{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20444/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20444","id":"gutenberg_20444","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20444","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Poetry","Periodicals","The Knickerbocker"],"text":"Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    T H E  K N I C K E R B O C K E R.\n\nVOL. XXIII.      MARCH, 1844.      NO. 3.\n\n\n\n\nWHAT IS TRANSCENDENTALISM?\n\nBY A THINKING MAN.\n\n\nThis question has often been asked but seldom answered satisfactorily.\nNewspaper editors and correspondents have frequently attempted a practical\nelucidation of the mystery, by quoting from their own brains the rarest\npiece of absurdity which they could imagine, and entitling it\n'Transcendentalism.' One good hit of this kind may be well enough, by way\nof satire upon the fogginess of certain writers who deem themselves, and\nare deemed by the multitude, transcendental _par excellence_. COLERIDGE\nhowever thought that to parody stupidity by way of ridiculing it, only\nproves the parodist more stupid than the original blockhead. Still, one\nsuch attempt may be tolerated; but when imitators of the parodist arise\nand fill almost every newspaper in the country with similar witticisms,\nsuch efforts become 'flat and unprofitable;' for nothing is easier than to\nput words together in a form which conveys no meaning to the reader. It is\na cheap kind of wit, asinine rather than attic, and can be exercised as\nwell by those who know nothing of the subject as by those best acquainted\nwith it. Indeed, it is greatly to be doubted whether one in a hundred of\nthese witty persons know any thing of the matter; for if they possess\nsense enough to make them worthy of being ranked among reasonable men, it\ncould be proved to them in five minutes that they are themselves\ntranscendentalists, as all thinking men find themselves compelled to be,\nwhether they know themselves by that name or not.\n\n'Poh!' said a friend, looking over my shoulder; 'you can't prove _me_ a\ntranscendentalist; I defy you to do it; I despise the name.'\n\nWhy so? Let us know what it is that you despise. Is it the sound of the\nword? Is it not sufficiently euphonious? Does it not strike your ear as\nsmoothly as Puseyite, or Presbyterian?\n\n'Nonsense!' said he; 'you don't suppose I am to be misled by the sound of\na word; it is the meaning to which I object. I despise transcendentalism;\ntherefore I do not wish to be called transcendentalist.'\n\nVery well; but we shall never 'get ahead' unless you define\ntranscendentalism according to your understanding of the word.\n\n'That request is easily made, but not easily complied with. Have you\nCarlyle or Emerson at hand?'\n\nHere I took down a volume of each, and read various sentences and\nparagraphs therefrom. These passages are full of transcendental ideas; do\nyou object to them?\n\n'No,' said my friend; 'for aught I can perceive, they might have been\nuttered by any one who was _not_ a transcendentalist. Let me see the\nbooks.'\n\nAfter turning over the leaves a long while, he selected and read aloud a\npassage from Carlyle, one of his very worst; abrupt, nervous, jerking, and\nat the same time windy, long-drawn-out, and parenthetical; a period\nfilling a whole page.\n\n'There,' said he, stopping to take breath, 'if that is not enough to\ndisgust one with transcendentalism, then I know nothing of the matter.'\n\nA very sensible conclusion. Bless your soul, that is _Carlyle-ism_, not\ntranscendentalism. You said but now that you were not to be misled by the\nsound of a word; and yet you are condemning a principle on account of the\nbad style of a writer who is supposed to be governed by it. Is that right?\nWould you condemn Christianity because of the weaknesses and sins of one\nof its professors?\n\n'Of course not,' replied he; 'I wish to be fair. I cannot express my idea\nof the meaning of transcendentalism without tedious circumlocution, and I\nbegin to despair of proving my position by quotations. It is not on any\nparticular passage that I rest my case. You have read this work, and will\nunderstand me when I say that it is to its general intent and spirit that\nI object, and not merely to the author's style.'\n\nI think I comprehend you. You disregard the mere form in which the author\nexpresses his thoughts; you go beyond and behind that, and judge him by\nthe thoughts themselves; not by one or by two, but by the sum and\n_substance_ of the whole. You strip off the husk to arrive at the kernel,\nand judge of the goodness of the crop by the latter, not the former.\n\n'Just so,' said he; 'that's my meaning precisely. I always strive to\nfollow that rule in every thing. 'Appearances,' you know, 'are\ndeceitful.''\n\nThat is to say, you go beyond or transcend appearances and circumstances,\nand divine the true meaning, the substance, the spirit of that on which\nyou are about to decide. That is practical transcendentalism, and you are\na transcendentalist.\n\n'I wish you would suggest another name for it,' said my friend, as he went\nout of the door; 'I detest the sound of that word.'\n\nI wish we could, said I, but he was out of hearing; I wish we could, for\nit is an abominably long word to write.\n\n'I wish we could,' mutters the printer, 'for it is an awfully long word to\nprint.'\n\n'I wish we could,' is the sober second thought of all; for people will\nalways condemn transcendentalism until it is called by another name. Such\nis the force of prejudice.\n\n'I have been thinking over our conversation of yesterday,' said my friend\nnext morning, on entering my room.\n\n'Oh, you have been writing it down, have you? Let me see it.' After\nlooking over the sketch, he remarked:\n\n'You _seem_ to have me fast enough, but after all I believe you conquered\nmerely by playing upon a word, and in proving me to be a transcendentalist\nyou only proved me to be a reasonable being; one capable of perceiving,\nremembering, combining, comparing and deducing; one who, amid the apparent\ncontradictions with which we are surrounded, strives to reconcile\nappearances and discover principles; and from the outward and visible\nlearn the inward and spiritual; in fine, arrive at truth. Now every\nreasonable man claims to be all that I have avowed myself to be. If this\nis to be a transcendentalist, then I am one. When I read that I must hate\nmy father and mother before I can be a disciple of JESUS, I do not\nunderstand that passage literally; I call to mind other precepts of\nCHRIST; I remember the peculiarities of eastern style; I compare these\nfacts together, and deduce therefrom a very different principle from that\napparently embodied in the passage quoted. When I see the Isle of Shoals\ndoubled, and the duplicates reversed in the air above the old familiar\nrocks, I do not, as I stand on Rye-beach, observing the interesting\nphenomenon, believe there are two sets of islands there; but recalling\nfacts which I have learned, and philosophical truths which I have acquired\nand verified, I attribute the appearance to its true cause, refraction of\nlight. When in passing from room to room in the dark, with my arms\noutspread, I run my nose against the edge of a door, I do not therefrom\nconclude that my nose is longer than my arms! When I see a man stumble in\nthe street, I do not at once set him down as a drunkard, not considering\nthat to be sufficient evidence, although some of our Washingtonian friends\ndo; but I compare that fact with the state of the streets, and what I know\nof his previous life, and judge accordingly.'\n\nWell, said I, you are an excellent transcendentalist; one after my own\nheart, in morals, philosophy and religion. To be a transcendentalist is\nafter all to be _only_ a sensible, unprejudiced man, open to conviction at\nall times, and spiritually-minded. I can well understand that, when you\ncondemn transcendentalism, you object not to the principle, but to the\npractice, in the superlative degree, of that principle. Transcendentalism\nis but an abstract mode of considering morals, philosophy, religion; an\napplication of the principles of abstract science to these subjects. All\nmetaphysicians are transcendentalists, and every one is transcendental so\nfar as he is metaphysical. There are as many different modifications of\nthe one as of the other, and probably no two transcendentalists ever\nthought alike; their creed is not yet written. You certainly do not\ncondemn spiritualism, but ultra spiritualism you seem to abhor.\n\n'Precisely so. I did not yesterday give you the meaning which I attached\nto transcendentalism; in truth, practically you meant one thing by that\nterm, and I another, though I now see that in principle they are the same.\nThe spiritualism which I like, looks through nature and revelation up to\nGOD; that which I abhor, condescends hardly to make use of nature at all,\nbut demands direct converse with GOD, and declares that it enjoys it too;\na sort of continual and _immediate_ revelation. Itself is its own\nauthority. The ultra-spiritualist contains within himself the fulness of\nthe Godhead. He allows of nothing external, unless it be brother spirits\nlike himself. He has abolished nature, and to the uninitiated seems to\nhave abolished GOD himself, although I am charitable enough to believe\nthat he has full faith in GOD, after his own fashion. He claims to be\ninspired; to be equal to JESUS; nay superior; for one of them lately said:\n'Greater is the container than the contained, therefore I am greater than\nGOD, for I contain God!' The ultra-spiritualist believes only _by_ and\n_through_ and _in_ his own inward light. Let him take care, as Carlyle\nsays, that his own contemptible tar-link does not, by being held too near\nhis eyes, extinguish to him the sun of the universe. Now the true\nspiritualist makes use not only of his own moral and religious instincts,\nbut all that can be gathered by the senses from external nature, and all\nthat can be acquired by untiring consultation with the sages who have gone\nbefore him; and from these materials in the alembic of his mind, with such\npower as GOD has given him, he distils truth.'\n\nTruth! Ah, that is the very point in question. 'What is truth?' has been\nthe ardent inquiry of every honest mind from the days of Adam to the\npresent time, and the sneering demand of many an unbeliever. Eve sought it\nwhen she tasted the forbidden fruit. But since then, thank GOD! no\nprohibition has been uttered against the search after truth, and mankind\nhave improved their liberty with great industry for six thousand years;\nand what is the result? Is truth discovered? How much? and how much of\nfalsehood is mixed up with what _is_ known to be true? These questions are\nconstantly suggesting themselves to thinkers, and to answer them is the\nlabor of their lives. Let them have free scope, ultra-spiritualists and\nall. Even these latter go through the same operation which you have just\nclaimed to be peculiar to the true spiritualist. All do, whether they will\nor not, make use of observation, learning, and the inward light. Some\narrive at one result, and some at another, because the elements differ in\neach. If any two could be found whose external observations, learning,\nintellect and inward light or instincts were precisely equal in volume and\nproportion, can it be doubted that these two would arrive at precisely\nsimilar results? But they are _not_ equal; and so one comes to believe in\nexternal authority, and the other refers every thing to a standard which\nhe thinks he finds within himself. The latter is deemed by the public to\nbe a representative of pure transcendentalism, and he is condemned\naccordingly as self-sufficient.\n\nAnd privately, between you and me, my good friend, I cannot help thinking\nit rather ungrateful in him, after becoming so deeply indebted to his\nsenses, to books, and the Bible for his spiritual education, to turn round\nand despise these means of advancement, and declare that they are mere\nnon-essential _circumstances_, and that a man may reach the same end by\nstudying himself _in_ himself. It is as if a man should use a ladder to\nreach a lofty crag, and then kick it over contemptuously, and aver that he\ncould just as well have flown up, and ask the crowd below to break up that\nmiserable ladder and try their wings. Doubtless they _have_ wings, if they\nonly knew it. But seriously, I am not inclined to join in the hue-and-cry\nagainst even the ultra-transcendentalist. He has truth mixed up with what\nI esteem objectionable, and some truth to which others have not attained;\nand as I deem the eclectic the only true mode of philosophy, I am willing\nto take truth where I can find it, whether in China or Boston, in\nConfucius or Emerson, Kant or Cousin, the Bible or the Koran; and though I\nhave more reverence for one of these sources than all others, it is only\nbecause I think I find there the greatest amount of truth, sanctioned by\nthe highest authority. To put the belief in the Bible on any other ground,\nis to base it on educational prejudice and superstition; on which\nprinciple the Koran should be as binding on the Mahometan as the Bible on\nus. Do we not all finally resort to _ourselves_ in order to decide a\ndifficult question in morals or religion? and is not the decision more or\nless correct accordingly as we refer it to the better or to the baser\nportion of our nature?\n\n'Most certainly! I have often said I would not and could not believe in\nthe Bible, if it commanded us to worship Sin and leave our passions\nunbridled.'\n\nWell said! And in so saying, you acknowledge yourself to be governed by\nthe same principle which actuates the ultra-transcendentalist; the moral\nsense or instinct, similar to the 'inward light' of the Friends. After\nall, I apprehend the true point in which men differ is, whether this moral\nsense is really an instinct, or whether it is evolved and put in operation\nby education. How much is due to nature? is the true question. But to\nsolve it, is important only theoretically, for practically we all act\nalike; we cannot, if we would, separate the educational from the natural\nmoral sense; we cannot _uneducate_ it, and then judge by it, freed from\nall circumstantial bias. But whether more or less indebted either to\nnature or education, it is to this moral and religious sense that the\nultra-transcendentalist refers every question, and passes judgment\naccording to its verdict. It is sometimes rather vaguely called the 'Pure\nReason;' but that is only a _term_, hardly a 'mouthful of articulate\nwind.'