHER, for so it seemeth good in thy sight!' The
girl was of bashful demeanor; altogether uneducated; could scarcely read;
knew little of the Bible; and indeed in her waking hours conversed in a
language that was far from being respectable English; but neither in her
prayers nor in her exhortations was she ever at fault; nor did she at any
time exhibit the slightest hesitation or confusion. Her answers to
questions were brief, pointed, and invariably correct. Crowds flocked to
see her, until the public curiosity overran all bounds. She was visited by
many persons from New-York; and finally, under the direction of a
committee of medical gentlemen from the city, was brought to the
metropolis, where she created a great sensation. A pamphlet was written
upon her case by Dr. MITCHELL; and we should feel greatly obliged to any
reader who would place it for a short time in our hands. . . . A VALUED
friend and correspondent, to whose kindness we have frequently been
indebted, has sent us a '_Massachusetts Centinel_,' printed in Boston
sixty years ago; in which, among many other curious and amusing matters,
there is a copy of an original letter written by the celebrated GEORGE
ALEXANDER STEVENS, author of 'Lecture on Heads,' etc., dated at 'Yarmouth
Jail, County of Norfolk,' which runs thus:

    'SIR: When I parted from you at Doncaster, I imagined, long
    before this, to have met with some oddities worth acquainting
    you with. It is grown a fashion of late to write lives; I have
    now, and for a long time have had, leisure enough to undertake
    mine, but want materials for the latter part of it; for my
    existence now cannot properly be called living, but what the
    painters term _still life_; having ever since February 13, been
    confined in this town-goal for a London debt.

    'As a hunted deer is always shunned by the happier herd, so am I
    deserted by the company,[7] my share taken off, and no support
    left me, save what my wife can spare me out of hers:

      'Deserted in my utmost need
      By those my former bounty fed.'

        [7] The Norwich company of players, to which he belonged.

    'With an economy, which until now I was a stranger to, I have
    made shift to victual hitherto my little garrison, but then it
    has been with the aid of my good friends and allies--my clothes.
    This week's eating finishes my last waistcoat; and next, I must
    atone for my errors upon bread and water.

    'THEMISTOCLES had so many towns to furnish his table, and a
    whole city bore the charge of his meals. In some respects I am
    like him, for I am furnished by the labors of a multitude. A wig
    has fed me two days; the trimming of a waistcoat as long; a pair
    of velvet breeches paid my washerwoman, and a ruffled shirt has
    found me in shaving. My coats I swallowed by degrees. The
    sleeves I breakfasted upon for weeks; the body, skirts, etc.,
    served me for dinner two months. My silk stocking have paid my
    lodgings, and two pair of new pumps enabled me to smoke several
    pipes. It is incredible how my appetite, (barometer like) rises
    in proportion as my necessities make their terrible advances. I
    here could say something droll about a good stomach, but it is
    ill jesting with edge tools, and I am sure that is the sharpest
    thing about me. You may think I can have no sense of my
    condition, that while I am thus wretched, I should offer at
    ridicule: but, Sir, people constituted like me, with a
    disproportioned levity of spirits, are always most merry when
    they are most miserable; and quicken like the eyes of the
    consumptive, which are always brightest the nearer the patient
    approaches his dissolution. However, Sir, to show you I am not
    lost to all reflection, I think myself poor enough to want a
    favor, and humble enough to ask it here. Sir, I might make an
    encomium on your good nature, humanity, etc.; but I shall not
    pay so bad a compliment to your understanding, as to endeavor,
    by a parade of phrases, to win it over to my interest. If you
    could, any night at a concert, make a small collection for me,
    it might be a means of my obtaining my liberty; and you well
    know, Sir, the first people of rank abroad will perform the most
    friendly offices for the sick; be not, therefore, offended at
    the request of a poor (though a deservedly punished) debtor.

                                            'GEO. A. STEVENS.'

AMONG the facetiae of the 'Centinel' we find a clever hit at two prominent
official characters of the name of DAY: 'TITUS, a Roman emperor, we are
told, once lamented that '_he had lost a Day_.' If the commonwealth of
Massachusetts were to _lose two Days_, it would not be the cause of much
lamentation!' A correspondent elsewhere observes, that in a procession on
a certain solemn occasion in this city, the place of the physician was
immediately before the corpse; which, he adds, was 'exactly consonant with
the etiquette observed at capital executions in ancient times; the
_executioner_ always going before!' By the way, 'speaking of STEVENS;'
perhaps the reader of good things at second-hand may not be aware how much
he is indebted to this author's '_Lectures on Heads_' for amusement and
instruction. They were very popular throughout Great Britain; and as
illustrated by the author, after the manner of 'OLD MATTHEWS,' they are
said to have been irresistible. It was in this collection that the
law-cases of 'BULLUM _vs._ BOATUM' and 'DANIEL _vs._ DISHCLOUT' had their
origin. They are familiar to every school-boy, not less for their wit than
the canine Latinity in which they abound; '_Primus strokus est provokus_;
now who gave the _primus strokus_? Who gave the first offence?' Or, 'a
drunken man is '_homo duplicans_,' or a double man, seeing things double,'
etc., etc. We annex an example or two of the writer's _individuality_. The
first is a sketch of a _nil admirari_ critic and amateur, who has
travelled long enough abroad to fall in love with every thing foreign, and
despise every thing belonging to his own country except himself: 'He
pretended to be a great judge of paintings, but only admired those done a
great way off, and a great while ago; he could not bear any thing painted
by any of his own countrymen. One day being in an auction-room where there
was a number of capital pictures, and among the rest an inimitable
painting of fruits and flowers, the connoisseur would not give his opinion
of the picture until he had examined his catalogue; when, finding it was
done by one of his own countrymen, he pulled out his eye-glass,
exclaiming: 'This fellow has spoiled a fine piece of canvass; he's worse
than a sign-post dauber; there's no keeping, no perspective, no
fore-ground, no _chiar'oscuro_. Look you, he has attempted to paint _a
fly_ upon that rose-bud! Why, it is no more like a fly than I am like an
----' But as the connoisseur approached his finger to the picture, the fly
flew away. It happened to be the _real_ insect!' Is not the following a
forcible picture of a mercurial, hero-loving Frenchman? 'Has he property?
An edict from the _Grand Monarque_ can take it, and he is satisfied.
Pursue him to the Bastile, or the dismal dungeon in the country to which a
lettre-de-cachet conveys him, and buries him for life: there see him in
all his misery; ask him 'What is the cause?' '_Je ne sai pas_; it is the
will of the _Grand Monarque_.' Give him a _soup-maigre_, a little sallad,
and a hind-quarter of a frog, and he's in spirits. 'Fal, lal, lal! _Vive
le Roi? Vive la bagatelle!'_' Here we have a Materialist proving the
affinity of matter: 'All round things are globular, all square things
flat-sided. Now, if the bottom is equal to the top, and the top equal to
the bottom, and the bottom and top are equal to the four sides, then all
matter is as broad as it is long.' But the materialist 'had not in his
head matter sufficient to prove matter efficient; and being thus
deficient, he knew nothing of the matter.' One of STEVENS'S 'heads' was
that of a heartless, devil-may-care sort of person, in some respects like
the hero of '_A Capital Joke_' in preceding pages, who is always 'keeping
it up.' He illustrates his own character very forcibly: 'I'll tell you how
it was; you see, I was in high spirits, so I stole a dog from a blind man,
for I do _so_ love fun! So then the blind man cried for his dog, and that
made me laugh; so says I to the blind man. 'Halloo, master! do you want
your dog?' 'Yes, Sir, indeed, _indeed_ I do,' says he. Then says I to the
blind man, says I, 'Go look for him! Keep it up!' I always turn sick when
I think of a parson; and my brother, he's a parson too, and he hates to
hear any body swear; so I always swear when I am along with him, just to
roast him. I went to dine with him one day last week; and as soon as I
arrived, I began to swear. I never swore so well in all my life; I swore
all my new oaths. At last my brother laid down his knife and fork, and
lifting up his hands and eyes, he calls out: '_O Tempora! O Mores_.' 'Oh,
ho! brother,' says I, 'don't think to frighten me by calling all your
family about you. I don't mind you nor your family neither. Only bring
Tempora and Moses _here_--that's all! I'll box 'em for five pounds. Keep
it up!' . . . THERE is many a bereaved heart that will be touched by the
following sad, sad lines, from the pen of JOHN RUDOLPH SUTERMEISTER, a
young and gifted poet, whose mortal part has 'been ashes these many a
year,' and whom the reader may remember as the author of a little poem
widely quoted and admired many years ago, commencing:

  'O! for my bright and faded hours!
    When life was like a summer stream,
  On whose gay banks the virgin flowers
    Blushed in the morning's rosy beam,
  Or danced upon the breeze that bare
    Its store of rich perfume along,
  While the wood-robin poured on air
    The ravishing delights of song!'

To us, who are familiar with the painful circumstances under which they
were written, and the deep affliction which they deplore, they seem almost
to sob with irrepressible grief:

  A LAMENT.

  I.

  GIVE not to me the wreath of green,
    The blooming vase of flowers;
  They breathe of joy which once hath been,
    Of gone and faded hours!
  I cannot love the rose; though rich,
    Its beauty will not last:
  Give me--give _me_ the bloom o'er which
    The early blight hath passed!
  The yellow buds--give _them_ to rest
  On my cold brow and joyless breast,
    When life is failing fast!

  II.

  Take far from me the wine-cup bright,
    In hours of revelry;
  It suits glad brows, and bosoms light,
    It is not meet for me:
  Oh! I can pledge the heart no more
    I pledged in days gone by;
  Sorrow hath touched my bosom's core,
    And I am left--to die!
  Give me to drink of Lethe's wave,
  Give me the cold and cheerless grave,
    O'er which the night-winds sigh!

  III.

   Wake not upon my tuneless ear
    Soft music's stealing strain;
   It cannot soothe, it cannot cheer
    This anguished heart again!
   But place the AEolian harp upon
    The tomb of her I love;
  There, when Heaven shrouds the dying sun,
    My weary steps will rove,
  While o'er its chords Night pours its breath,
  To list the serenade of death
     Her silent bourne above!

  IV.

  Give me to seek the lonely tomb
    Where sleeps the sainted dead,
  When the pale night-fall throws its gloom
    Above her narrow bed!
  There, while the winds which sweep along,
    O'er the harp-strings are driven,
  And the funereal soul of song
    Upon the air is given,
  Oh! let my faint and parting breath
  Be mingled with that song of death,
    And flee with it to heaven!

       *       *       *       *       *

'WHO hath redness of eyes?' This interrogative 'portion of divine
scripture' is forcibly illustrated by an anecdote, related with most
effective dryness by a friend of ours. An elderly gentleman, accustomed to
'indulge,' entered the bar-room of an inn in the pleasant city of H----,
on the Hudson, where sat a grave Friend toasting his toes by the fire.
Lifting a pair of green spectacles upon his forehead, rubbing his inflamed
eyes, and calling for a hot brandy-toddy, he seated himself by the grate;
and as he did so, he remarked to Uncle BROADBRIM that 'his eyes were
getting weaker and weaker, and that even spectacles didn't seem to do 'em
any good.' 'I'll tell thee friend,' rejoined the Quaker, 'what I think. I
think if thee was to _wear thy spectacles over thy mouth_ for a few
months, thy eyes would get sound again!' The 'complainant' did not even
return thanks for this medical counsel, but sipped his toddy in silence,
and soon after left the room, 'uttering never a word.' . . . THERE have
been various surmises, and sundry contradictory statements, in relation to
the work superscribed '_Count D'Orsay on Etiquette_,' which we noticed at
some length in our December issue. Mr. WILLIS, of the 'New Mirror' weekly
journal, seems to question its having been _written_ by the COUNT, but
expresses his belief that he may have loaned his name to the publishers
'for a consideration;' and this may possibly have been the fact with the
latest London edition. The author of the work in question, however, is Mr.
CHARLES WILLIAM DAY, an English gentleman, whose acquaintance with the
usages of the best European society is personal and authentic; who has
observed and travelled much; and who is moreover an artist of a high
order; painting in miniature, and sketching with admirable skill. An
esteemed friend and correspondent of this Magazine writes us from Boston,
that the manner of the fraud is somewhat as follows: 'Mr. DAY is the
author of a Journal of Travels, which Messrs. LONGMAN AND COMPANY of
London proposed to publish. As they treated him, however, in a
dishonorable manner, he withdrew his MSS. from them and came to America.
In retaliation, they sent orders to this country to have a spurious
edition published of his work on 'Etiquette,' which they had formerly
brought out, and which they truly supposed he designed to reprint in
New-York or Boston. It has passed through more than twenty editions in
London; a fact which I know, from having seen the Messrs. LONGMANS'
letters and accounts with the author. His own edition is now in press in
Boston; and I learn that he has added some 'Hints' with an especial eye to
Yankee manners.' We have also received a letter from Mr. DAY himself, in
which, while he 'forbears at present to make any comments on the conduct
of the Messrs. LONGMAN,' he proves beyond a doubt that 'the Count D'ORSAY
is _not_ the writer of the 'Hints on Etiquette,' but that he himself is
'the real, true author,' past all peradventure. . . . A FRIEND lately
returned from the west, relates among other matters the following
anecdote: 'On board of one of the steam-boats on the Mississippi, I
encountered a deck-hand, who went by the name of BARNEY. Like many of his
class, he was a drinking, reckless fellow, but warm-hearted, good-natured,
and generous to a fault. In early life he was in easy circumstances; was a
husband, and the father of several children. But one night during a
violent storm the house in which he resided was struck by lightning, and
the whole family, save himself, were instantly killed. His own escape was
considered a miracle at the time, not even a hair of his head having been
singed. From that time, however, he took to drinking, and so sank lower
and lower until he became what I found him. When I had heard his story, I
felt somewhat interested in the man, and one day managed to draw him into
conversation. He told me his early history with much natural pathos; and
finding him in the 'melting mood' I endeavored to lead him to some serious
thoughts upon the subject of his misfortunes, and especially of that one
which had bereft him in so awful a manner of his wife and children.
'BARNEY,' said I, 'don't you think it was a signal mercy that you alone
should have escaped unharmed from the bolt which destroyed all else you
loved upon earth? Was there not at least something _singular_ in the
fact?' 'That's what I said myself,' replied BARNEY, in a tremulous voice;
'I always thought it was _very_ sing'lar. But the fact I suppose was this,
Mr. WHITEHAT. The lightning, you see, was afraid of _a man_, and so like a
d----d sneak, it went twisting about to scorch women and little children!'
. . . BLACKWOOD has proclaimed in a late number, the '_Characteristics of
English Society_,' in language of truth and soberness, which goes
explicitly to confirm the reports of nearly all American and other
'foreigners' who have visited England. We subjoin an extract contrasting
English with French society:

    'WE should indeed be sorry if our demeanor in those vast crowds,
    where English people flock together, rather, as it would seem,
    to assert a right, than to gratify an inclination, were to be
    taken as an index of our national character: the want of all
    ease and simplicity, those essential ingredients of agreeable
    society, which distinguish these dreary meetings have long been
    unfortunately notorious. Too busy to watch the feelings of
    others, and too earnest to moderate our own, that true
    politeness which pays respect to age; which tries to put the
    most insignificant person in company on a level with the most
    considerable--virtues which our neighbors possess in an eminent
    degree--are, except in a few favored instances, unknown among
    us; while affectation, in other countries the badge of ignorance
    and vulgarity, is ours, even in its worst shape, when it borrows
    the mien of rudeness, impertinence, and effrontery, the
    appendage of those whose station is most conspicuous, and whose
    dignity is best ascertained. There is more good breeding in the
    cottage of a French peasant than in all the boudoirs of
    Grosvenor square. . . . 'Frivolity and insipidity are the
    prevailing characteristics of conversation; and nowhere in
    Europe, perhaps, does difference of fortune or of station
    produce more unsocial or illiberal separation. Very few of those
    whom fortune has released from the necessity of following some
    laborious profession are capable of passing their time agreeably
    without the assistance of company; not from the spirit of gaity
    which calls upon society for indulgence; not from any pleasure
    they take in conversation, where they are frequently languid and
    taciturn; but to rival each other in the luxury of the table, or
    by a great variety of indescribable airs, to make others feel
    the pain of mortification. They meet as if to fight the
    boundaries of their rank and fashion, and the less definite and
    perceptible is the line which divides them, the more punctilious
    is their pride. It is a great mistake to suppose that this
    low-minded folly is peculiar to people of rank; it is _an
    English disease_.'