\n\n'You and I shall agree very well together, I see,' replied my friend. 'If\nwe dispute at all, it will be foolishly about the meaning of a word. All\nthe world have been doing that ever since the confusion of tongues at\nBabel. That great event prophetically shadowed forth the future; for now,\nas then, the confusion and disputation is greatest when we are striving\nmost earnestly to reach heaven by our earth-built contrivances. We may\ndraw a lesson therefrom; not to be too aspiring for our means; for our\ninevitable failure only makes us the more ridiculous, the higher the\nposition we seem to have attained.'\n\nVery true; but we should never arrive at the height of wisdom, which\nconsists in knowing our own ignorance and weakness, unless we made full\ntrial of our powers. The fall of which you speak should give us a modesty\nnot to be otherwise obtained, and make us very careful how we ridicule\nothers, seeing how open to it we ourselves are. Every man may build his\ntower of Babel, and if he make a right use of his failure, may in the end\nbe nearer heaven than if he had never made the attempt. Ridicule is no\nargument, and should only be used by way of a _jeu d'esprit_, and never on\nsolemn subjects. It is very hard, I know, for one who has mirthfulness\nstrongly developed, to restrain himself on all occasions; and what is\nsolemn to one may not be so to another; hence we should be very charitable\nto all; alike to the bigots, the dreamers, and the laughers; to the\nbuilders of theoretic Babel-towers, and the grovellers on the low earth.\n\n'There is one kind of transcendentalism,' replied my friend, 'which you\nhave not noticed particularly, which consists in believing in nothing\nexcept the spiritual existence of the unbeliever himself, and hardly that.\nIt believes not in the external world at all.'\n\nIf you are on _that_ ground, I have done. To talk of that, would be\nwasting our time on nothing; or 'our eternity,' for with that sect time is\naltogether a delusion. It _may_ be true, but the believer, even in the act\nof declaring his faith, must practically prove himself persuaded of the\nfalsity of his doctrine.\n\n'You wanted a short name for transcendentalism; if a long one will make\n_this_ modification of it more odious, let us call it\n_Incomprehensibilityosityivityalityationmentnessism_.'\n\nMy friend said this with a face nearly as long as the word, made a low\nbow, and departed. I took my pen and reduced our conversation to writing.\nI hope by this time the reader has a very lucid answer to give to the\nquestion, _What is Transcendentalism?_ It will be a miracle if he can see\none inch farther into the fog-bank than before. I should like to take back\nthe boast made in the beginning of this paper, that I could prove in five\nminutes any reasonable man a transcendentalist. My friend disconcerted my\nplan of battle, by taking command of the enemy's forces, instead of\nallowing me to marshal them on paper to suit myself; and so a mere\nfriendly joust ensued, instead of the utter demolition of my adversary,\nwhich I had intended.\n\nAnd this little circumstance has led me to think, what a miserable\nbusiness controversialists would make of it, if each had his opponent\nlooking over his shoulder, pointing out flaws in his arguments, suggesting\nuntimely truths, and putting every possible impediment in the path of his\nlogic; and if, moreover, he were obliged to mend every flaw, prove every\nsuch truth a falsehood, and remove every impediment before he could\nadvance a step. Were such the case, how much less would there be of\nfine-spun theory and specious argument; how much more of practical truth!\nAlways supposing the logical combatants did not lose their patience and\nresort to material means and knock-down arguments; of which, judging by\nthe spirit sometimes manifested in theological controversies, there would\nreally seem to be some danger. Oh! it is a very easy thing to sit in one's\nstudy and demolish an opponent, who after all is generally no opponent at\nall, but only a man of straw, dressed up for the occasion with a few\npurposely-tattered shreds of the adversary's cast-off garments.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNOTE BY THE 'FRIEND.'--The foregoing is a _correct_ sketch of our\nconversations, especially as the reporter has, like his congressional\nbrother, corrected most of the bad grammar, and left out some of the\nvulgarisms and colloquialisms, and given me the better side of the\nargument in the last conversation; it is _very_ correct. But it seems to\nme that the question put at the commencement is as far from being solved\nas ever. It is as difficult to be answered as the question, What is\nChristianity? to which every sect will return a different reply, and each\nprove all the others wrong.\n\n_Portsmouth, (N. H.)_                                            J. K. Jr.\n\n\n\n\nLINES SENT WITH A BOUQUET.\n\nBY PARK BENJAMIN.\n\n\n  I.\n\n  I've read in legends old of men\n    Who hung up fruits and flowers\n  Before the altar-shrines of those\n    They called Superior Powers:\n  It was, I think, a blessed thought\n    That things so pure and sweet\n  Should be esteemed an offering\n    For gods and angels meet.\n\n\n  II.\n\n  I imitate that charming rite\n    In this our sober day,\n  And, when I worship, strew sweet flowers\n    Along my angel's way:\n  And, if my heart's fond prayer be heard,\n    The offering I renew;\n  For flowers like books have leaves that speak,\n    And thoughts of every hue.\n\n\n  III.\n\n  They are Love's paper, pictured o'er\n    With gentle hopes and fears;\n  Their blushes are the smiles of Love,\n    And their soft dew his tears!\n  Ah! more than poet's pen can write\n    Or poet's tongue reveal\n  Is hidden by their folded buds\n    And by their rosy seal.\n\n\n  IV.\n\n  Mute letters! yet how eloquent!\n    Expressive silence dwells\n  In every blossom Heaven creates,\n    Like sound in ocean shells.\n  Press to my flowers thy lips, beloved,\n    And then thy heart will see\n  Inscribed upon their leaves the words\n    I dare not breathe to thee!\n\n\n\n\nTHE ALMS HOUSE.\n\nBY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.\n\n\nIt is not my purpose in the following narrative to point out all the evils\narising from the modern practice of relieving the wants of the poor and\ndestitute which prevails in this country and in England, where the arm of\nthe law compels that pittance which should be the voluntary donation of\nbenevolence; one consequence of which system is, that the poor claim\nsupport as a _debt_ due from society at large, and feel no gratitude\ntoward any of the individuals paying the tax. The payer of the tax, on the\nother hand, feeling that he can claim no merit for surrendering that which\nis wrung from him by force, and expecting no thanks for the act, and\nknowing that in many cases it operates as a bounty on idleness, hates the\nungrateful burthen thus imposed upon him, and strives to reduce it to the\nleast possible amount. In this way the ties which should bind together the\npoor and the rich are sundered. The benevolence of the patron and the\ngratitude of the dependent, which formerly existed, is changed to dislike\nand suspicion on the one part, and envy and ingratitude on the other.\n\nDoubtless one design of Providence in suffering want and misery to exist\nin the world, is that the benevolent virtues should be kept in exercise.\nHe who was benevolence itself, seemed thus to think, when he said: 'The\npoor ye have always with you.' But man in his selfishness virtually says:\n'The poor we will not have with us; we will put them out of our sight.'\nFor in many towns in New-England, and probably in other States, it is\ncustomary to contract with some individual for their support; or, in other\nwords, to sell them by auction, to him who will support them by the year,\nfor the least sum per head. To illustrate some of the results of this\nsystem, the following incidents are related from memory, having been\nwitnessed by me in my native place (an interior town in New-England) at an\nage when the feelings are most susceptible. And so deep was the impression\nthen made on my mind, that I am enabled to vouch for the accuracy of the\ndetails.\n\nA meeting for the purpose of disposing of the poor of the town for the\nensuing year was held at the house of the person who had kept them the\nprevious year, (and where these unfortunates still were) as well because\nit was supposed he would again bid for them, as that those who wished to\nbecome competitors might ascertain their number and condition. It was in\nthe afternoon of a day in November, one of those dark and dreary days so\ncommon to the season and climate, adding gloom to the surrounding objects,\nin themselves sufficiently cheerless. The house was situated on an obscure\nroad in a remote part of the town, surrounded by level and sandy fields;\nand the monotony of the prospect only broken by scattered clumps of\ndwarf-pine and shrub-oak; a few stunted apple-trees, the remains of an\norchard which the barren soil had refused to nourish; some half ruinous\nout-houses, and a meagre kitchen garden enclosed with a common rough\nfence, completed the picture without.\n\nStill more depressing was the scene within. The paupers were collected in\nthe same room with their more fortunate townsmen, that the bidders might\nbe enabled to view more closely their condition, and estimate the probable\nexpense of supporting them through the year. Many considerations entered\nas items into this sordid calculation; such as the very lowest amount of\nthe very coarsest food which would suffice, (not to keep them in comfort,\nbut to sustain their miserable existence for the next three hundred and\nsixty-five days, and yet screen the provider from the odium of having\nstarved his victims,) the value of the clothes they then wore, and thus\nthe future expense of their clothing; and other such considerations, which\nI will not farther disgust the reader by enumerating.\n\nThey were about twenty in number, and not greatly distinguished from the\nordinary poor of a country town in New-England; unless by there being\npresent three idiot daughters of one poor man, whose low and narrow\nforeheads, sunken temples, fixed but dead and unmeaning eyes, half opened\nand formless mouths, indicating even to childhood the absence of that\nintellectual light, which in those who possess it shines through the\nfeatures. Insanity also was there, that most dreadful infliction of\nProvidence; the purpose of which lies hidden in the darkness which\nsurrounds His throne. Its unhappy subject was with them, but not of them.\nHis eyes were fixed upon the scene, but the uncertain fire which illumined\nhis features was caused by thoughts which had no connection with the\npassing scene.\n\nVice, too, had its representatives; for in a community where wealth is\nnearly the only source of distinction, and where Mammon is consequently\nworshipped as the true god, the destiny of the unfortunate and of the\nvicious is nearly the same. And the 'poor-house' was used, as in other\ntowns in New-England, as a house of correction, and at this time contained\nseveral professors of vice of each sex. Alas! of that sex which when\ncorrupt is more dangerous than the other in a like condition, as the most\nrich and grateful things are in their decay the most noxious!\n\nThe remaining number consisted of the aged and childless widow, the infirm\nand friendless old man, the sick, the deformed, and the cripple; the\nvirtuous poor, in forced and loathed contact with vice and infamy. Those\nof society who in life's voyage had been stranded on the bleak and barren\ncoast of charity, and who were now waiting for death to float them into\nthe ocean of eternity. While this scene was passing at the alms-house,\nanother connected with it, and fitted to excite still deeper feelings, was\nacting in another part of the town.\n\nA person who was that year one of the select-men,[1] and a deacon in the\nchurch, was delegated by his colleagues to bring to the alms-house the\n'lone woman' who forms the chief subject of our homely story. The widow\nSelden (a brief history of whom it will be necessary to give) had received\nan education suited rather to the respectability and former wealth of her\nfamily, than to its subsequent reduced condition, became in early life the\nwife of a merchant of our village, a man of good character and fair\nprospects, to whom she was much attached. Traders in New-England where\nwealth is so eagerly sought, are, especially in country towns, men of much\nconsideration, as engaged in a money-making business. Mrs. Selden,\ntherefore, independently of her personal merits, was not likely to be\nneglected. Her company was sought by the best society of our place, and\nshe exchanged visits on equal terms even with the families of the\nclergyman and the village lawyer.\n\n    [1] Men who are yearly selected by the inhabitants to superintend\n        the business of the town, and who, among other duties, have\n        the charge of managing the poor.\n\nA few years of quiet enjoyment passed, happily varied by the accession of\na fair and delicate little girl, who might be seen at their cheerful meals\nseated in her high chair, the common object of their care and attention;\nand not only affording in her fragile little person the strongest bond of\nunion, but the never-tiring subject of conversation. Sad indeed was the\nchange in this once happy family, when the widow and orphan sat alone at\nthe cheerless board. Death had entered and taken from them the sun of\ntheir little world. The bereaved wife might have sunk under this calamity,\nhad not maternal solicitude been mixed with grief. With that admirable\nfortitude and submission to duty so common to those of her sex in similar\ncircumstances, she at once devoted herself with increased solicitude to\nthe remaining object of her care and affection.\n\nFor a time but little change was visible in the family arrangements, for\nthough a sensitive she was a spirited woman. Her garden, which had been\nthe pride and delight of her husband, still flourished in perfect\nneatness. After the usual time of decent seclusion, she again interchanged\nvisits with her friends and neighbors, and continued to maintain the stand\nin the village society which had always been conceded to her. But this\nstate of things did not long continue, for alas! the _gathering_ as well\nas the _protecting_ hand was removed. Her more aristocratic acquaintances\nnow began to remark that her table showed less of plenty and variety than\nformerly, and that her dress, though perfectly neat, was less new and\nfashionable than they expected in _their_ associates; for no where is the\ndistinction between the rich and poor more rigidly enforced than in\ncountry villages. Most offensively marked is this distinction in the house\nof God, where if any where this side the grave ought the rich and the poor\nto meet on a level, before Him who regards not the outward estate of his\ncreatures. But modern Christians have contrived to evade the rebuke of the\napostle by the cunning device of introducing the noisy auctioneer, and\nunder a show of fairness and equality, 'the man in goodly apparel and\nhaving a gold ring' is assigned the highest seat; and albeit a skeptic, by\nthe weight of his purse crowds the humble worshippers to the wall and into\nthe corners of their Father's house.\n\nIt was observed that the lone woman declined competition for those seats\nso eagerly sought by the more wealthy, and selected those of a humbler\ncharacter, and eventually retired to the 'widow's pew,' a pew set apart,\nin country churches, for the gratuitous accommodation of those in that\nunhappy condition. Sincerely religious, the Christian widow still waited\nupon God in the house of prayer, but felt the whole sting of poverty when\nslowly and humbly wending her way to her obscure corner, her faded and\nwell-worn dress was brushed by the new and rich garments of her former\nequals as they swept past her to their high seats. The neat and handsome\ndwelling with its trim garden was at length resigned for one which barely\nsheltered the mother and child from the weather, and was totally devoid of\nthe cheap luxury of fruit and flowers which had enriched and beautified\ntheir former home.\n\nTime wore on, and Want with its train of sordid attendants visited their\ndwelling. Her former associates, one after another declined her society as\nan equal. Occasionally calling, they were eloquent in excuses for their\nneglect; for when did the prosperous lack an excuse for neglecting the\nunfortunate? Counsel and advice were lavished upon her; for I have\nobserved that advice is the only thing that the rich impart freely to the\npoor. Religion too was the frequent subject of their conversation; for how\ncan benevolence be shown more strongly than by a concern for the\nwell-being of the soul, which is to exist forever, in comparison with\nwhich, the transient wants of the body are as nothing? Accordingly, the\npoor widow, after her scanty meal, and over her dim and cheerless hearth,\nwas exhorted by her fur-clad and well-fed _friends_, to disregard the\nevils of this fleeting life, and receive with resignation the chastenings\nof Providence; for we all needed correction, being by nature utterly\nsinful and depraved. And after some vague and indefinite offers of\nassistance, the good women would take their leave. A way of discharging\nduty discovered by modern philanthropists; and when accompanied by the\nSocieties' tract, seldom fails to convince the unfortunate object of\ncharity that to Heaven alone should they look for assistance and sympathy.\n\nThis lady, as we have intimated, possessed a large share of that generous\nspirit so common in her sex, which enabled her to sustain herself amid the\nevils which oppressed her. And nobly did the mother strive to shield from\nwant and ignorance the little orphan, now her only care. Her own education\nenabled her in some measure to supply the place of teachers, which she was\nunable to employ. And never was maternal care better rewarded than by the\nimprovement of the gentle being under her charge. But in this blessed\nemployment the poor mother was interrupted. While health continued, she\nhad been enabled by the most unremitted exertion to prevent the approach\nof absolute want, slight indeed as were her earnings. (The modern\nimprovements in machinery having destroyed domestic manufacture, properly\nso called, and left but little for the female to earn who is not attending\nits motions in the noisy factory.) But illness had intervened, and\ndiminished even that small resource; and it was apparent to all that the\nwant of suitable food assisted in blanching still more the fair face of\nthe poor child. Maternal love had conquered the honest pride of the poor\nmother so far as to constrain her to accept the slight and uncertain\ndonations of her neighbors. But this assistance, scanty as it was, could\nnot continue. The tax-paying husbands of the benevolent ladies who\nfurnished it, complained that the poor-rates were heavy, and that they had\nalready helped to pay for a house of refuge for the poor and the\ndestitute, could not, in addition to this, support them out of it.\n\nShe was told it was her duty to place her daughter in some family to be\nbrought up as a servant. In vain did she assert her ability to maintain\nherself and child when health should return. Her advisers could little\nsympathize with her feelings, and reproached her with pride. And she was\nnow harassed with the fear that her delicate and cultivated little girl\nwould be torn from her, and made a factory slave or household drudge; for\nsuch power had the laws given to the rulers of the town. But this fear,\nmiserable as it was, was now overpowered by another. The suggestion had\nreached the ear of the unhappy woman that she and her child would be\nconveyed to the house of the town's poor, the place we have attempted to\ndescribe. God grant that no fair reader of this homely but too true story\nshould ever feel the misery which this fear inflicted on the mind of this\nfriendless mother! Oh, that true Charity had been present in the person of\nher best representative on earth, a sensible, affectionate and\nliberal-minded woman, to minister to the wants, to soothe the mind of her\nunhappy sister-woman, and cheer her exertions for self-support! None such\nappeared, and the heart of the poor woman sank within her. Her exertions\nwere paralyzed; for struggle as she might to avoid it, the alms-house,\nwith its debased and debasing society, was ever before her eyes as her\nultimate destiny. It was in vain that she endeavored to prepare her mind\nfor this result. She could endure any degree of privation, but not\ndegradation and infamy.\n\nTime wore on, without any renewed hints of interference, and she began to\nhope that she was forgotten. Delusive hope! It was felt as a disgrace that\nshe should suffer, when the _law_ had provided a remedy, and they had paid\nfor it. And it was therefore decreed by the magnates of the town that she\nmust be removed, and the day had arrived (with which we commenced our\nnarrative,) on which the paupers were to be disposed of for the coming\nyear. Deacon S---- was the person deputed by his colleagues, as we have\nmentioned, to convey Mrs. Selden and her daughter to the alms-house.\n\nHowever prepared we may suppose ourselves to meet misfortune, the moment\nof its arrival takes us by surprise. We will not attempt to picture the\nutter desolation of mind and the despair which filled her heart, when this\nman arrived at her door, to convey herself, and oh! far worse, her\ninnocent and intelligent child, to that scene of vice and debasement.\nAlthough her dislike to the measure was known, yet from her quiet and\nreserved manners, little opposition was anticipated. The evils of life had\naccumulated upon her in a regular gradation, and she had been enabled to\nbear their weight, up to this point, with outward composure; looking\nforward to, but yet hoping this last cup of bitterness would never be\npresented; or if presented, that some means might be found to avert it.\nBut the dreadful crisis had arrived. Had the whole board of authority been\npresent, I should be glad to believe, for the honor of humanity, that they\nwould have been moved to relent, as they would not have been able to shift\nthe responsibility from one to the other, as is the wont of such bodies\nwhen the members act separately.\n\nWhen the poor woman had so far recovered from the first shock as to be\nenabled to articulate, she pleaded her ability to maintain herself without\nassistance, and her choice rather to starve than be removed. She appealed\nto him as the father of a daughter, and painted the ruin which would fall\nupon her own, exposed to the corruption and example of the place to which\nhe was taking her. She appealed to him as a Christian, and reminded him\nthat they had sat together before the sacred desk, and partaken of the\nsymbols of the body and blood of the Son of Him who was in a peculiar\nmanner the father of the widow and orphan. But her auditor was destitute\nof the imagination which enables the possessor to enter into the feelings\nof another; and these affecting appeals fell dead upon his worldly and\nunsympathizing nature. The man even extended his hand to urge her forward\nto the conveyance provided! At that moment, when all hope was dead within\nher, and the worst that could happen in her opinion had arrived, a change\ncame over the unhappy woman. She suffered herself unresistingly to be led\nforward to her doom. The fine chords of the mind and heart, lately so\nintensely strung, had parted; her countenance relaxed, and her features\nsettled down into a dead, unmeaning apathy; never again, during the short\nremainder of her life, to be animated by one gleam of the feelings which\nhad so lately illumined but to destroy.\n\nMy kind, my indulgent mother! Her generous heart needed not the eloquence\nof my youthful feelings to induce her to rescue the poor orphan, and to\ncherish her as her own child. And never was kindness more richly----\n\nI had proceeded thus far in writing this narrative, when I discovered that\nI was overlooked; and a gentle voice over my shoulder said: 'You should\nnot praise your own wife; it is the same as if you should praise\nyourself!'\n\n                                                                 E. B.\n\n\n\n\nAPOSTROPHE TO HEALTH.\n\n\n  HYGEIA! most blest of the powers\n    That tenant the mansions divine,\n  May I pass in thy presence the hours\n    That remain, ere in death I recline!\n\n  Dwell with me, benevolent charm!\n    Without the attendance of health\n  Not the smiles of affection can warm,\n    And dull are the splendors of wealth.\n\n  The pageant of empire is stale\n    That lifts men like gods o'er their race,\n  And the heart's thrilling impulses fail\n    When Love beckons on to the chase.\n\n  Whate'er in itself joy can give,\n    Or that springs from sweet respite of pain,\n  That mortals or gods can receive,\n    Blest HYGEIA! is found in thy train!\n\n  Thy smile kindles up the fresh spring,\n    The glad, verdant bloom of the soul;\n  Thee absent, our pleasures take wing,\n    And Sorrow usurps her control.\n\n\n\n\nISABEL.\n\n\n  Hush! her face is chill,\n    And the summer blossom.\n  Motionless and still,\n    Lieth on her bosom.\n  On her shroud so white,\n    Like snow in winter weather,\n  Her marble hands unite,\n    Quietly together.\n\n  How like sleep the spell\n    On her lids that falleth!\n  Wake, sweet Isabel!\n    Lo! the morning calleth.\n  How _like_ Sleep!--'tis Death!\n    Sleep's own gentle brother;\n  Heaven holds her breath--\n    She is with her mother!\n\n\n\n\nONE READING FROM TWO POETS.\n\n                ----My imagination\n      Carries no favor in it but Bertram's.\n      I am undone; there is no living, none,\n      If Bertram be away.\n                                                           SHAKSPEARE.\n\n      Should GOD create another Eve and I\n      Another rib afford, yet loss of thee\n      Would never from my heart.\n                                                               MILTON.\n\n\nI have this evening, while seated in my lonely chamber, ventured--not, I\nhope, with profane hands--to draw one inappreciable gem from out of the\ncarcanet of each of the two unrivalled masters of the poetry of our\nlanguage. I was curious to see the effect to be produced by a close\njuxtaposition of these two exquisite specimens of the soul's light; of the\nrevealment of its original genius; of the intense brilliancy of its Truth,\nfalling as it does in one ray upon two objects so diverse in their\ncharacter as the virgin love of the retired and comparatively humble but\ndevoted Helena, and the married constancy of the Father of our race.\n\nThe effect reminds me of an _echappee de lumiere_ that I once beheld in\nthe gallery of the Vatican, when a sudden emergence of light brightened\nwith the same gleam the calm face of the Virgin of the clouds, (called di\nFoligno,) and at the same instant illuminated the whole principal figure\nin the Transfiguration of Raffaelle; floating as it does, and tending\nalmost with a movement upward, in the air of 'the high mountain' where the\nmiracle took place----as these two grand paintings then stood, side by\nside, in the solemn, in the holy quiet of that lofty and sequestered\napartment. O moment! never to be forgotten, never to be obscured by any\nlapse of after time!