No doubt of it; and the question naturally arises, 'Are not these the
proper people to talk about men and manners and society in America?' . . .
'NEVER mind, my dear,' says Baron POMPOLINO, while endeavoring to fit the
fairy slipper of the lovely CINDERELLA upon the long splay foot of one of
his ungainly daughters, 'never mind, my dear, _she is not at all like
you_!' The doting father, it will be remembered, gives this verdict as a
flattering compliment. We have sometimes been amused, where the _quo
animo_ was apparent, with similar compliments at the hands of reciprocal
critics of literature. Pleasant examples in this kind have been furnished
lately. A very voluminous critic, very far 'down east,' spoke recently in
a metropolitan journal of GOLDSMITH's  '_Deserted Village_' as 'a very
common-place poem, at the best, and only saved from utter and most
contemptuous forgetfulness by two or three pleasantries about 'broken
tea-cups,' etc., and by one single passage that smacks of sublimity!' Of
the poetry however of the author of '_Man in his Various Aspects under the
American Republic_,' he expresses in the same columns quite a different
opinion. 'There has been,' he writes, 'no English poetry better than his,
within the memory of man!' A writer in the last number of the '_Southern
Literary Messenger_,' likewise voluminous in prose and verse, if we
rightly surmise, exhibits contrasts of judgment somewhat kindred with the
foregoing, although certainly less violent. The author of 'Man in his
various Aspects,' he tells us, 'has a _boldness_ that attracts;' his are
the 'strong and struggling conceptions which seek utterance in new and
original forms.' He dares 'to shun the beaten paths,' and is not afraid to
be obscure. His is not the poetry 'which takes the popular ear without
tasking the popular thought,' like 'the simple common-places of
LONGFELLOW.' Such 'criticism' as this we have cited must needs 'make the
judicious' laugh merely, being too impotent to make them 'grieve.' It is
not perhaps assuming too much to suppose, that GOLDSMITH's 'Deserted
Village' and LONGFELLOW's 'Psalms of Life,' _simple_ though they be, will
live and be cherished in generations of human hearts, when the volumes of
our critics and their client that yet survive the recollection of any save
their publishers, shall be 'forgotten and clean out of mind.' . . . IT is
related of the celebrated clergyman, JOHN MASON, that sitting at a
steam-boat table on one occasion, just as the passengers were 'falling to'
in the customary manner, he suddenly rapped vehemently upon the board with
the end of his knife, and exclaimed: 'Captain! is this boat out of the
jurisdiction of GOD ALMIGHTY? If not, let us at least thank HIM for his
continued goodness;' and he proceeded to pronounce 'grace' amidst the most
reverent stillness. It is to be hoped, however, that his 'grace' was not
like the few set words handed down from father to son, mumbled without
emotion, and despatched with indecent haste, which one sometimes hears
repeated over country repasts. 'Bless this portion of food now in
readiness for us; give it to us in thy love; let us eat and drink in thy
fear--for CHRIST's sake----LORENZO, _take your fingers out of that
plate!_' was a grace once said in _our_ hearing, but evidently not in that
of the spoilt boy, 'growing and always hungry,' who could not wait to be
served. We should prefer to such insensible flippancy the practice of an
old divine in New-England, who in asking a blessing upon his meals, was
wont to name each separate dish. Sitting down one day to a dinner, which
consisted partly of clams, bear-steak, etc., he was forced in a measure to
forego his usual custom of furnishing a 'bill of particulars.' 'Bless to
our use,' said he, 'these treasures hid in the sand; bless this----' But
the bear's-meat puzzled him, and he concluded with: 'Oh! LORD, _thou only
knowest what it is_!' . . . A FAVORITE correspondent of this Magazine, who
appears in the pages of the present number for the first time in several
months, accompanies his excellent paper with a letter, from which we take
these sentences: 'Since you last heard from me, I have experienced a
severe domestic affliction in the loss of my father, who died during the
last summer. Day after day and night after night for two months I sat by
his bed-side, hoping in vain for his recovery, until life's star was
extinguished in the darkness of the grave.' Our cordial sympathies are
with our correspondent; but sympathy for affliction such as his can carry
with it little of consolation to the bereaved:

        ----'A FRIEND is gone!
  A FATHER, whose authority, in show
  When most severe, and must'ring all its force,
  Was but the graver countenance of love;
  Whose favor, like the clouds of spring, might lower,
  And utter now and then an awful voice,
  But had a blessing in his darkest frown,
  Threat'ning at once, and nourishing the plant.'

Perchance our friend may now think with COWPER, that 'although he loved,
yet not _enough_, the gentle hand that reared him.' 'The chief thing that
I have to reproach myself with,' writes one who laments a kindred
dispensation of the SUPREME, 'is a sort of inattention to my father's
feelings, occasionally, arising merely from the disparity of years between
us, which I am sensible must at times have interfered with his enjoyments.
I would gladly recall now, if I could, many opportunities I suffered to
pass, of being more in his company, and more in the way of his advice and
instruction.' But he adds: 'When I reflect on these things, it appears to
me one of the strongest natural arguments for the immortality of the soul,
and the renewal of our earthly relations in a world to come, that even
where the greatest possible attachment subsists between parents and their
children, the mere disparity of years inevitably prevents that complete
association of feelings, and intimate fellowship of heart and soul, which
is the cement and prerogative of all other friendships: in a world to
come, but no where else, such attachments must receive their full
completion.' . . . PROFESSOR GOURAUD, well known among us for his devotion
to the interests of art and science, has perfected a _System of
Remembrance_, which he designates by the term '_Mnemotechny_,' and which
we venture to predict will prove of the greatest service to nearly every
class of society. No system of modern mnemonics bears any resemblance to,
or comparison with it. Such is the astonishing effect of the plan, that
young masters and misses, after a brief study of it, can with ease answer
_any_ question from score after score of close-printed pages, involving
every variety of events, and all kinds of information. We 'speak but the
things which we do _know_,' in this matter, for seeing is believing. As
the scene of Prof. GOURAUD'S operations is for the present the city, and
as the daily journals have made his merits widely known to the community,
we forbear farther comment at this time upon the useful art which he has
brought to such wonderful perfection. New classes organize, we understand,
at the Professor's residence, No. 46, Second-street, on the fourth
instant. They will be filled at once, and speedily followed by others. . .
. THERE is an article in the last number of the Edinburgh Review upon
'_Theatres and the Drama_,' which is replete with wisdom, and evinces a
thorough mastery of the theme. In alluding to the appeals which are now
made to the eye by elaborate scenery, machinery, etc., less than to the
mind and imagination by superior intellectual personation, the reviewer in
effect remarks, that the first attempt at positive reality is fatal to
pleasurable illusion. Every person in the pit is aware that the stage _is
a stage_, 'and all the men and women merely players.' In 'As you Like It,'
at Drury-Lane, an attempt was made to imitate the notes of birds. 'Suppose
the imitation had been so close as to deceive the audience into the belief
that there were birds there singing; would not the contrast with trees of
painted canvass have been revolting? These were not the conceptions of
SHAKSPEARE, when he made his chorus say:

            'CAN this cockpit hold
  The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
  Within this wooden O the very casques
  That did affright the air at Agincourt?
  O pardon! since a crooked figure may
  Attest, in little place, a million;
  And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
  On your imaginary forces work:
  Suppose within the girdle of these walls
  Are now confined two mighty monarchies:
  Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;
  Into a thousand parts divide one man,
  And make imaginary puisance.
  Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
  Printing their proud hoofs in the receiving earth;
  For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings--
  Carry them here and there.'