\n\nAnd thus, although in a less palpable world, do these two passages of\nimmortal verse, wearing each its beam of golden light, stand in their\neffulgence before the sympathies of the observer alive to the charms and\ninfluences of moral beauty! Surely no other poet has the world produced\ncomparable to Shakspeare for the revelation of the love of the yet\nunwedded girl; and who is there to be named with Milton, in the tenderness\nand truth with which he has touched upon conjugal relationship; and that\nnecessity, that inappeasable requirement of intercommunion that\naccompanies, as its immediate consequence, the sacrament of the nuptial\nrite where there is destined to exist the real, the progressive, the\nindissoluble intermarriage of soul with soul!\n\nHow effectually and with what truth does the dramatic Bard raise the veil\nand exhibit to us the imagination of this retired girl, bred up in all the\ndeep earnestness of mind that a country life and comparative seclusion\ncould induce, dwelling and brooding over the form of one individual\nbrought into intimate association with her, 'seeing him every hour' where\nshe had little else to interest her, nor any thing to contemplate, but, as\nshe says,\n\n                              'sit and draw\n  His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,\n  In our heart's table; heart too capable\n  Of every trick and line of his sweet favour.\n\n       *     *     *     *     *\n\n                     ----it hurts not him\n  That he is loved of me: I follow him not\n  With any token of presumptuous suit.\n  I know I love in vain, strive against hope,\n  Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve,\n  I still pour in the waters of my love\n  And lack not to love still.'\n\nBehold her as she sits, the beautiful creation!--delighting to magnify the\nqualities of the idol of her affections and to depreciate herself in the\ncomparison; overlooking, perhaps incapable of once imagining the thought\nof his harsh and selfish and impracticable nature, and constantly endowing\nhim with all the fresher breathings of her spiritual existence--like the\nRainbow of the Waterfall, that clothes, with its own celestial dyes, the\ndark and shapeless mass of Rock upon whose bosom it appears to dwell!\nfaltering, trembling, quivering, fading, disappearing; returning,\nresting;--glowing, yet never dazzling; liquid, yet sustained!\n\n                  'It were all one\n  That I should love a bright particular star\n  And seek to wed it, he is so above me:\n  In his bright radiance and collateral light\n  Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.\n  The hind that would be mated by the lion\n  Must die for love!\n\nThis is the way in which these precious irradiations of joy beam and hover\nover man; startled and frightened often out of the presence even of his\nimage while they thus adorn and decorate him; and then they love him for\nwhat they fondly dream to be the halo of his proper spirit; for the light\nand tenderness, the purity, the gentleness, the refinement and grace, that\nhave their life and element and colour, only in the deep yet overflowing\nheart of Woman in her Love!\n\nBut then comes Wedlock; and often, with wedlock, comes marriage; or\nsucceeds it; the marriage that GOD bestowed on man in Eve, when, according\nto that scriptural and exquisite conception, _they twain become one_. When\nthe Rock shall as by a miracle receive into all its crevices, interstices,\nand pores, the beautiful existence that has played upon it! When the soul\nof man opens at every noble passion in succession and at every pulse, to\nembrace, imbibe, absorb, receive, possess, acquire, the being that we call\nWOMAN! finds her in every former want, or present wish, or bright, or\nunfrequented passage of the soul; now all occupied, all satisfied by her;\nfancies thoughts to be his thoughts which are her thoughts; and blesses\nhimself, when he discovers it, that imaginations in themselves so sweet,\nshould in some visit of her delicate spirit have been breathed into his\nESSENCE from a source so pure! is near her, when distant; is present with\nher, when absent; converses with her, without words; gazes upon her,\nwithout sight; listens to her, without sound; watches her, without motion;\nand has not yet lost her balmy presence when Death shall long have removed\nforever that precious image from his corporal sense. This is MARRIAGE.\n\nOut of this state descends that profound expression of the soul in Milton,\n(GOD make us thankful for him!) when he intends the verb that he escapes\nin the passage that adorns my Essay, should be supplied by a pulsation in\nthe breast of Eve:\n\n                'yet loss of thee\n  Would never--from my heart.'\n\nWould never?--would never be torn, out-rooted, obliterated, banished,\nextinguished, forgotten, diminished, obscured, from his heart. The throb\nof her spirit is to supply the word, or mould the thought, and vivify the\npause so as to satisfy her full affection to its utmost contentment and\ndesire. _This_ is marriage. This is attainment to that state of more\nperfect existence which terrestrial life procures for the soul of man,\nnever thenceforth in all its future changes to be lost. The incorporeal\nmingling, the mystical union of two varied emanations of life; as Light\nand Heat intermarry in their offset and passage from the sun; and Truth\nand Love from the breast of THE INEFFABLE!\n\n  How can I live without thee! how forego\n  Thy sweet converse and love so dearly join'd\n  To live again in these wild woods forlorn?\n  Should GOD create another Eve and I\n  Another rib afford, yet loss of thee\n  Would never from my heart: no, no, I feel\n  The link of nature draw me.\n  Bone of my bone thou art and from thy state\n  Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.\n\nAnd shall the passage of one such soul across the mere brook of Death\ndissolve affiances so deep, so latent, and so pure as this? This Life of\nLife, is it to be so suddenly quenched in man, and man himself continue to\nexist? Shall the soul that lingers here still retaining its identity lose\nthat which has chiefly formed for it a distinctive being? Or entering into\na happier state of existence shall it be dispossessed of all that treasure\nof recollection and delight on which its joys and hopes have been so\nlargely founded? These long remembrances of mutual beneficence and good,\nthese intertwining and interwoven affections, and the unbounded and\nmingling love of their common offspring, shall these all perish and the\nsoul itself yet be styled immortal? Or,--shall the first-gone spirit meet\nits arriving mate upon the border of that further shore, bless it with the\nradiant welcome of celestial companionship and guidance, and lead it on to\nhigher virtue in a happier state, as it hath beamed upon it and in part\neducated it on Earth?----Doubt this not, my Heart! Doubt this not, my\nSoul!\n\n                                                          JOHN WATERS.\n\n\n\n\nWHERE IS THE SPIRIT-WORLD?\n\nBY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.\n\n\n  Perhaps the World of Spirits\n    Is the invisible air,\n  And every soul inherits\n    Its endless portion there,\n  When mortal lays its mortal by,\n  And puts on immortality.\n\n  Then round us and above us\n    Unseen, the souls of those\n  That hate us and that love us\n    In motion or repose,\n  To plan and work our good or ill,\n  As when on earth, are busy still.\n\n  For Enmity surviveth\n    This transitory life;\n  Spirit with spirit striveth\n    In an unending strife;\n  All roots of evil planted now\n  Eternally shall live and grow.\n\n  So friendship ever liveth\n    Immortal as the soul,\n  And purer pleasure giveth\n    As longer ages roll;\n  And hope and joy and inward peace\n  Forever heighten and increase!\n\n  Our homes and dwelling-places,\n    The country of our birth,\n  The old familiar faces\n    Endeared to us on earth,\n  And every source and scene of joy\n  Our spirits' senses shall employ.\n\n  So shall our true affections,\n    To earthly objects given,\n  Form intimate connections\n    Between our world and heaven;\n  And all our long existence move\n  In an unbroken stream of love.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TYRANNY OF AFFECTION.\n\nBY MRS. ENNSLO.\n\n\nMethinks those who preach up the dignity of human nature, and expatiate\nupon its original perfections, must look upon it through magic glasses: to\nsome perceptions at least, it presents even in its best estate a picture\nof such abortive aims, such woful short-comings, such clouded brightness,\nthat even in those better natures, where we feel sure that the sun of\nvirtue _does_ shine, the noxious vapors of human frailty, pride in all its\nvarious ramifications, selfishness under its many disguises, prejudice\nwith its endless excuses, etc., etc., do so envelope it that we cannot\nhope to feel the warmth of its rays until some wholesome trial, some\naptly-apportioned cross, clear away these paralyzing influences and force\nit into action.\n\nWhat seems at the first glance freer from this dross than the love of man\nto man? the love of the creature for his fellow; the ordained test of his\nlove to his Creator? What seems more preeminently pure than the affection\nof the parent for the child, who owes him not only life but the nurture\nwhich has maintained and elevated that life? Yet even here, even over this\nfair garden of peace, the trail of the serpent may be detected. The\ntyranny of deep affection is seen in every relation of life: we love a\ncherished object, it may be with every fibre of our heart, ay, even\nidolatrously; we would willingly spend and be spent to surround the\nbeloved one with materials for enjoyment; but these materials must be of\n_our_ selection; we would sacrifice ourselves to lead them to happiness,\nbut _we_ must point out the road to them; we will bear every thing, endure\nevery thing, but the mortification of seeing them receive good at other\nhands than our own. Ah! there are some rare exceptions to this rule, but\nsurely not more than enough to constitute it a rule.\n\nWho that enjoyed the privilege of domestic intercourse with the venerable\nand venerated father of the lovely Lucy Lee; he the most beloved as well\nas respected inhabitant of the small town of ----; she not only the\nprettiest but by far the most winning in her deportment of all the young\nfemale circle of the place, of whom she was beyond all question the\nornament. Who that witnessed the fond pride with which the good old man\ngazed upon her, as she glided around him, ministering to his wants with\nthat watchful ingenuity which characterizes woman's affection; who that\nheard the tone of tenderness which marked even the most trifling word\naddressed to her; a tenderness that seemed as if it might by its deep\npathos invoke every beneficent spirit to watch over her for good; his\nearly morning greeting, always accompanied by an upward look, which\nproclaimed a daily aspiration of gratitude to the great Giver for the\nprecious gift; the nightly benediction which ever seemed as if it might\ngrow into a prayer for her welfare during the hours of darkness; who that\nwitnessed all this--and they could not be seen together without many such\nhourly demonstrations of the father's love for his child shining through\nhis every word and action--but would have felt assured that this love\nfashioned his every plan, and marked his estimate of the things of life?\n\nAh! of a certainty, it must have been so; her happiness must have been\nsafe in his keeping; and in truth, happiness had hitherto seemed hers by\nprescriptive right. But all lanes however long turn at last, and those\nmost richly strewn with flowers are generally alas! by far the shortest.\nEighteen summers had flown since that which saw the little Lucy installed\nsole possessor and sole solace of her bereaved father's heart; sole pledge\nof a love which deeply rooted in a breast no longer subject to the\nchangeful fancies of youth, (for he had more than attained the prime of\nmiddle-age when the original of the precious little miniature first\nenchained his affections,) never revived for any other, but spent itself\nin a doting fondness for this fair image of the lost one. Indeed it seemed\nthat every throb came with a double import from his burdened heart; the\nparent's fondness ever mingling a tribute to the memory of her whose life\nhad been the price of the costly gift.\n\nIt is not always that the devotion of a parent is so entirely appreciated\nas in this case; all Mr. Lee's efforts to promote his daughter's happiness\nwere crowned with entire success, and until the period mentioned above, no\none had ever detected on her lovely brow the semblance of a cloud. But the\ncourse of nature cannot be altered; the petted child will one day grow\ninto the wilful woman; and however it may have been only a pleasant task\nto follow the windings of the childish fancy ingenious in its caprice; and\nonly amusing to submit to the childish tyranny which pursues its own\nbeau-ideal of sport with reckless pertinacity; there sometimes comes a\nchange when the spoiled darling takes her first step upon the threshold of\nmaturity; when, with all the fresh vigor of youth in her untutored will,\nshe begins to assert her privilege, to cater for her own happiness, and\nfashion her future according to the visions of her own fancy. Then comes\nin the world with its many and diversified claims; claims so vigorously\nenforced, but from which it is the first impulse of the young heart to\nturn with loathing: it cannot bear to believe its happy independence of\nall such considerations at an end; it does not submit easily to these new\ntrammels. Ah! how differently has passed the previous life! Something holy\ngathers round a child; it seems to move superior to the base claims of the\nworld and its paltry rewards; and although often, it must be confessed,\nthe young intellect is early impressed with the idea that its best efforts\nshould be devoted to the insuring of worldly approbation, still the little\none's course of life is so distinct from the busy race to which we would\ntrain it, that we cannot if we would entirely chain down its thoughts;\nnay, we shrink before the pure innocence which cannot even understand our\nweakness; and often yield a tribute to its superior dignity by concealing\nour own care for such distinctions.