Advice as necessary at the present day as then; for we may enlarge our
stages, increase our supernumeraries, and engage 'real horses;' but we can
never make any one believe the stage is other than the stage. The audience
can realize for themselves. This trust in the all-sufficiency of
imagination is precisely that acted on by children in their daily sports,
where from the boundless wealth of the imagination, the rudest materials
supply the place of the costliest. Whoever watches boys 'playing horse,'
making a pocket-handkerchief dangling behind to represent the tail, and
sees them stamping, snorting, prancing, and champing the imaginary bit,
witnesses the alchymy of the imagination, an alchymy out-stripping all the
wonders and out-weighing all the treasures of the prosaic positive
chemistry, so longed for by the present generation. The child 'supposes'
the handkerchief a tail, and it becomes a tail. He has but to say to his
companion: 'This shall be a whip and this shall be the harness,' and the
things are there; not as matters of literal fact, but of imaginative
truth. He plays for the enjoyment of the game and the exercise of his
imagination; and therefore the handkerchief serves every purpose. This is
the procedure of nature. But the modern parent, anxious to realize for the
child, and to instil a love of accuracy into his mind, gives him a superb
horse-hair tail, bidding him at the same time be careful not to spoil it.
What is the result? The child's attention is called from the game, to the
consideration of or delight in the tail, which, originally meant as a
collateral aid, now takes the first place. The boy no doubt is delighted
with his horse-hair tail; but (if it be not altogether superfluous,) it
will soon destroy his game, so that the exercise, both of frame and
imagination, is lost; the end becomes subordinate to the means. This is
precisely what takes place with the drama. Observe also one important
point: The tail is _real_; accuracy is attempted: but though the tail be
real, the horse is not; the horse is played by a boy, and only by a boy;
it is in this mimicry that the enjoyment consists. But how absurd to put a
real tail on an unreal horse! How revolting this mixture of imagination
and fact! It is equalled only by that ludicrous practice of placing the
face of a _real_ watch in the place of a church-clock in a landscape;
where one may not only see the time of day, but may also hear it _struck_,
and that amidst painted trees and houses! This effect, except to the most
literal and prosaic minds, is revolting and discordant. But this the
modern drama is strenuously endeavoring to produce. 'In opera, ballet, and
spectacle, scenery and illustrations must be effective, because they form
elements of the piece. In the drama, where the source of entertainment is
intellectual, they are merely accessories, and should be used in such wise
as to keep up the harmony of effect, but never so as to distract attention
from the drama to themselves.' Here is a passage which is not less
applicable in America than in England: 'A few years ago it was not
uncommon to see several performers of rival excellence supported by others
of ability, all playing in the same piece. It is now a rare thing for
rivals to play together. A single good actor, among a dozen bad, is deemed
sufficient. Are we then to wonder that the regular drama does not pay?' .
. . OUR readers will remember the order given by the Chinese Emperor to a
corps of Mandarins, who were to exterminate the 'barbarian Englishers' in
the harbor of Canton, by going down to the bank of the river in the night,
and then and there 'dive straight on board those foreign ships, and put
every soul of them to death!' Subsequently however the red-bristling
foreigners managed to land, when, as it since turns out, it became
necessary to adopt more sanguinary measures. The Emperor called up one of
his 'great generals,' and gave him his dreadful orders: 'You must dress
your soldiers,' said he, 'in a very frightful manner, painting their faces
with the most horrid figures, and depicting dragons and monsters on your
banners: you must then rush upon the barbarians with fearful outcries, and
terrify them so that they will fall down flat on their faces; and when
they are once down,' said the Imperial potentate, '_their breeches are so
tight that they can never get up again_!' . . . 'I give you five minutes
every day to look at the stars, but don't particularize; for some in those
far-off places send down their light long after they have been knocked out
of existence, and you may be looking at a blank.' So wrote 'JULIAN' in
this department of our last number. Prof. OLMSTEAD, of Yale-College, in a
recent lecture before the 'Mercantile Library Association,' described the
difficulty of ascertaining the distance of the stars from each other and
from our earth; yet, he remarked, it had been done. The nearest star's
distance from us had been measured, and by the aid of light, by which it
could alone be accomplished. That distance, he said, was immense,
requiring ten years for light to traverse it! The planets, he had no
doubt, were inhabited. Of what use was the reflection of the sun's rays
upon them, if there were no eyes there to behold it? What was the use of
moons, which the planets certainly have? He spoke also of the fixed stars,
which seem by the aid of a telescope to be innumerable. What was their
purpose?--for a guide to mariners? No; for a very small portion of them
could be seen by the unassisted eye. They were suns like our suns, to
worlds like our worlds! To the inhabitants of those fixed stars our sun
appears as a star, and the planetary system revolving around it, of which
the earth is one, are unseen by them, as are those of theirs by us! Great
GOD! 'When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and
the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is _man_, that thou art mindful
of him, and the son of man, that thou visitest him!' . . . OUR
correspondent who writes of '_The Country_,' in preceding pages wields a
facile pen. His allusion to the choice of _names_ for a country-seat
reminds us of the pleasant satire of '_Thinks-I-to-myself_' upon this
theme: 'We lived, you must know,' he writes, 'in a _Hall_; not when I was
born, however, nor till long afterward. My sister happened to have a
correspondent at school near London, who finding it essentially necessary
to the support of her dignity among her school-fellows, always directed
her letters so; for the parents of one she found, lived at something
HOUSE; and of another at What's-its-name PLACE; and of another at
Thingummy _Lodge_; of another at the _Grange_; of another at the _Castle_;
of another at the _Park_; Miss BLAZE, the daughter of a retired
tallow-chandler, whose father lived at Candlewick-Castle, was continually
throwing out hints that not to live at a 'Castle,' or a 'Park,' or a
'Place,' or a 'House,' or a 'Lodge,' unequivocally bespoke a low origin!'
Is this folly altogether indigenous to England? Let the high-sounding
names of scores of painted pine palaces not a thousand miles from this
metropolis make answer. . . . 'IT don't weigh as much as I expected, and I
always _thought_ it wouldn't!' We were reminded of this remark of a person
who desired a certain result, but was at the same time unwilling to
relinquish his pride of opinion, by the note of our Mississippi
correspondent, to whose long communication we alluded in our last number.
We _have_ 'taken its measure,' as we promised, and find it quite beyond
our compass. . . . OUR friend the _Poetical Englishman_ is somewhat severe
upon the godly inhabitants of 'BOTOLPH'S TOWN;' yet we see nothing in his
epistle that is not justified by recent occurrences in the 'Literary
Emporium.' It is lamentable that Boston should be robbed of a decent
theatre by an epidemic of pseudo-sanctity. MACREADY was compelled to play
a recent engagement at a second-rate house, down in the 'Wapping' end of
the town, whither all the beauty and fashion crowded nightly through the
mud to see him. It strikes us that the '_Purification Hymn_,' alluded to
by our correspondent, must have been a choice production of some MAWWORM
of the day. Its reasoning is highly pellucid, and its dignity is past all
question. 'Mimic scenes, and mirth and joy,' it would seem, 'allure souls'
to endless perdition! Now against the licentiousness and drunkenness of
the theatre too much cannot be said; but for 'mimic scenes' dragging men
to ----. But _cui bono_? 'Your dull ass will never mend his pace with
beating.' By the by, we are well pleased to see our English friend's
preference for mind over matter, in the way of _dramatic_ personations.
Yet England has little reason to boast. What says 'the VISCOUNT' to the
Chevalier (d'industrie) PIP? 'What's the good of SHAKSPEARE, PIP? I never
read him. What the devil is it all about? There's a lot of feet in
SHAKSPEARE'S verse, but there ain't any legs worth mentioning in
SHAKSPEARE'S plays, are there, PIP? Juliet, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth, and
all the rest of 'em, whatever their names are, might as well have no legs
at all, for any thing the audience know about it. I'll tell you what it
is; what the people call dramatic poetry is a collection of sermons. Do I
go to the theatre to be lectured? No; if I wanted that, I'd go to church.
What's the legitimate drama, PIP? Human nature. What are legs? Human
nature. Then let us have plenty of leg-pieces, PIP, and I'll stand by you,
my buck!' This is 'the ticket' in London, as well as in 'BOTOLPH his
town.' The 'legs have it' there as well as here. Meanwhile the sometime
gallant Thespian is in a sad plight, from having little to do and little
pay for it. Admirers fall off, one after another, under such
circumstances; and even the gentle sex forget their old enthusiasm:

  'Oh! once again we met, but no bandit-chief was there;
  His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair:
  He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the tavern near
  He cannot liquidate his 'chalk' nor wipe away his beer.
  I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,
  In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.'

And thus he goes on, following his 'occupation' in one sense, and
gradually sinking lower and lower; until at length:

        'ALAS! poor rat!
        He has no cravat;
  A seedy coat, and a hole in that!
  No sole to his shoe, no brim to his hat;
  Not a change of linen, except his skin:
        No gloves, no vest,
        Either second or best;
  And what is worse than all the rest,
  No light heart, though his breeches are thin!

       *       *       *       *       *

IS not the following illustration of '_The Affections_,' by Rev. GEO. B.
CHEEVER, 'beautiful exceedingly?' 'On a bright day in summer, while the
west wind breathes gently, you stand before a forest of maples, or you are
attracted by a beautiful tree in the open field, that seems a dense clump
of foliage. You cannot but notice how easily the wind moves it, how
quietly, how gracefully, how lovingly, the whole body of it. It is simply
because it is covered with foliage. The same wind rustling through its dry
branches in winter, would scarce bend a bough, or only to break it. But
now, softly whispering through ten thousand leaves, how gently the whole
tree yields to the impression! So it is with the affections, the feelings.
They are the foliage of our being, moved by the spirit of GOD.' . . . THE
annual _Festival of Saint Nicholas_, beloved of all good KNICKERBOCKERS,
was celebrated on the sixth ultimo at the City Hotel, by a crowded
assemblage of the members of the Society, and their invited guests. The
new President was invested with the orange-badge and venerable cocked-hat
of his 'illustrious predecessor,' and new subordinate officers were
installed into their several stations; after which ceremony a sumptuous
repast, served in the well-known style of Messrs. JENNINGS AND WILLARD,
was discussed with universal _gout_. For the toasts regular and volunteer,
and speeches voluntary and involuntary, we must refer the reader to the
daily journals 'of that period;' while we simply add, that from soup to
Paaes eggs, _schnaaps_, and pipes, every thing passed off with unwonted
hilarity and spirit. May we live to see fifty kindred gatherings of the
votaries of our patron saint! . . . 'YOU don't like smokin', 'taint
likely?' asked a lank free-and-easy Yankee, as he entered a room where
four or five young ladies were sewing, puffing a dank 'long-nine.' 'Well,
_we do not_,' was the immediate reply. 'Umph!' replied the smoker,
removing his cigar long enough to spit, '_a good many people don't!_'--and
he kept on smoking. We know of _one_ reader of the KNICKERBOCKER, a
thousand miles from the hand that jots down this anecdote, who will enjoy
it hugely; and indeed it is mainly for him that we record it. . . . THIS
is _Thanksgiving Evening_ in the Empire State; and as there is a
fair-haired, hazle-eyed little boy pulling at our 'sword-arm,' (too
fatigued with writing to offer any resistance) suppose we read to you,
while he sits 'throned on his father's knee,' this timely and admirable
passage from the pen of CHARLES HOOVER, Esq., of New-Jersey, a fine
scholar, and a writer of as pure Saxon English as the best among us:

    'THERE is much in the aspect of Divine Providence at the present
    time, both toward our own country and the world, to awaken
    gratitude and thoughtful joy. An unexampled spectacle is
    presented in the current history of the world. It is moving on
    almost without a ripple. The changes of time are taking place as
    noiselessly as the ordinary changes of nature. The decay of old
    and injurious social and political systems is going on like the
    crumbling of ruins in a desert, by the force of inherent
    tendency rather than by external violence; and milder and more
    benignant systems are appearing, not like those islands sprung
    by volcanic shocks above the bosom of the deep, but like the
    beauty of spring, or the glory of summer, by a natural and
    imperceptible growth. Within the memory of many yet living there
    was a very different state of things. Scarcely a month then
    passed without a shock, a press and medley in human affairs that
    amazed and bewildered men, and kept anxiety on the stretch. Such
    was the history of Europe. Every change was a concussion; every
    fear a storm; every revolution a convulsion. Not less in motion
    is society now, but it is like the motion of the spheres, grand
    and silent; and that silence is the emblem and the evidence of
    greatness and power in the present movement of Providence in
    human affairs. The once apparently random and divergent lines of
    that Providence now seem to be flowing to a common point, and
    terminating in one great result--the improvement and happiness
    of our race. Abating much of what has been extravagantly vaunted
    about the march of mind and the perfectibility of human society,
    it is still visibly true that the general condition of the world
    is improved and improving. Vast accessions have been made to
    science; knowledge has been diffused over a wider surface, than
    was ever before known; ignorance is felt to be a calamity if not
    a crime; truths that were formerly contemplated only in the
    closet of the sage, have become familiarized in the cottage and
    the common mind; the rights of men are better defined and
    understood; the power of rulers is swayed within juster limits,
    and is every where abandoning its old apparatus of racks and
    halters and dungeons as the means of governing immortal mind,
    and is silently conceding to it its alienable prerogative of
    free thought.'

       *       *       *       *       *

WE have little to chronicle of _The Drama_ proper this month. _Music_,
vocal and instrumental, has kept this branch of the fine arts somewhat in
the back-ground. We have had the pleasure to see Mr. MACREADY once only at
the Park, on which occasion he personated the character of MELANTIUS in
'_The Bridal_' with transcendent power. We have seen this fine actor in no
part, if we except perhaps that of Werner, in which his genius shone so
conspicuous. He was admirably supported by the scarcely subordinate
characters represented by WHEATLY, RIDER, Miss CUSHMAN, and Mrs. H. HUNT.
Mr. WHEATLY has evidently much of 'the heavy business' at the Park upon
his broad shoulders, for he appears in two or three pieces almost every
night. On the occasion alluded to, no sooner had the curtain risen after
'The Bridal,' than we found him making Stentorian love ('in a horn') to
the 'Dumb Belle' of the evening, in which he excited shouts of uproarious
laughter. At the BOWERY THEATRE, as well as at the CHATHAM, '_The
Mysteries of Paris_' has run a most successful career. The OLYMPIC has
been crowded nightly by the mingled attractions of opera and travestie;
while the BOWERY AMPHITHEATRE and ROCKWELL'S Circus at NIBLO'S, have
shared abundantly in the favor bestowed now-a-days upon popular
entertainments. . . . 'DRESS always and _act_ to please your partner for
life, as you were fain to do before the nuptial-knot was tied.' This is an
old maxim, and here is 'a commentator upon it.' A newly-married lady is
suddenly surprised by a visit from a newly-married man, when she
straightway begins to apologize: 'She is horribly chagrined, and out of
countenance, to be caught in such a dishabille; she did not mind how her
clothes were huddled on, not expecting any company, there being nobody at
home but her husband!' The husband meanwhile shakes the visitor's hand,
and says: 'I am heartily glad to see you, JACK: I don't know how it was, I
was almost asleep; for as there was nobody at home but my wife, I did not
know what to do with myself!' . . . THE beautiful lines by Mrs. M. T. W.
CHANDLER, elsewhere in the present number, illustrate, or are illustrated
by the following passage from WARREN HASTING'S eloquent reflections upon
the changes to which the SOUL is destined hereafter: 'When the hour is at
hand which is to dissolve the mortal tie, the soul parts without regret
with those delights which it received from its sensual gratifications, and
dwells only, dwells with a fond affection, on the partner or pledges of
its love; or on friends from whom it seems to be cut off for ever; and if
it looks, as it must look, to futurity, these are the first objects of its
wishes connected with it, and the first ingredients in its conceptions of
celestial felicity. For my own part (and on a subject like this, where can
we so properly appeal as to ourselves?) although my reason dictates to me
the hope of a future happiness, whatever may be the mode of it, yet my
heart feels no interest in the prospect when viewed as a scene of
solitary, selfish enjoyment. It recoils with horror at the thought of
losing the remembrance of every past connexion, and even of those whom it
loved most dearly, and of being forgotten by them utterly and for ever. Is
this too, it asks, one of the delusions of life? No; for all its other
passions expire before it; but this remains, like hope, 'nor leaves us
when we die.'' . . . THE '_Anglo-American_' literary journal has just
issued to its subscribers one of the finest counterfeit presentments of
WASHINGTON that we have ever seen. It is a print almost the size of a
full-length cabinet portrait in oil, engraved in a masterly manner by
HALPIN after GILBERT STUART'S celebrated picture. If this superior
engraving is a sample of what the patrons of the 'Anglo-American' are
hereafter to expect from its publishers, it is easy to foresee that that
spirited journal has entered upon a long career of popularity. . . . 'T.'S
'_Stanzas_' await his order at the publication-office. They are far from
lacking merit, but are in parts artificial and labored. Lines eked out
with accented letters, in which

  ----'all the syllables that end in ed,
  Like old dragoons, have cuts across the head,'

always seem to us to come rather from the head than the heart. We shall
expect, nevertheless, to hear from our friend again, according to promise.
. . .  WE 'stop the press' to announce that Mr. PUNCH has just dropped in
from England, bringing the latest intelligence from 'the other side.' He
has lately visited several places on the continent, not so much to see
them as to be enabled to say, like other English travellers, that he _had
been there_. 'Mr. PUNCH, having arrived at Rouen late at night, left it
very early the next morning, much impressed with the institutions of the
city, both civil and architectural, as well as its manners, customs, and
social life, which he is about to embody in a work called '_Six hours and
a half at Rouen_,' to be brought out by a fashionable publisher.' From the
reports of one of the learned societies, we derive the following important
scientific information: 'Mr. SAPPY read a paper, proving the impossibility
of being able to see into the middle of next week, from known facts with
regard to the equation of time. He stated that, supposing it possible for
a person to ascend in a balloon sufficiently high for his vision to
embrace a distance of seven hundred miles from east to west, he would then
only see forty minutes ahead of him; that is, he would see places where
the day was forty minutes in advance of the day in which he lived. Thus he
might be said to see forty minutes into futurity. It has also been proved
that, in sailing round the world in one direction, a day's reckoning is
gained; so that the sailor on his return finds himself to be 'a man in
advance of his age' by one day. This one day, however, is the farthest
attainable limit; and it is therefore impossible to see into the middle of
next Week!' 'Mr. TITE, proprietor of the 'Metropolitan Bakedtatery'
brought forward his new 'Low Pressure Potatoe-Can,' upon an improved
principle. It was constructed of tin, and warranted to sustain a pressure
of twenty potatoes upon the square bottom. Mr. TITE explained that the
steam had nothing to do with the warmth of the fruit, but was quite
independent of it.' 'Mr. FLIT brought forward his new and improved Street
Telescope for looking at the moon. It was most ingeniously constructed,
being to the eye a fine instrument of six feet long. Mr. FLIT explained,
however, that the telescope itself was only an eighteen-inch one, the case
being manufactured to increase its importance, in which the real glass was
enclosed. The chief merit of this invention was, that the moon could be
seen equally well on cloudy nights, or when there was none at all, the
case enclosing an ingenious transparency of that body, behind which a
small lamp was hung. Mr. FLIT could always command a view of any of the
celestial bodies by the same means.' Here are a few items of law from
'_The Comic Blackstone_:' 'The statute of EDWARD the Fourth, prohibiting
any but lords from wearing pikes on their shoes of more than two inches
long, was considered to savor of oppression; but those who were in the
habit of receiving from a lord more kicks than coppers, would consider
that the law savored of benevolence.' 'Unlawfully detaining a man in any
way is imprisonment; so that if you take your neighbor by the button, and
cause him to listen to a long story, you are guilty of imprisonment.'
PUNCH'S idea of '_Woman's Mission_' differs somewhat from other reformers
of the times: 'To replace the shirt-button of the father, the brother, the
husband, which has come off in putting on the vestment; to bid the
variegated texture of the morning slipper or the waistcoat grow upon the
Berlin wool; to repair the breach that incautious haste in dressing has
created in the coat or the trowsers, which there is no time to send out to
be mended; are the special offices of woman; offices for which her digital
mechanism has singularly fitted her.' Apropos of '_Missions_:' we perceive
that DICKENS understands this vague verbal apology for eccentricity or
humbugeousness, if we interpret aright his frail and tearful MODDLE; 'who
talked much about people's 'missions,' upon which he seemed to have some
private information not generally attainable,' and who, 'being aware that
a shepherd's mission was to pipe to his flock, and that a boatswain's
mission was to pipe all hands, and that one man's mission was to be a paid
piper, and another man's mission was to pay the piper, had got it into his
head that his own peculiar mission was to pipe his eye, which he did
perpetually.' . . . A CURIOUS volume has recently appeared in Paris,
entitled '_Poesies Populaires Latines anterieures au Douzieme Siecle_;'
and as sequels to the work, are certain satires upon the avarice and
corruption of the papal government in the twelfth century, among which is
the following curious parody:


    '_Here beginneth the Gospel according to Marks of silver._--In
    that time the pope said to the Romans: When the son of man
    cometh to the seat of our majesty, say ye first, Friend, what
    seekest thou? But if he continue knocking, and give you nothing,
    cast him out into utter darkness. And it came to pass that a
    certain poor clerk came to the court of our lord the pope, and
    cried out, saying, Have pity on me at least you, O gate-keepers
    of the pope, for the hand of poverty hath touched me. Verily I
    am needy and poor; therefore, I pray ye, relieve my calamity and
    my wretchedness. But they, when they heard him, were very wroth,
    and said, Friend, thy poverty be with thee to perdition! get
    behind me, Sathanas, for thou art not wise in the wisdom of
    money. Verily, verily I say unto thee, thou shalt not enter into
    the joy of thy lord until thou hast given thy last farthing. And
    the poor man departed, and sold his cloak and his coat and all
    that he had, and gave it to the cardinals and to the
    gate-keepers; and they said, What is this among so many? And
    they cast him out before the doors; and he went out, and wept
    bitterly, and might not be comforted. Then there came to the
    court a certain rich clerk, great and fat and swollen, who in a
    riot had slain a man. He gave first to the gate-keeper, secondly
    to the chamberlain, thirdly to the cardinals; but they thought
    among themselves that they should have received more. And when
    our lord the pope heard that the cardinals and ministers had
    received many gifts of the clerk, he became sick unto death. But
    the rich man sent him a medicine of gold and silver, and
    immediately he was cured. Then our lord the pope called to him
    the cardinals and ministers, and said to them, Brethren, see
    that no one seduce you with empty words; for I give you an
    example, that as I myself receive, so receive ye.'