\n\nTo those too who have seen much of life, and learnt to feel its\nhollowness, real childishness of thought and feeling is so refreshing,\nthat they love rather to prolong the period than to shorten it. To Mr. Lee\nthe little Lucy seemed so entirely perfect in her infantine simplicity and\npurity, that had he breathed a wish for the future, it would probably have\nbeen that she should always continue his _little_ Lucy; he cared for no\nchange, and as it appeared, perceived none in her. Time passed on however,\nand before he had become well aware that the little fairy whose tiny form\nmust needs so short a while since clamber on his knee to stroke and pat\nhis cheek, had now shot up into a tall girl, who could take his arm in a\nlong walk, or canter beside him all the morning on her well trained pony,\nthere came a change over the course of his quiet household little\nstartling. Visitors began to throng the hall; not those staid personages\nwho had hitherto been wont to gather round the warm hearth in winter, or\nthe sheltered piazza in the hot days of summer, and with feet upreared on\nmantel-piece or bannister, discuss the affairs of state, and the price of\ncrops; new editions of these respected individuals now appeared; nephews\nand sons came in their train; young friends, more perhaps than these\ngentlemen were before aware of possessing, sought an introduction at their\nhands, or came without any, on the plea perhaps of having met at a\ntea-party, or some such strong necessity for acquaintanceship with the\nfair Lucy; while the good Mr. Lee, often to his not very pleased surprise,\nfound on awaking from his afternoon's nap, that the book whose contents he\nhad purposed should perform their daily office of inspiring his dreams had\nbeen laid aside, while the voice which had lulled him to sleep was now\ncharming other and younger ears in merry though perhaps suppressed\ncadences. The variety in these visitors too grew somewhat annoying; new\npeople came, and Mr. Lee liked not new people. He was a man of warm but\nvery exclusive feelings; he loved but a few, and he liked no others: his\nprejudices were strong, and having lived a very secluded life, the routine\nof which presented no very decided obstacle to those prejudices, his\nestimate of men and things had not altered with the general course of the\nworld around him. Liberal to an extreme in his dealings with men, his\nintercourse with them, except in matters of business, was confined to a\nvery limited circle. Absolute in his requisitions from such as approached\nhim as intimates, his friendship was given only to those who met his views\nin every respect; especially whose political opinions coincided with his\nown. Indeed this seemed to be with him the one grand test. Though never\nmeddling in his own person with public life, he had such an abstract love\nfor its intricacies that he could at all times warm into actual enthusiasm\nover a newspaper; a single paragraph from the pen one of his own way of\nthinking sufficing to kindle his feelings into a glow of patriotism, while\na civil word of dissent would seem to chill his sympathies for his kind;\nstrong disapprobation blinding his perceptions to any good possible in\nthose differing from his established standard. Now it was not to be\nexpected that the young Lucy's circle would be modelled according to such\nrestrictions; she loved her kind old father with the clinging fondness of\nan unweaned infant for its mother; but though again and again she would,\nto gratify him, toil through a whole pamphlet, its meaning as dark to her\nperceptions as the close and blurred print to his failing eyes, it may\nwell be imagined that her girlish brain failed to receive any other\nimpression from the contents than of their excessive tedium; certainly if\nshe formed therefrom any opinion regarding his favorite party, it was most\nprobably the not very flattering one that its members were all especially\ntiresome and prolix.\n\nEither from this notion, or a contradiction natural to human nature, it so\nhappened that among the rivals for the lovely Lucy's smiles, none seemed\nto possess such power in riveting her attention as a certain young\ngentleman, who although not only the son of a leading man in the\nopposition, but holding himself a somewhat prominent place in the ranks of\nthe condemned party, yet continued with a boldness much to be wondered at\nto engross the young lady's time by frequent visits of most unfashionable\nlength, in spite of Mr. Lee's open vituperations of all the manoeuvres of\nthe said party. The undaunted aspirant turned a deaf ear however to this,\ntaking every thing that was said in good part, until one day, when\nsuddenly his patience seemed to give out.\n\nNews had just been received of the marriage of a former school-mate of\nLucy's, the daughter of an old esteemed comrade, orthodox in all his\nviews, to an individual decidedly in the wrong on the one important point.\nFirst, how astonished, next how entirely shocked, was the good old\ngentleman! 'What a falling off! to give his child to ----! Pshaw! what\nwould the world come to! Where were his principles? where his wisdom?\nwhere his _honor_?' etc., etc. Lucy, frightened perhaps at her father's\nvehemence, turned pale. Dr. Kent, the friend and physician of the family,\nwho chanced to be present, endeavored to calm him, but with little\nsuccess; and Mr. Lillburgh, unable as it seemed to join in condemning this\n'mis-alliance,' left the house somewhat abruptly. Soon after this,\nhowever, an opportune influx of papers and pamphlets caused a salutary\ndiversion in Mr. Lee's irritated feelings; and as Lucy's most monopolizing\nvisitor seemed quite to have disappeared, he could now enjoy his favorite\nluxury of drinking in, through the medium of the voice he loved so well,\nthe words of wisdom he honored so highly.\n\nWhether these tiresome lectures proved too burdensome for her young\nspirits, or some other cause operated to injure her health, did not\nappear; but just at this time, when Mr. Lee seemed to find his life\nespecially comfortable and pleasant, his hitherto blooming daughter\ngradually began to droop; her spirits, formerly so even, were now\nconstantly fluctuating: at times she would sit pale and _distraite_ among\na gay and laughing circle of her young associates, while at others, a ring\nat the bell, a step in the hall, would suffice to call the color to her\ncheek and kindle animation in her eye. It was this variation perhaps,\ntogether with certain animating plans of his own, which rendered her\nfather insensible to her condition; for by a strange contradiction in the\ncourse of things, he seemed just at this time especially occupied with\nforming brilliant plans for her future. Fairly aware now of her being no\nlonger a child, he would comment upon her dress, urge her to more\nornament, and then with a knowing look speak of his anticipated pleasure\nin the society of two expected visitors, one staunch old veteran of the\ntrue faith, and his son, a worthy descendant, one who deserved the smiles\nof the fair for the brilliant speech he had made the last session. Poor\nLucy at each reference to this subject would look more and more\nuncomfortable; but her father, thinking that she might be perhaps a little\nwayward; while he grew daily more enamoured of his plan, redoubled his\ntenderness, seeking to study her whims in every other respect. It is cruel\nto loose every bond but that which galls most sorely, to pluck away every\nthorn but that which pricks most sharply: all the perceptions gather to\nthat point, and the suffering is in consequence tenfold more acute. Such\nwere Lucy's sensations, though she was perhaps scarcely conscious of them\nherself; while at every demonstration of her father's tenderness, the\nfeelings which she knew to be rebels to his dearest wishes would seem to\nspring up and accuse her of ingratitude. This struggle could not last; at\nlength the fond father became suddenly aware that some strange blight had\nfallen upon his darling, and his whole soul was convulsed at the thought\nthat evil might possibly threaten her; he felt ready to send a\nproclamation through the world to summon all its skill to spend itself for\nher restoration. Upon second thoughts he made up his mind that there was\nbut one man in the world to whom he would confide the precious trust; yes,\nhe was fully assured that in the brain of Dr. Kent, the only lineal\ndescendant of Esculapius, were to be found all the best resources of the\nart of healing; _he_ must always and on all occasions, be more right than\nany one else. Why? But why ask why, when he had formed this opinion ever\nsince Dr. Kent first assumed the M. D., and had always held it firmly. Dr.\nKent was summoned and soon appeared; the startled girl, sorely against her\nwill, was called into the room; all the usual ceremony gone through; the\npulse tested, the tongue examined, etc., and then suffered to slip out of\nthe room. Mr. Lee listened with a beating heart for the doctor's decision:\nthis last did not deny that the young lady's appearance was strangely\naltered since he had last seen her, which indeed was not since the evening\nabove alluded to, of Mr. Lee's violent irritation against his old friend.\nBut the cause; the next thing for the doctor to do was to discover the\ncause. Now Dr. Kent, although some people did say that he was no student,\nhad a considerable portion of what is called _mother-wit_; and if he did\nnot possess the stores of learning which might have been amassed by poring\nover his books, he was at least without the abstraction which much\nscientific research is thought to occasion; he looked around him with a\nshrewd eye, and simply by putting two and two together, often made very\nsuccessful calculations. He hesitated, reflected and recollected; 'perhaps\nshe wanted excitement,' he said; 'perhaps there was too little variety in\nher life for one so young.' Mr. Lee assured him that she had always\nappeared very indifferent to society; that until very lately she had\nalways seemed as happy as the day was long, and to desire no other company\nthan that of the visitors who dropped in upon them occasionally.\n\n'Well, we must have something more amusing for her than _visiting_;\nsomething more exciting.' The doctor here mused again for a few moments:\n'You say she has seemed happy until very lately?'\n\n'Yes, it is only lately that she has seemed to droop.'\n\n'Well, perhaps she's been particularly dull lately; now by way of\nexperiment, suppose you at once summon a large party to your house; let it\nbe a very general invitation; all your acquaintances, that is the young\nones, _her_ acquaintances; all who have ever visited at the house; and as\n_you_ may not be able to remember them all, it will be best to direct her\nto do it in your name; this will of itself furnish her with a rather\nexciting occupation. All this is by way of experiment I say, for it may\n_not_ be that she needs amusement, but by the effect that company and\ngayety have upon her, which I shall take care to be by and watch. I have a\nnotion that I shall be enabled to decide upon the character of her\nindisposition. One thing however; remember you must give me\n_carte-blanche_ as to the course of treatment to be pursued; your\nprejudices, you confess you have them, must not hamper me.'\n\n'My prejudices!' replied Mr. Lee; 'why what can they have to do with your\nprescriptions? You know me well enough to be aware that I do not undertake\nto meddle with matters I do not understand; the art of medicine for\ninstance, to which I make no pretensions; of course I shall not interfere;\nonly tell me what is to be done for my child, and you may be very sure no\ndifficulty will arise on my part, should it be that I must take her to\nEgypt or Kamtschatka.'\n\n'It is not probable that I shall call upon you for any such effort; on the\ncontrary, I have a strong impression that a very simple course will\nanswer; I was afraid you might not like its simplicity.'\n\n'Really,' said Mr. Lee, 'that is too bad; am I that sort of person? Don't\ntantalize me, Doctor, but just tell me what ought to be done for my poor\nchild, and you must be assured that _I_ will not object.'\n\n'Of course, no father would,' said Dr. Kent.\n\n'Then why the deuce do you imagine for an instant that _I_ would?'\n\n'Nay now,' said the physician, 'it is only a whim of mine, and every one\nmust be allowed some whims: but good day; remember your promise.'\n\n'Oh yes, only make up your mind at once.'\n\nGreat was Lucy's surprise, when upon being again summoned by her father,\nshe received from him the commission just determined upon. At one moment\nto have her pulse felt, and the next to be told that she must prepare for\nentertaining a large party! What did it mean? The good father, startled at\nher agitation, assured her that he himself felt the want of a little more\nsociety, and that he thought it would do _him_ good to have a company of\ngay young people about him for an evening. Lucy was afraid she could not\nrecollect all her acquaintances. 'Well, no matter; only invite all she\n_could_ remember; he should be satisfied with her arrangement of the\naffair.'\n\nWhatever may have been the efforts of Lucy's memory, it is certain that\nonly a moderate number of tickets were sent out for the appointed evening;\nindeed it might have been feared that the doctor's experiment could\nscarcely have a fair scope in so limited a circle; but finding that his\npatient had had her own way in the whole, _he_ seemed to feel quite\nassured of success. Before etiquette would have permitted the arrival of\nany other guest, he had taken his place close beside the fair mistress of\nthe revels, and even after the room began to fill, seemed determined to\nyield his envied position to no one. Those who said Dr. Kent was no\nstudent, should have seen him then; his eye riveted on her fair young\ncountenance, there could be no doubt he was conning _that_ closely. At\nevery fresh arrival, how he watched the eager glance of inquiry! how his\ngaze followed the course of the eloquent blood as it left the transparent\ncheek, again to burden the disappointed heart!