The corruptions of this era are equally well illustrated by a very amusing
anecdote of 'a handsome Italian friar, _teres atque rotundus_, about
thirty, and extremely bold and eloquent;' doubtless one of that class so
felicitously limned by THOMSON:

  'A little round, fat, oily man of GOD
  Was one I chiefly marked among the fry;
  He had a roguish twinkle in his eye
  And shone all glittering with ungodly dew,
  If a tight damsel chanced to trippen by;
  Which when observed he shrunk into his mew,
  And straight would recollect his piety anew.'

One day at a remote confessional of the church he declared an unholy and
forbidden passion to a young and beautiful married lady, whom he had long
'followed with his eyes,' and begged permission to visit her at her
residence. Struck with surprise at this new revelation of his character,
she evaded reply, being secretly minded to inform her husband, when she
returned home, which she did, word for word. He told his wife to contrive
to let the friar come, alone and in secret, the next evening, which
chanced to be that of Saturday, and the night before the Sunday of Saint
Lazarus, on which occasion the friar was to preach. The appointment was
made; the friar came, true to the late hour which had been designated; was
received at the door, and shown into the lady's bed-room by a servant, who
informed him that she had desired him to request the good man to retire to
rest, and to say that 'she would be with him straight.' The friar prepared
to comply with the direction, and was about stepping into bed, when the
door opened suddenly, and the lady entered in great apparent trepidation,
exclaiming: 'My husband is knocking at the door! For heaven's sake slip
into that chest,' showing him a double one in the apartment, 'and lie
there until I see what may be done! Meanwhile I will hide your clothes
somewhere or other, as well as I am able. Heaven knows I fear more for
your holy person than I do for my own life!' The unfortunate wretch,
seeing himself reduced to such a pass, did as the worthy lady desired;
while the husband, presently coming in, retired to rest with his wife, who
had first locked the friar safe in the chest. The poor prisoner uttered
sundry involuntary noises in the course of the night, and was in the
direst terror at the inquiries which they awakened on the part of the
husband. Daylight at length came, and the church-bells began to ring for
prayers, which greatly annoyed the captive, who was to preach at the
cathedral. The husband having risen, ordered two servants to carry the
chest to the church and place it in the middle, saying they were ordered
to do so by the preacher; and that unlocking the chest without raising the
lid, they should leave it there; all which the fellows did very neatly.
Every body stared, and wondered what all this could mean; some said one
thing and some another. At last the bell having ceased to ring, and no one
appearing in the pulpit, or any other part of the church, a young man rose
and said: 'Really, the good friar makes us wait quite too long; pray let
us see what he has ordered to be brought in this chest.' Having said this
much, he before all the congregation lifted up the lid, and looking in,
beheld the friar in his shirt, pale, almost frightened to death, and
certainly appearing more dead than alive, and as if buried in the chest.
Finding himself discovered, however, he collected his mind as well as he
could, and stood upright, to the great astonishment of all present; and
having taken his text from the Sunday of Lazarus, he thus addressed his
congregation: 'My dear brethren: I am not at all astonished at your
surprise in seeing me brought before you in this chest, or rather at my
ordering myself to be brought thus: ye know that this is the way in which
our holy church commemorates the wonderful miracle our LORD performed on
the person of LAZARUS, in raising him from the dead who had been buried
four days. I was desirous in your favor to present myself to you as it
were in the form of LAZARUS, in order that seeing me in this chest, which
is no other than an emblem of the sepulchre wherein he had been buried,
you might be moved more effectually to the consideration of what
perishable things we are; and that seeing me stripped of all worldly
decorations, thus in my shirt, you may be convinced of the vanity of the
things of this world, the which, if only duly considered, may tend greatly
to the amending of our lives. Will you believe that since yesterday night
I have been a thousand times dead, and revived as LAZARUS was; and
considering my dreadful situation, remember (as it were with the memory of
a similar penance in your hearts) that we must all die, and trust to HIM
who can bestow upon us life eternal: but first ye must die to sin, to
avarice, to rapine, to lust, and all those sinful deeds to which our
nature prompts us.' In such language, and in such manner, did the friar
continue his sermon. The husband, astonished at the extraordinary presence
of mind which he displayed, laughed heartily at his success; and in
consideration of the adroitness of the culprit, did not attempt any
farther revenge; 'but,' it is added, 'he took very good care to shut his
door in future against all such double-faced hypocrites.' . . . READER,
what are you thinking of at this moment? 'Nothing.' Indeed! and so were
we, and of how much a clever man once said upon the subject; observe:
'Philosophers have declared they knew nothing, and it is common for us to
talk about doing nothing; for from ten to twenty we go to school to be
taught what from twenty to thirty we are very apt to forget; from thirty
to forty we begin to settle; from forty to fifty, we think away as fast as
we can; from fifty to sixty, we are very careful in our accounts; and from
sixty to seventy, we cast up what all our thinking comes to; and then,
what between our losses and our gains, our enjoyments and our inquietudes,
even with the addition of old age, we can but strike a balance of
ciphers.' Happy are they who amidst the variations of nothing have nothing
to fear; if they have nothing to lose, they have nothing to lament; and if
they have done nothing to be ashamed of, they have every thing to hope
for. . . . SENTENTIOUSNESS, let us inform 'S.' of Cambridge, and
antitheses, do not consist of short sentences and inversion of words
_merely_; and even the most felicitous examples in each case often
sacrifice the sound to the sense. Here is an instance which is
unobjectionable: 'I knew the old miser well. He amassed a fortune by
raising hemp; and if he had had his deserts, would have died as he lived
by it.' . . . JUST as the sheets of this department were passing to the
press, we received the announcement of a public exhibition of two
collections of pictures, which we have seen, and to which we cannot resist
the impulse of directing the public attention. At the rooms of the
National Academy, corner of Broadway and Leonard-street, may be seen Mr.
COLE'S allegorical pictures of 'The Voyage of Life,' heretofore noticed at
length in these pages; '_Mount AEtna, from Taormina, Sicily_,' one of the
most noble paintings that ever came from this eminent artist's pencil;
'Angels ministering to Christ in the Wilderness;' 'The Past and the
Present;' 'A View of Ruined Aqueducts in the Campagna di Roma,' and other
pictures; altogether, an exceedingly fine collection. Indeed, the superb
view of AEtna alone, with its vast and sublime accessories, is of itself an
exhibition worth twice the price of admission. At the rooms of the APOLLO
ASSOCIATION, nearly opposite the Hospital, in Broadway, Mr. HARVEY'S
series of _Forty Historic or Atmospheric American Landscape Scenes_ are to
be seen for a short time. It needed not the high patronage of Queen
VICTORIA, the praises of English royalty and nobility, nor the warm
encomiums of ALLSTON, SULLY, MOORE, and others, to secure attention to
these graphic sketches from nature. They are their own best
recommendation. Trust our verdict, reader, and go and _see_ if they are
not. . . . 'TERPSICHORE' is the title of a very spirited satirical poem
read at the annual dinner of the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Cambridge
University in August last, by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, and copied in
'_Graham's Magazine_' for January. We subjoin a passage which although
abundantly poetical contains yet more truth than poetry. It 'bases' upon
the DICKENS dinner:

  HE for whose sake the glittering show appears
  Has sown the world with laughter and with tears,
  And they whose welcome wets the bumper's brim
  Have wit and wisdom--for they all quote him.
  So, many a tongue the evening hour prolongs
  With spangled speeches, let alone the songs;
  Statesmen grow merry, young attorneys laugh,
  And weak teetotals warm to half-and-half,
  And beardless Tullys, new to festive scenes,
  Cut their first crop of youth's precocious greens;
  And wits stand ready for impromptu claps,
  With loaded barrels and percussion-caps;
  And Pathos, cantering through the minor keys,
  Waves all her onions to the trembling breeze;
  While the great Feasted views with silent glee
  His scattered limbs in Yankee fricassee.

  Sweet is the scene where genial friendship plays
  The pleasing game of interchanging praise;
  Self-love, grimalkin of the human heart,
  Is ever pliant to the master's art;
  Soothed with a word, she peacefully withdraws
  And sheaths in velvet her obnoxious claws,
  And thrills the hand that smooths her glossy fur
  With the light tremor of her gentle pur.