\n\nThe doctor was still puzzled; the gay company had by no means yet wrought\nthe change he looked for; how was this?--but he held to his watch. And now\nonce more the door was thrown open, and a young gentleman, with a\ndecidedly hesitating air and step, approached the youthful hostess. Ah!\nnow the light no longer flickered in her clear blue eye; it literally\ndanced: the awakened color left her cheek it is true, as before, but how\nsoon it came again! 'You positively have stood long enough, and must sit\ndown now,' said Dr. Kent, taking Lucy's hand; not the tip-ends of her\nfingers; no, the doctor was not one either to be satisfied with any such\nsuperficial plan of action, or to forego his privileges; on the contrary,\navailing himself of his position of friend of the family, he possessed\nhimself of the whole of the little delicate hand, when, old habit it might\nbe, leading him to measure with some exactness the slender wrist thereto\nbelonging, he pressed it most cordially, and after one or two moments of\nsuch demonstration of his affectionate regard, yielded his place beside\nher to the last comer.\n\nMr. Lee now joined him as he lounged upon a sofa, with an air of entire\ninattention to what was going on around him, yet turning from time to time\na heedful glance upon Lucy who sat just opposite, replying more by blushes\nthan words to the depressed tones of young Mr. Lillburgh's voice. 'Well,\nDoctor, and how goes on the experiment?' The anxious father tried to speak\ncalmly, but his voice trembled.\n\n'I am quite satisfied with my _experiment_,' replied Dr. Kent; 'but I will\nconfess (you know I am a candid man) that the result makes me feel a\nlittle serious.' Dr. Kent knew, as we all have an opportunity of knowing,\nthat a danger, however startling, for which we are at once provided with a\nremedy, is soon scorned; that it must stare us very decidedly in the face,\nbefore we are willing to appreciate the said remedy. 'Yes,' continued he.\n'I had no idea of the deep root the disease had taken.'\n\n'Good heavens! my friend,' exclaimed Mr. Lee, grasping Dr. Kent's hand in\nthe utmost agitation; 'and the remedy you thought of--is the case too\nserious for it to be available?'\n\n'I trust not,' replied the Doctor; 'I believe indeed that if I can apply\nthe proper remedy in time, all may be well; but as I said just now, I am\na candid man, and don't like to raise false hopes: I tell you frankly this\ncase is not one to be trifled with; it requires nice management: the young\nlady is delicate, very delicate; her nervous system is now decidedly\nderanged.'\n\n'But don't you think, Doctor, don't you think, my good friend, that she\nlooks a little better this evening? See how animatedly she is listening to\nthat young man: by-the-by, who is he?'\n\n'Oh, no matter who he is, so he amuses Miss Lucy. But with regard to her\ncase; I will study it seriously to-night, and tell you what result I have\ncome to to-morrow about noon. I shall give all my mind to it, for I know\nhow precious she must be to you; I know that nothing the world has to\ngive, can make up to you for the most trifling evil that can assail her.'\n\n'Oh, nothing, nothing; but what tormenting apprehensions you fill me with!\nGracious heaven! my dear Sir, she is my all; my past, my present, my\nfuture are made by her; but you will help me if you can. May Almighty\nwisdom aid you!' And the agitated father rushed out of the room, unable\nany longer to control himself.\n\nDr. Kent looked after him with something of commiseration in his\ncountenance; but being a decided enemy to homeopathic innovation, he had\nmade up his mind that a strong dose of apprehension was positively\nnecessary; and now, only gratified at its powerful effect, he resumed his\nsurveillance with a heartlessly satisfied air. This was no doubt rendered\nthe more easy to him by Mr. Lee's continued absence from the room: the\nyoung Lucy, thus relieved from the observation which she unconsciously\ndreaded, growing more and more at her ease, enabled him to settle his\nopinion regarding her completely.\n\nThe evening finished, as all evenings will; the night also took its course\nas usual; but when on the following morning Dr. Kent appeared according to\npromise in his friend's parlor at the appointed hour, he saw at once that\nit had been passed by both in a manner very different from those lately\npreceding it. Lucy looked as if some new impetus had been given to her\nwhole being; too much agitated for happiness, yet with animation glowing\nin every feature, while the poor old father's care-burdened brow\nproclaimed that anxious apprehension had completely usurped the hours\ndestined to repose. Dr. Kent really began to fear he had been too violent\nin his measures; at any rate, feeling sure, as he said to himself, that\nthe instrument had been wound up to the striking point, he took his old\nfriend by the arm, saying he wished to speak to him in the next room on\nbusiness. Of course Mr. Lee was no sooner out of hearing of his daughter,\nthan he began to question his visitor with the utmost eagerness; upon\nwhich the doctor slowly and warily proceeded to unfold his suspicions, or\nrather his convictions.\n\nIt was curious to observe the changes passing over the countenance of the\nhearer as Dr. Kent made this disclosure. Pleased surprise was evidently\nthe first emotion excited, but painful perplexity soon usurped its place.\n\n'My good friend,' said he, as Dr. Kent finished speaking, 'I am greatly\nrelieved to find that you think the cause of my child's illness so\nsuperficial; but as to the remedy you propose, believe me, I cannot\nconsent to it; I do not believe it necessary.'\n\n'Believe it or not, as you will; I tell you it _is_ necessary.'\n\n'But I tell you, Doctor, that my child is a part of myself, my own flesh\nand blood; and can you counsel me to become an apostate to my own\nprinciples? It has been my dearest thought that I should one day enjoy in\nmy own seclusion the reflected lustre of my child's brilliant position in\nthe world, and that that position should be by the side of one whose\ncourse in life my own ripe judgment approves entirely. A man of Mr.\nLillburgh's principles cannot make her happy; I will not believe that he\ncan. No, I have always cared for my daughter's happiness; I will care for\nit still, by settling this matter for her as I best know how. No; again I\nsay no; my only child shall not be so sacrificed!' And Mr. Lee stamped on\nthe floor, as if to add force to his speech.\n\n'When you are cool,' said Dr. Kent, looking any thing but cool himself, 'I\nwill remind you of your promise, your positive promise; there is Mr.\nLillburgh now approaching the house; ask both your heart and conscience\nhow he ought to be received. Good morning to you.'\n\nWithout stopping to consult either of these counsellors, Mr. Lee hastily\nrang the bell. 'We are both engaged, and cannot see the gentleman who is\nnow coming to the door,' said he to the servant. The doorbell was heard at\nthe instant, and the servant hastened to obey his master's directions.\n\nThe doctor was gone. Mr. Lee, pacing the parlor alone, imagined to himself\nall sorts of arguments to satisfy his conscience that he was in the right.\nYet, thought he, my little darling must be made happy; all young girls\nlove trinkets and finery; I will take her out with me this morning, and\nshe shall indulge every caprice of her pretty fancy; pretty in every thing\nelse but fixing itself on that Mr. Lillburgh. 'Pshaw! he shall _not_ have\nher; call Miss here,' he continued to a servant who entered at the moment.\nThe servant returned after a few minutes, saying that he had knocked\nrepeatedly at her door, but received no answer. Vaguely apprehensive of\nsomething wrong, Mr. Lee hastened himself to her chamber; but how was he\nshocked on entering, to find his daughter lying senseless in a swoon near\nan open window. Ah! what voice whispered him that she had seen and heard\nat that window what her delicate nerves could not endure! He raised her\ntenderly in his arms, and having with some difficulty restored her to\nconsciousness, placed her on the bed. 'Good heavens!' thought he, 'can it\nbe indeed so serious!' But he could not long speculate upon this subject;\nLucy's cheek, but just now so pale and marble-like, soon began to glow\nwith fever; her pulse, but just restored to action, now told with momently\nincreasing hurry that illness had seized the delicate frame; the sudden\nrevulsion from new-born hope to despair had been too much for it. Poor Mr.\nLee! what did his heart say now? Did it yet upbraid him? Dr. Kent, who had\nset out on a course of visits, could not at once be found, and the\nwretched father sat gazing in agonizing helplessness on his suffering\nchild until the decline of the day. What would he have given to live over\nagain the last few hours! At length the physician appeared: 'Now,' said\nhe, on accosting Mr. Lee, 'do you think I know my own business or not? Do\nI make mountains of mole-hills or not? I knew what I was about, didn't I?'\n\n'Alas, yes!' replied the other, in a self-accusing tone, 'and _I_ did not;\nbut oh! merciful Providence! is it too late now?'\n\n'Too late? Heaven knows, poor young lady! she'd have been better off if\nshe'd been an ugly twelfth daughter, with no one to trouble themselves\nmuch about her, instead of a beautiful darling, that must have one\nparticular sort of happiness and no other.'\n\n'Spare me! spare me, my friend!' implored Mr. Lee.\n\n'I wish you had spared yourself,' grumbled Dr. Kent.\n\nThe Doctor was, it must be allowed, a little rough; but he had been so\nthoroughly annoyed, after having, as he thought, with unparalleled cunning\nand discretion detected the difficulty and provided a remedy, to find his\nplans thwarted by an obstinate wilfulness, that he could not help boiling\nover a little: his kind feelings however soon got the ascendency; the deep\ncontrition of the poor father touched his heart, and the lovely girl who\nhad only increased his interest in her by making good his words, received\nfrom him the most attentive care; nor could he doubt that at length his\nadvice was appreciated, when he heard Mr. Lee take every opportunity of\nmentioning Mr. Lillburgh's name with approbation and kindness, always\nregretting that he had made such a mistake as to send him away the last\ntime he had called at the house.\n\nBut who may venture to choose their own time for showing kindness? Who\nmay, having refused to 'do good when it was in the power of his hand to do\nit,' resume at will the precious privilege? Dr. Kent, satisfied with his\nfriend's repentance, was willing to take any step which might avail to\nretrieve the mischief; but when this last would have lured back by\ncivilities the repulsed lover, he was found to have left home the very day\nafter his mortifying dismissal.\n\nLet those who only by looking _back_ can see the road by which misery\nmight have been escaped, while _before_ the vista seems quite closed up,\nconceive the deep and agonizing perplexity of the anxious father. His\ndaughter, comforted no doubt by his frequent recurrence to the subject\nnear her heart, and the manner in which he treated it, slowly raised her\ndrooping head; but he, (the entire amende being still out of his power)\nhung over her night and day, oppressed by a constant sensation of guilt,\nscarcely aware of her partial restoration. For some days this ordeal\nlasted; there seemed a risk that the lover might in the bitterness of his\ndisappointment prolong his stay indefinitely; what availed it then that\nthe prejudice and ambition which had exiled him were now annihilated? The\neagerly coveted-prize for which he would have sacrificed his daughter's\npeace, had turned to ashes in his grasp.\n\nBut the door to returning happiness was not completely closed. Dr. Kent's\nskill, aided no doubt by Lucy's young confidence in her lover's\nsteadfastness, kept danger at bay, until one of those opportune accidents\nof life, which like many of the best things in it look threateningly until\ntime takes off the veil, occurred in the shape of a fire on the premises\nof the wanderer; which news, forcing him to return, the indefatigable Dr.\nKent at once offered to divert his mind from this untoward circumstance,\nby taking him to join the family dinner of his friend Mr. Lee. The sequel\nmay be imagined; on the strength of this friendly invitation, aided no\ndoubt by sundry blushes and smiles on Lucy's part, Mr. Lillburgh ventured\nto resume his visits, and Lucy's cheek always looked so particularly rosy\non such occasions, that Mr. Lee soon became too entirely happy in the\nresult, to cavil any longer at the cause of her renovated health and\nspirits. Sometimes, also, memory would recall for an instant that terrible\nperiod of anxiety, and then he would treat Mr. Lillburgh with such pointed\ncordiality, that before very long that young gentleman was emboldened to\ntake advantage of his civility, and make some disclosure of his _own_\nplans for the fair Lucy's happiness, according to the liberty of speech\nyoung gentlemen generally allow themselves when desirous of securing their\nown. Mr. Lee had gone too far to recede, and he soon found himself reduced\nto the necessity of resting all his hopes for the gratification of his\nfavorite fancies and prejudices upon the anticipated course through life\nof another generation, whose future being happily so distant, promised him\na long period of hope.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FRATRICIDE'S DEATH.\n\nA RHAPSODY.\n\n    The following effort of a wild and maddened imagination, rioting\n    in its own unreal world, is by the 'AMERICAN OPIUM-EATER,' whose\n    remarkable history was given in the KNICKERBOCKER for July, 1842.\n    The MS. is stained in several places with the powerful drug, to\n    the abuse of which the writer was so irresistibly addicted. The\n    subjoined remarks precede the poem: 'This extravaganza is worthy\n    of preservation only as 'a psychological curiosity,' like\n    COLERIDGE's 'Kubla Khan,' which was composed under similar\n    circumstances; if that indeed can be called composition, in which\n    all the images rose up before the writer as THINGS, with a\n    parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any\n    sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking, he appeared to\n    have a distinct recollection of the whole: taking his pen, ink and\n    paper, he instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here\n    preserved. The state of corporeal sleep but intellectual activity,\n    during the continuance of which the phenomenon above described\n    occurred, was caused by a very large dose of opium, and came upon\n    me while reading the 'Confession of a Fratricide,' published by\n    the priest who attended him in his last moments. I should warn the\n    reader that the fratricide, like the author, could not be said to\n    possess the 'mens sana in corpore sano,' both having been\n    deranged.'\n\n                                                    ED. KNICKERBOCKER.\n\n\n  The universe shook as the monarch passed\n    On the way to his northern throne;\n  His robe of snow around him he cast,\n  He rode on the wings of the roaring blast,\n    And beneath him dark clouds were blown.\n\n  His furrow'd and hoary brow was wreathed\n    With a crown of diamond frost;\n  Even space was chill'd wherever he breathed,\n  And the last faint smiles which summer bequeathed,\n    Ere she left the world, were lost.\n\n  The leaves which wan Autumn's breath had seared\n    Stern Winter swept away;\n  Dark and dreary all earth appeared--\n  The very beams of the bright sun feared\n    To pursue their accustom'd way.\n\n  Mirth's merry laugh at that moment fled,\n    And Pleasure's fair cheek grew pale:\n  The living sat like the stony dead,\n  The rough torrent froze in its craggy bed,\n    And Heaven's dew turned to hail.\n\n  The forest trees waved their heads on high,\n    And shrunk from the storm's fierce stroke;\n  The lightning flash'd as from GOD'S own eye,\n  The thunderbolt crash'd through the startled sky,\n    As it split the defying oak.\n\n  The proud lion trembled and hush'd his roar,\n    The tigress crouch'd in fear;\n  The angry sea beat the shuddering shore,\n  And the deafening voice of the elements' war\n    Burst terribly on the ear.\n\n  I stood by the bed where the prisoner lay;\n    The lamp gave a fitful light:\n  His soul was struggling to pass away;\n  Oh, GOD! how I pray'd for the coming of day!\n    Death was awful in such a night.\n\n  His cheek was hollow, and sunk, and wan,\n    And his lips were thin and blue;\n  The unearthly look of that dying man,\n  As his tale of horror he thus began,\n    Sent a chill my warm heart through:\n\n  'The plague-spots of crime have sunk deep in my heart,\n    And withered my whirling brain;\n  The deep stamp of murder could never depart\n  From this brow, where the Angel of Death's fiery dart\n    Had graven the curse of CAIN.\n\n  'Remorse has oft waved his dusky wings\n    O'er the path I was doom'd to tread;\n  Despair has long frozen Hope's warm springs;\n  I have felt the soul's madness which Memory brings,\n    When she wakes up the murder'd dead.\n\n  'Tell me not now of GOD'S mercy or love!\n    All hope of pardon is past:\n  A brother's blood cries for vengeance above;\n  This brand on my brow will my foul crime prove--\n    _My_ torment for ever must last!\n\n  'Thou needst not tremble; this arm is bound,\n    And its iron strength is gone;\n  Despair came down in the hollow sound\n  Of my fetters, which clank'd on the loathing ground\n    Where my wearied limbs I had thrown.\n\n  'I snatched the knife from my jailor's side\n    And buried it in my breast,\n  But they cruelly staunched the gushing tide,\n  And closed the wound, though 'twas deep and wide,\n    And _still_ I might not rest!\n\n  'Day after day I had gnawed my chain,\n    Till I sharpened the stubborn link;\n  But when I had pierced the swollen vein,\n  And was writhing in death's last dreadful pain,\n    While just on eternity's brink:\n\n  'Even then the leech's skill prevailed;\n    I was saved for a darker fate!\n  My very guards 'neath my stern glance quailed,\n  And with their cloaks their faces veiled\n    As they passed the fast-barred grate.\n\n  'I LOVED! Thou know'st not half the power\n    Of woman's love-lit eye;\n  Her voice can soothe death's gloomy hour,\n  Her smiles dispel the clouds which lower\n    When Affliction's sea rolls high.\n\n  'My heart seemed cold as the frozen snow\n    Which binds dark AEtna's form,\n  But _Love_ raged there with the lava's flow,\n  And madden'd my soul with the scorching glow\n    Of strong passion's thunder-storm.'\n\n  'I told my love: O GOD! even still\n    I hear the Tempter's voice,\n  Which whispered the thought in my mind, to fill\n  My page of crime with a deed of ill\n    That made all hell rejoice.\n\n  'I knelt at her feet, and my proud heart burn'd\n    When she spoke of my brother's love;\n  Affection's warmth to deep hate was turn'd;\n  His proffered hand in my wrath I spurn'd--\n    Not all his prayers could move.\n\n  'At dead of night to his room I crept,\n    As noiseless as the grave;\n  Disturbed in his dreams, my brother wept,\n  And softly murmur'd _her_ name while he slept;\n    _That_ word new fury gave!\n\n  'The sound from his lip had scarcely passed,\n    When my dagger pierced his heart:\n  One dying look on me he cast--\n  That awful look in my soul will last\n    When body and soul shall part!\n\n  'When the deed was done, in horror I gazed\n    On the face of the murder'd dead;\n  His dark and brilliant eye was glazed:\n  When I thought for a moment his arm he raised,\n    I hid my face in the bed.\n\n  'I could not move from the spot where I stood;\n    A chilliness froze my mind:\n  My clothes were dyed with my brother's blood,\n  The body lay in a crimson flood,\n    Which clotted his hair behind!\n\n  'And over my heart that moment pass'd\n    A vision of former years,\n  Ere sin upon my soul had cast\n  It's withering blight, it's poison-blast,\n    It's cloud of guilty fears.\n\n  'The home where our youth's first hours flew by,\n    In its beauty before me rose;\n  The holy love of our mother's eye,\n  Our childhood's pure and cloudless sky\n    And its light and fleeting woes.\n\n  'When our hearts in strong affection's chain\n    Were so closely, fondly tied,\n  That our thoughts and feelings, pleasure and pain,\n  Were one: why did we not remain\n    Through life thus side by side?\n\n  'And my brother's gentle voice then fell\n    Upon my tortured ear;\n  Those tones I once had loved so well,\n  Now wither'd my soul like a flame from hell\n    With vain remorse and fear!\n\n  'All, all that memory still had kept\n    In her hidden and silent reign,\n  My youth's warm feelings, which long had slept,\n  Like a torrent of fire that moment swept\n    In madness o'er my brain.\n\n  'For before me there _his_ pallid face\n    In death's cold stillness lay;\n  Even murder could not all efface\n  Its beauty, whose sad and shadowy trace\n    Still lingered round that clay.\n\n  'Sternly I bent me over the dead,\n    And strove my breast to steel,\n  When the dagger from hilt to point blood-red,\n  Flash'd on my sight, and I madly fled,\n    The torture of life to feel.\n\n  'Since that dread hour o'er half the earth\n    My weary path has lain;\n  I have stood where the mighty Nile has birth,\n  Where Ganges rolls his blue waves forth\n    In triumph to the main.\n\n  'In the silent forest's gloomy shade\n    I have vainly sought for rest;\n  My sunless dwelling I have made\n  Where the hungry tiger nightly stray'd,\n    And the serpent found a nest.\n\n  'But still, where'er I turn'd, there lay\n    My brother's lifeless form;\n  When I watched the cataract's giant play\n  As it flung to the sky its foaming spray,\n    When I stood 'midst the rushing storm:\n\n  'Still, still that awful face was shown,\n    That dead and soulless eye;\n  The breeze's soft and soothing tone\n  To _me_ still seemed his parting groan--\n    A sound I could not fly!\n\n  'In the fearful silence of the night\n    Still by my couch he stood,\n  And when morn came forth in splendor bright,\n  Still there, between me and the light,\n    Was traced that scene of blood!'\n\n       *     *     *     *     *\n\n  He paused: Death's icy hand was laid\n    Upon his burning brow;\n  That eye, whose fiery glance had made\n  His sternest guards shrink back afraid,\n    Was glazed and sightless now.\n\n  And o'er his face the grave's dark hue\n    Was in fixed shadow cast;\n    His spasm-drawn lips more fearful grew\n  In the ghastly shade of their lurid blue;\n  With a shudder that ran that cold form through,\n    The murderer's spirit passed!\n\n\n\n\nSICILIAN SCENERY AND ANTIQUITIES.\n\nNUMBER TWO.\n\n\nWe proceed, in another and concluding paper, as promised in the last\nnumber of the KNICKERBOCKER, to direct the reader's attention to the\n_Architectural Antiquities of Sicily_, especially those of Grecian\nstructure, which will be described in the order in which they were\nvisited. The first are those of Egesta, or Segeste, as it is sometimes\ncalled; a city said to have been built in the remote age of the Siculi,\nand which was destroyed by Agathocles, the potter's son, who reduced all\nSicily two hundred and eighty years before the Christian era. It lies\nabout forty or fifty miles from Palermo, among the mountains which cluster\nround the famed Mount Erix, on which once stood a temple dedicated to\nVenus. On leaving Alcamo, which may be called a city of convents, midway\nbetween Palermo and Segeste, the broad slopes of an ample valley lie\nbefore the traveller, which though almost treeless, are waving with beans,\nand grain and grass. In the depth, is a river meandering among fragrant\noleanders; on the left, the valley is intersected by a range of distant\nmountains; on the right is a beautiful bay of the Mediterranean. Across\nthe valley the mountains form a green amphitheatre, and high in its\nremotest part is seen the Temple of Segeste, but merely as a point of\nlight and shade upon the bosom of the mountain. The next view, if he takes\nour route, is from the ancient Grecian city of Catafimi, itself perched on\na mountain's top. He looks down a deep luxuriant vale, and on a grassy\nknoll about three miles distant, lifted from the depths of the valley by\nprecipitous crags, stands the solitary temple; and if seen as we saw it,\nreceiving the last golden rays of the setting sun while all below is\nwrapped in shade. The next day, would he visit the temple, his road lies\nthrough the valley of which I have last spoken. And surely he never passed\nthrough such an Arcadian scene as this. Almond and orange trees fill the\nair with fragrance; his path struggles through the tangled flowers, the\ncistus and the blue convolvulus, and he disturbs the nightingale in her\npleasant haunt. At length, emerging from the valley, and climbing the\nsteep side of a mountain, he stands before the temple. It is a majestic\npile, about two hundred feet in length and eighty-eight in breadth, having\nfourteen columns on each side and six at each end, in all thirty-six\ncolumns, of about six feet in diameter; not fluted, as is usual in Grecian\nDoric temples, but having a very peculiar form. It stands on a platform\nraised on three gigantic steps. All the columns are standing; the\nentablatures and pediments are in pretty good preservation, but it is\nroofless, and flowers and weeds are now waving where once trode the\nwhite-robed priests. The breezes from the fragrant mountains and the\ndistant sea, of which it commands a fine view, sigh through it in harmony\nwith its sad and solitary grandeur.\n\nOn a neighboring hill are the vestiges of the ancient city, a few ruined\ntowers, probably of the citadel, and a theatre, the stone seats of which\nare almost entire; part of the sculptured figure of a faun still remains\non the proscenium; wild shrubs shade a great part of the ruin, and where\nmanhood and beauty once sat, listening to the tragedies of an Eschylus or\nEuripides, the adder and the lizards sun themselves. The next ruins we\nvisited were those of Selinunte, anciently Selinus or Selinuntium, which\nlies on the southern coast of the island. This city was founded by a\ncolony of Greeks about twenty-five hundred years ago. It was taken during\nthe Carthaginian wars, and in a great measure destroyed by Hannibal the\nson of Giscon, four hundred and nine years before CHRIST. The country on\napproaching Selinunte is a dreary plain covered with the palmetto. On\ngazing toward the sea, when distant two or three miles, the traveller's\neye catches what he would take for a rocky hill, were it not for a few\nmutilated columns which rise above the blue horizon. As he approaches, the\nstupendous scene of ruin strikes him with awe. There in a mighty heap lie\ncolumn and capital, metope and cornice; and the mind is lost in wonder at\nthe power that raised these giant structures, and the power that overthrew\nthem. Only one complete column, and that without its capital, and several\nmutilated ones, remain standing of the great temple supposed to be of\nNeptune; the rest are prostrate; and all lying in one direction, bear\nevidence that they have been thrown down by an earthquake.\n\nThe first temple is Grecian Doric, as are all those of which I shall\nspeak. Its columns are about eleven feet across, and they must have been,\nincluding their capitals, more than sixty feet high. Above these lofty\ncolumns was placed the architrave, one of the stones of which, that we\nmeasured, was twenty-five feet in length, eight in height, and six in\nthickness; but another is still larger; forty feet long, seven broad, and\nthree deep. To transport these enormous masses of stone from their quarry,\nwhich is several miles distant, with a deep valley and river intervening,\nwould trouble the modern engineer; but to poise and place them on the top\nof the columns, seventy feet from the ground, with our mechanical means,\nwere indeed a great feat. The columns were not of single pieces, but\ncomposed of several, and they now lie, to use an unpoetical phrase, like\nrows of enormous cheeses. The great temple was three hundred and\nthirty-four feet long, one hundred and fifty-four wide; its porticoes at\neach end were four columns in depth, eight in width; a double row on the\nsides of the cella or interior edifice, which in all Grecian temples was\nthe sanctum sanctorum. In _all_, there must have been eighty columns.