  But what sad music fills the quiet hall
  If on her back a feline rival fall!
  And oh! what noises shake the tranquil house,
  If old SELF-INTEREST cheats her of a mouse!

  Thou, O my country! hast thy foolish ways,
  Too apt to pur at every stranger's praise:
  But if the stranger touch thy modes or laws,
  Off goes the velvet and out come the claws!

  And thou, Illustrious! but too poorly paid
  In toasts from Pickwick for thy great crusade,
  Though while the echoes labored with thy name
  The public trap denied thy little game,
  Let other lips our jealous laws revile--
  The marble TALFOURD or the rude CARLYLE;
  But on thy lids, that Heaven forbids to close
  Where'er the light of kindly nature glows,
  Let not the dollars that a churl denies
  Weigh like the shillings on a dead man's eyes!
  Or, if thou wilt, be more discreetly blind,
  Nor ask to see all wide extremes combined;
  Not in our wastes the dainty blossoms smile
  That crowd the gardens of thy scanty isle;
  There white-cheek'd Luxury weaves a thousand charms,
  Here sun-browned Labor swings his Cyclop arms;
  Long are the furrows he must trace between
  The ocean's azure and the prairies' green;
  Full many a blank his destined realm displays,
  Yet see the promise of his riper days:
  Far through yon depths the panting engine moves,
  His chariots ringing in their steel-shod groves,
  And Erie's naiad flings her diamond wave
  O'er the wild sea-nymph in her distant cave:
  While tasks like these employ his anxious hours,
  What if his corn-fields are not edged with flowers?
  Though bright as silver the meridian beams
  Shine through the crystal of thine English streams,
  Turbid and dark the mighty wave is whirled
  That drains our Andes and divides a world.

Under the similitude of a _German-silver-spoon_, 'used by dabblers in
aesthetic tea,' we have the annexed palpable hit at the small-beer
imitators of CARLYLE, and copyists after the external garb of the German
school, who have occasionally shown themselves up in the pages of 'The
Dial,' a work which formerly 'indicated rather the place of the moon than
the sun:'

  SMALL as it is, its powers are passing strange;
  For all who use it show a wondrous change,
  And first, a fact to make the barbers stare,
  It beats Macassar for the growth of hair:
  See those small youngsters whose expansive ears
  Maternal kindness grazed with frequent shears;
  Each bristling crop a dangling mass becomes,
  And all the spoonies turn to Absaloms!
  Nor this alone its magic power displays--
  It alters strangely all their works and ways;
  With uncouth words they tire their tender lungs,
  The same bald phrases on their hundred tongues;
  'Ever' 'The Ages' in their page appear,
  'Alway' the bedlamite is called a 'Seer;'
  On every leaf the 'earnest' sage may scan,
  Portentious bore! their 'many-sided' man;
  A weak eclectic, groping, vague and dim,
  Whose every angle is a half-starved whim,
  Blind as a mole and curious as a lynx,
  Who rides a beetle which he calls a 'Sphinx.'

  And O what questions asked in club-foot rhyme
  Of Earth the tongueless and the deaf-mute Time!
  Here babbling 'Insight' shouts in Nature's ears
  His last conundrum on the orbs and spheres;
  There Self-inspection sucks its little thumb,
  With 'Whence am I?' and 'Wherefore did I come?'
  Deluded infants! will they ever know
  Some doubts must darken o'er the world below,
  Though all the Platos of the nursery trail
  Their 'clouds of glory' at the go-cart's tail?

We should exceedingly like to hear Mr. A. BRONSON ALCOTT'S opinion as
touching the _faithfulness_ of the foregoing. . . . THERE is a fearful
lesson conveyed in the annexed communication from a metropolitan
physician, who assures us that it is in all respects an accurate statement
of an occurrence to which he was an eye-witness: 'Duty impels me, Mr.
EDITOR, to lay before you one of the little incidents which my situation
as a medical man has brought to my notice. There is no class of men who
are led with keener perceptions to investigate human nature than
enlightened practising physicians. They have a hold upon the affections
and confidence of every class of society; and for this reason they should
feel it incumbent upon themselves to act the part of _moral_ as well as
_physical_ agents. For myself, I think it would be well if medical men
were so far constituted missionaries, as to make it a duty to point a
moral whenever it would be likely to be well received. I am aware that
attempts of this sort with many persons would be vain or injudicious, and
sometimes nauseate perhaps, like the accompanying drugs; but eventually it
might prove salutary to the soul; and although cursed for good advice, is
it not in the end a blessing? But to my story: I was called a short time
since to a youth about twenty years of age: he had been only a few months
in the city, and I had occasionally seen him, but had little acquaintance
with him, being much his senior. When I entered, one of his fits of
raving, occasioned by fever, was just coming on. I approached and took his
hand: 'What do you want?' said he; 'you look so mild and yet so
penetrating. I have not got any.' 'Any _what_?' said I. 'Any money,' he
replied; 'the drawer was locked, and I could not get any without being
seen; so go away!' 'I came to cure you, not to take your money,' I
replied. 'Ah!' said he, 'did I not take some from you? Look! look! There
they come! sixpences, shillings!  See! see! how they tumble from the wall!
Look! there is a piece of gold!  See! look! there they keep coming!  I
never took all this!--at first I only took enough to get a cigar with, now
and then. See! the room is filling! I shall suffocate!' 'What does this
mean, young man?' said I; 'be calm.' 'Did they not tell you to _come and
feel my pulse and see if there was not a sixpence in it_?' 'No, no; I came
to make you better.' 'Better? _better_? BETTER? Here, hide these; don't
let my friends know of them; they were stolen! I cannot look at them now.
Ha! ha! ha!--I cannot!' I was induced to remain until the frenzy of the
fever had passed off, and found the young man had intervals of reason. He
was now in deep despondency. I inquired his name. He had dropped it, he
said; he could not debase it. 'Debase it?' said I.  'Yes!' he answered,
with a groan like a howl. The next day the young man sent for me again. He
appeared much altered; said that he did not wish to live; that he had '_a
gnawing at his soul_.' I remarked that he was very young to be tired of
life; that if he had been guilty of any crime he should desire to live to
expiate it. 'No,' he replied, 'the stain will always last!' I told him,
not so; that if he heartily repented and turned to the right source for
consolation, it would be vouchsafed him. 'I feel that I cannot live,' he
replied, 'and my friends will be better satisfied to know that I am
repentant in my last moments, and that I am gone, than they would be to
think of me as a vagabond, let loose upon society: they will at least feel
that I shall 'cease from troubling.' I have not the excuse that many
delinquents have pleaded, early initiation into vice. My childhood was
passed with pious relatives, who labored to instil religious principles
into my mind; but I 'would none of their reproof.' My friends not being
wealthy, I was left at a proper age to my own resources. I found a
situation where my talents were appreciated by my employer, and perhaps
too highly estimated by myself. I had a brother who was ten years my
senior, whom I loved and esteemed--may Heaven keep him in blessed
ignorance of my fate!--but I thought less highly of his intellect when I
saw him excited by some sublime hymn, which angels might listen to, than I
did of my own, when I turned from the devotions of the Sabbath to join my
idle companions. In the situation I held, I might have gained
respectability; but my besetting sin betrayed me so often, that the kind
indulgence of a good master could no longer conceal my crimes. I now see
that the sting inflicted by vice must and _will_ remain! We may repent, we
may be forgiven; but the mind will not part with its bitter
recollections!' I was here called away for a few moments, and when I
returned, the unhappy young man was in the land of spirits! I learned that
he was engaged to a highly amiable young lady, who relinquished him, and
shortly afterward died of a broken heart. _Her_ sad fate threw him into a
brain-fever, and as you perceive, decided _his_ likewise. Incidents like
these I am aware have often been narrated; yet if the tragedy which I have
depicted should be blessed to the use of any young man abandoned to
temptation and addicted to small crimes, and lead him to reflection, it
will be a gratification to feel that my feeble effort, with Heaven's help,
has proved 'a word in season.''  . . . THERE are inequalities of merit in
the '_Dirge_' of 'D. D.' of Hartford, though the _spirit_ of the verse is
tender and touching. We annex a few stanzas, in illustration of our
encomium:

  THRUST him in his narrow bed,
  Heap the cold earth on his head,
  But be sure no tear ye shed--
        Not a tear for him!

  Bitter toil was his from birth,
  Dearly bought his homely mirth,
  While his master was of earth--
        Now he's of the sky.

  Death knocked at his door at night,
  With his crushing hand of might,
  Woke him to that morning light
        Which can know no noon!

  When that sacred morning beam
  Wakes his spirit, life shall seem
  But a dreary changeful dream--
        Soon o'er, and not too soon!

  Patiently for few long years,
  Struggling with earth's giant fears,
  With hands too busy to wipe tears,
        Met he life's long shock.

  Yet not all blank and desolate
  Was this poor man's earthly state;
  Hope, toil, content, can soften fate,
        As the moss the rock.

  O! lost Brother! still and cold,
  Sunk like rain into the mould,
  Silently, unseen, untold--
        Thou 'rt a GOD-sown seed!


It is a sad sight to look upon the corpse of a laborer, cut down in the
midst of a toilsome life; his hard, knotty hands clasped upon the still
breast, and the strong limbs laid in serene repose. And yet how happy the
change! No longer does he ask leave to toil; no longer is he at war with
poverty, for death has made it a drawn battle. He 'rests from his labors'
where the rich and the poor meet together, and he hears no more the voice
of the oppressor. . . . PERHAPS our readers will have observed that the
_Sketches of East Florida_ are from no common pen. The description which
has been given by the writer, of the delicious climate in that sunny
region, may to many 'Northeners' seem exaggerated; but such is not the
fact. A friend writing recently from St. Augustine, thus playfully alludes
to the effect which the climate produces upon a New-Yorker: 'If a
business-man could be caught up from the whirl of Broadway, and dropped in
a warm climate, say that of St. Augustine, and left under a fig-tree to
his own reflections, his first thought doubtless would be for an omnibus
'right up.' 'Rather queer!' he would say; 'a hot sun, sandy street, and
not a carriage to be seen! There's a man out in his slippers, and a woman
with her head tied up in a handkerchief--may-be a night-cap; probably some
old Dutch settlers that went to-sleep with RIP VAN WINKLE. Wild turkeys,
as I live, all about the market!--and oh, LORD! there's a little <DW65>
with only a shirt on! Halloo there! you little <DW65>! tell me the way to
the Broadway coaches! No coaches? no omnibii? Well, where's your
five-o'clock boats?--where's your Harlaem rail-road? I want to go back to
town!' Such would probably be his first go-off; and the next impulse would
be to run, shout, cry fire! or murder!--any thing to produce a sensation;
but unless very soon about it, he would find himself yielding to some
strange influence hitherto unfelt; and it would be amusing to notice how
soon the fretting restless man of the forty-second latitude would be tamed
down in the thirteenth to the equanimity of a child asleep. The climate
enters within the man, and brings out one by one some hidden and better
impulse, at the same time laying a gentle hand upon his rougher humors; so
that when he would shout, he hums, and when he would laugh, he smiles
only; and in undertaking to run, he is caught about the waist; and goes
floating smoothly around in the ground-swell motion of the Spanish-dance.'
. . . WE perceive that the _Copy-right Question_ has been thus early
brought before the National Legislature. From the present aspect of things
we may indulge a well-grounded hope that authors who have worn themselves
out in making other people happy, will not hereafter be left to perish
amidst age and infirmity, unrelieved by the fruit of their labors. There
is one argument exceedingly well illustrated in the recent address of the
'Copy-right Club.' In allusion to the floods of trash which have for
months inundated the Atlantic cities and towns, the writer, addressing
himself to American citizens, observes: 'In all other circumstances and
questions save that of a literature, you have taken the high ground of
freedom and self-reliance. You have neither asked, nor loaned, nor
besought, but with your own hands have framed, what the occasion required.
Whatever stature you have grown to as a nation, it is due to that sole
virtue; and by its exercise may you only hope to hold your place. In
almost any other shape than that of silent books you would have spurned
the foreign and held fast to the home-born; but stealing in quietly at
every opening, making themselves the seemingly inoffensive and unobtrusive
lodgers in every house, they have full possession of the country in all
its parts; and another people may promise themselves in the next
generation of Americans, (as the question now goes,) a restored dominion
which their arms were not able to keep. The pamphlet will carry the day
where the soldier fell back.' . . . WE derive the annexed stanzas through
a Boston correspondent. He assures us that the work of art which they
commemorate is most honorable to the genius of the sculptor, who has been
winning laurels ever since his removal to the tasteful city:


LINES

WRITTEN ON COMPLETING A MARBLE BUST OF THE LATE WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

BY M. A. BRACKETT.

  UPWARD unto the living light
    Intensely thou dost gaze,
  As if thy very soul wouldst seek
    In that far distant maze

  Communion with those heavenly forms
    That lifting to the sight
  Their golden wings and snowy robes,
    Float on a sea of light.

  Anon far, far away they glide,
    Shooting through realms of bliss,
  Till from the spirit's eye they fade
    In heaven's own bright abyss.

  Such are the visions thou dost wake,
    Such are the thoughts that rise
  In him who 'neath thy upturned brow
    Beholds thy spirit-eyes.

  There is no stain upon that brow;
    Pure as thy holy life
  Serene and calm, thy heavenly face--
    Within, no wasting strife.

  How strangely have the swift hours flown
    As o'er the shapeless pile
  I poured the full strength of my soul,
    Lost to all else the while!

  When fell the last faint stroke which told
    That thou and I must part,
  That all of life that I could give
    Was thine, how throbbed my heart!

  Yet to this form that I have reared
    Should aught of praise belong,
  Not unto me the merit due,
    But Him who made me strong:

  Who with his ever fostering care
    My wayward steps did guide,
  Through paths of flowers, in beauty cloth'd,
    Along life's sunny tide.

  Semblance of him, the great, the good,
    Whose task on earth is done;
  Of those that walked in beauty's light
    Thou wert the chosen one!

       *       *       *       *       *

WE should like to see in some appropriate journal a sketch of the
_Progress of Mechanics in the United States_. Without any question, the
Americans are, in respect of that branch of science, behind no nation or
people on earth. And yet no longer ago than 1791, a clock-maker from
London, after public advertisement of his arrival from England for that
purpose, visited our scattered cities and towns to repair clocks! 'Yankee
ingenuity' was not then as now synonymous with the accomplishment of _any_
thing that can either be fabricated or 'fixed'. . . . WE have no
remembrance of the communication referred to in a note from a
correspondent at Albany, in which we find the following sentences: 'If
received, I hope it was not amenable to the censure in a late number of
the KNICKERBOCKER, of certain correspondence, for having been written 'too
carefully.' Now I do flatter myself upon so _writing_, that compositors
can have no excuse for blunders, though I am well aware that to be
esteemed a Genious, one's chirography should very nearly approach
unintelligibility. If this be true, the patience and good nature of an
Editor must be severely tried; but I incline to the opinion that a man of
Genious need not model after BYRON's facsimile,' and so forth. Our
correspondent _does_ write a good hand; so good indeed, that we lament, as
we gaze at it, that he does not know how to _spell_. A man may certainly
be a '_Genious_' without being able to write a clerkly hand; but a man who
is _not_ a 'Genious,' ought at least to be able to spell the word. As to
writing 'too carefully,' our censor has mistaken the letter for the spirit
of our remarks. . . . THE lines '_To my Mother_' are replete with the
poetry of _feeling_. Their literary execution however is marred by
deficiencies, which although slight, require amending. Our correspondent
we are sure has the true poetical vein; and we shall not despair of
hearing from her again. . . . A VERY 'inquiring' correspondent desires to
know 'whether there is any thing below a _quartette_, in music?--a
_pintette_ or a _gillette_?' He is also anxious, he says, to 'ascertain
whether PUFFER HOPKINS is any relation to the pious poet who was in
partnership in the psalm and hymn way with old Uncle STERNHOLD, a great
many years ago.' Moreover, he considers it 'a little curious' that a black
hen should lay a white egg; and states that he 'would give something
handsome to be certain whether or no NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S hands, when he was
out on grass, grew six-penny or ten-penny nails!' His remaining queries
are profane; indeed, the last one goes somewhat too near the edge. . . .
'EVER anxious to please,' as the advertisements have it, we have placed
the original department of the KNICKERBOCKER in a larger type; and it
seems to us that we may ask with some confidence whether our readers ever
saw a Magazine in a neater garniture than 'this same?' Only have the
consideration to _reciprocate_ our endeavors to please you, good PUBLIC,
and you 'shall see what you shall see.' There are certain delinquents upon
our books, to whom we would venture to insinuate, in the most delicate
manner conceivable, that 'it is high time somebody had a sight of
somebody's money.' . . . A NEW style of frames for drawings, engravings,
paintings, looking-glasses, etc., has recently been brought to great
perfection, and into very general favor, by Mr. WEISER, at No. 43
Centre-street, near Pearl. They are composed externally of
_glass-veneerings_, beautifully painted and shaded, so as to resemble
different-tinted woods, tortoise-shell, or indeed any other colors that
may be desired. These are painted on the inner side of the glass, which is
so firmly cemented to the wood-frames as to be little liable to injury
from jarring or even falling. With a gilt beading, they have a very
beautiful appearance, by reason of the admirable lustre of the glass,
which gives to them a polish finer than that of the most susceptible
woods. They are, in short, exceedingly handsome, easily kept clean, always
new and fresh, and what is worthy of mention, much cheaper than wood or
gilt.

       *       *       *       *       *

.*. WILL our readers have the kindness to exhibit the ADVERTISEMENT OF OUR
TWENTY-THIRD VOLUME to their friends? It will be found on the second and
third pages of the cover of the present number; and they can testify to
the accuracy of its unexaggerated statements. Many articles in prose and
verse await examination or insertion, and a more particular reference
hereafter. Notices are in type of new publications from the presses of
Messrs. BURGESS AND STRINGER, M. W. DODD, J. WINCHESTER, the LANGLEY'S,
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, M. H. NEWMAN, WILEY AND PUTNAM, and of the
'Columbian Magazine,' which we are reluctantly compelled to defer to our
February issue.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly
Magazine, January 1844, by Various

*** 