\nThere is one remarkable feature about this temple, which is, that none of\nthe columns were fluted except those of the eastern end. About thirty\npaces from this ruin, which the Sicilians call the Pileri di Giganti, or\nPillars of the Giants, are the remains of another temple which was about\ntwo hundred feet long: its entablature was supported by thirty-six fluted\ncolumns of seven feet in diameter and thirty-five feet long, each of a\nsingle piece of stone. Only a few fragments of the columns remain standing\nin their places. Treading another thirty paces, you come to a temple which\nis of rather larger dimensions than the one last mentioned. The columns of\nthis were also fluted, but no part of the edifice is standing, except a\nsolitary pilaster, which was probably a portion of the cella. These\ntemples were built of a hard but porous stone, of a light color, and were\nprobably covered with a thin coat of cement. They command an extensive\nview both of sea and land, and in their primal days must, with their\ntower-like columns, their sculptured entablatures and pediments, have\nrisen above the scene in majestic grandeur.\n\nThree quarters of a mile from these temples was the ancient port, now\nchoked with sand, and near it are the remains of edifices supposed to have\nbeen the magazines. On an adjoining hill are remnants of three temples and\ntwo towers, in almost undistinguishable ruin. We left Selinunte with a\nlasting but melancholy impression, and were reminded of the lines:\n\n  'Two or three columns and many a stone,\n  Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown:\n\n       *     *     *     *     *\n\n  Remnants of things which have passed away,\n  Fragments of stone rear'd by creatures of clay!'\n\nGirgenti, anciently called Agragas and Agrigentum, is situated on the\nsouthern coast of Sicily, in a delicious country; the modern city was\nbuilt by the Saracens on the summit of a hill upward of eleven hundred\nfeet above the level of the sea. The site of the ancient city is lower,\nand about a mile distant. It was probably founded in the eighth century\nbefore CHRIST. In its flourishing state it contained two hundred thousand\ninhabitants, who were celebrated for their hospitality, their love of the\narts and luxurious style of living. Plato was so much struck with the\nsolidity of their buildings and the sumptuousness of their dinners, that\nhe said they 'built as though they thought themselves immortal, but ate as\nthough they never expected to eat again.' The horses of Agrigentum were\ncelebrated; and one of the citizens returning from the Olympic games, on\nentering his native town, was followed by three hundred chariots, each\ndrawn by four white horses sumptuously caparisoned. The government of this\nlittle state, whose inhabitants never amounted to more than eight hundred\nthousand, was at first monarchical, afterward democratic; but neither the\nforms of its institutions, nor its riches and grandeur, could save it from\nmisfortune: it was besieged several times by the Carthaginians, and at\nlength, after a siege of three years, was taken and sacked by Hannibal,\nthe son of Giscon. In alluding to these misfortunes, the historian says:\n'Yet of all the Sicilian cities, the fate of Agrigentum seemed the most\nworthy to be deplored, from the striking contrast of its fallen state with\nits recent splendor and prosperity. The natural beauties of Agrigentum\nwere secured by strength and adorned with elegance; and whoever considered\neither the innumerable advantages of the city itself, or the gay\ncultivation of the surrounding territory, which abounded in every luxury\nof the sea and land, was ready to pronounce the Agrigentines the most\nfavored inhabitants of the earth. The exuberant fertility of the soil,\nparticularly the rich luxuriance of the vines and olives, exceeded every\nthing that is related of the happiest climates, and furnished the means of\nlucrative commerce with the populous coast of Africa, which was sparingly\nprovided with those valuable plants. The extraordinary wealth of the\nAgrigentines was displayed in the magnificence of public edifices and in\nthe splendid enjoyment of private fortunes. They had begun and almost\ncompleted the celebrated Temple of Jupiter, built in the grandest style of\narchitecture, employed by the Greeks on the greatest and most solemn\noccasions.'\n\nThe ancient city of Agragas stood on an elevated platform or table of\nland, three sides of which fell off in steep precipices; the fourth side\nwas surmounted by the lofty hill on which the modern city stands. These\nsteep precipices were the natural walls of the city, and were made more\navailable for defence by excavation on the inside, so as to leave a solid\nwall of rock rising round the city. On the verge of this platform, which\ngradually sinks from east to west, and on the side next the sea, which is\nabout a mile distant, are seen the remains of no fewer than six temples.\nThey stood in a general line, but at irregular intervals, and must have\nformed one of the most magnificent spectacles that the art of man has ever\npresented to the eye. The remains of three other temples exist, but they\nlie at a distance from this grand range. On the eastern and highest part\nof the platform, where the natural wall of which I have spoken makes an\nangle, stood the Temple of Juno Lucina; next came the Temple of Concord;\nnext the Temple of Hercules, near which was the Temple of Jupiter, called\nof the Giants; next came the Temple of Venus, and lastly that of Castor\nand Pollux. The approach to the ruins of these temples from the modern\ncity is over the site of the ancient, now shaded by olive, almond, and\ncarruba trees. The Temple of Juno is a picturesque ruin; all the columns\non the northern side are standing, also several at the ends, and part of\nthe entablature; the rest of the building, corroded by time or entirely\nprostrate, lies under an exuberant growth of flowers and shrubs.\n\nDescending from this temple, we pass through a sort of wild garden, with\nhere and there an olive-tree or dark carruba; on the left are the ruins of\nthe ancient rock-wall, huge fragments of which in places have fallen down\nthe precipice; other parts are perforated as with windows or loop-holes,\nor with deep cell-like excavations: these are the tombs of the ancient\nAgrigentines, now tenantless and void. Those window-like apertures were\nevidently made so by the action of the elements or the violence of man;\nand it is related that in consequence of the Agrigentines having made\ntheir tombs in the walls, they were so much weakened that the\nCarthaginians by means of their engines were enabled to batter them down\nand obtain an entrance. We now come to the Temple of Concord, one of the\nmost beautiful specimens of Grecian Doric in existence. It is roofless,\nbut otherwise almost perfect. It has twenty-four columns; it is, like the\ntemple of Juno, raised on a platform of several steps, and about one\nhundred and fifty-four feet in length and fifty-five in breadth. It seems\nthat this temple was used in times past for a Christian church, and the\nsides of its cella are perforated by arched openings. The next temple is\nnear one of the ancient city gates, and is supposed to have been dedicated\nto Hercules: it was celebrated in ancient times for having in it a fine\npicture of Alcmena; but it is now a confused heap of ruin, with only one\ncolumn standing, which proves it to have been of larger dimensions than\nthe temples just mentioned.\n\nTurning a little to the right, we come upon the Temple of Jupiter\nOlympius, commonly called of the Giants, the largest sacred edifice in\nSicily, and one of the most stupendous works of the ancients. It was in\nlength three hundred and sixty-eight feet, in breadth one hundred and\neighty; the breadth or diameter of its columns at the base thirteen feet\nfour inches; the height of the columns must have been seventy-five feet;\nabove these rose a massive entablature, and the top of the pediments could\nnot have been less than one hundred and twenty feet high! The grandeur of\nthe door and vestibule corresponded to the simple majesty of the whole\nbuilding, whose sculptured ornaments represented, with the finished\nelegance and laborious accuracy that distinguished each particular figure,\nthe 'Defeat of the Giants and the Taking of Troy.' In the interior ranged\ntwenty-four antae, or square pillars, of fifty feet in height; on the top\nof each was a sculptured giant twenty-seven feet in height, which with his\nhands clasped over his head supported the lofty roof. One can scarcely\nconceive any thing more noble and majestic than this wonderful edifice, in\ncomparison with which, though covering much more ground, St. Peter's in\nRome is a splendid gew-gaw. But what remains of this great temple? A wide\nheap of ruin; the interior of which, the columns and walls having fallen\noutward, is a flowery field, in which lie some fragments of those huge\ngiants that once supported the roof. One of these is tolerably entire: the\ncurls of his hair form a sort of garland: it lies with its face upward,\nand when I stood by it, my own head scarcely reached as high as the brow\nof the statue. It is composed of several pieces of stone, as are the\ncolumns of this temple, and most of the others of Agrigentum. On every\nside of this elevated field lie the walls, entablatures, and columns in\nenormous fragments: the capitals of the columns look like huge rocks that\nhave been hurled there by some violent convulsion of nature.\n\nA short distance from this temple are the ruins of the Temple of Venus,\nand another of Castor and Pollux, of which two of the columns and part of\nthe entablature are entire, and the thin coat of cement or stucco which\ncovered them is in some parts as perfect as ever. The stone of which the\ntemples were constructed is of a very porous nature, a sort of tufa, full\nof sea-shells, and when seen in the sunlight, of a golden hue; but they\nwere all covered with stucco, which, judging from what remains, was nearly\nas hard as porcelain, and gave a beautiful and finished appearance to the\notherwise rude material. Of the other remains in Agrigentum, the limits of\nthis article will not allow me to speak. But the reader would ask, how\ncame these temples in such a state of ruin? On this subject there has been\nsome dispute; but their destruction may most reasonably be attributed to a\nmightier agency than man's. Earthquake has shattered these gorgeous\ntemples; the time _when_ is not recorded. I am inclined to believe that\nthey were destroyed, as well as those of Selinus, by the dreadful\nearthquakes that shook Italy and Sicily in the dark age of Valens and\nValentinian, three hundred and sixty-five years after CHRIST.\n\nLet us now proceed to Syracuse, once the capital of Sicily, and the\nbirth-place of the great Archimedes. It was founded by Archias, one of the\nHeraclidae, more than seven hundred years before the Christian era, and\naccording to some authors contained within its walls at one time, one\nmillion two hundred thousand inhabitants; could maintain an army of one\nhundred thousand foot, ten thousand horse, with a navy of five hundred\narmed vessels. Little now remains of a place once so populous and so\npowerful, save the shrunken modern city of Syracusa, containing about nine\nthousand inhabitants, and a few almost unintelligible ruins scattered\namong vineyards, olive-groves, and fields of corn, or over the high wastes\nof the barren Epipole, on the summit of which the curious will find ruined\nwalls and fortresses of massive and beautiful masonry. From these the eye\ncommands the whole site of the ancient city. _There_ lies, at the distance\nof three miles, the small island of Ortygia, on which is the modern town;\non its right is the narrow entrance from the sea, which lies beyond, to\nthe greater harbor, that appears like a beautiful lake, and is about two\nmiles long and one and a half broad. On the left of the island of Ortygia\nis all that remains of the lesser port of Syracuse. On this side the\nisland is connected with the main land by means of a draw-bridge. In\nOrtygia is the famous fountain of Arethusa: the spring is yet clear and\ncopious; but the only nymphs I was fortunate enough to see were engaged in\nthe necessary vocation of cleansing the soiled linen of Syracusa. The\nremains of a beautiful temple of Minerva form a part of the cathedral\nchurch. Near the small river Anapus are two columns, the remnants of a\ntemple of Jupiter, which once contained a statue of that god, wearing a\nrobe of gold; but Dionysius the tyrant stripped it off, saying 'it was too\ncold for winter and too hot for summer.' Among the seats of a noble\ntheatre now stands a mill, that is supplied with water diverted from an\nancient aqueduct close by: a strange metamorphosis indeed! This aqueduct\nconveys the water thirty miles. It may have been of Greek construction\noriginally, but that part of it which I have seen is evidently Saracenic.\nThe rocky site of Syracuse is in many parts perforated with tombs; the\nroads are literally honey-combed with them. There is a street excavated in\nthe limestone rock which on either side is full of cells, and it may\nindeed be said of Syracuse that it is a great burying-ground. The oranges,\nvines, and figs of Syracuse are still flourishing, and the earth yet\nyields its hundred fold; but its glory is departed, and the traveller\nlooks in vain for satisfactory vestiges of that mighty city.\n\nThere are many other interesting remains of antiquity in Sicily, but I\nmust hasten to a conclusion. I trust the reader will have found the\nsubject of this article interesting, although treated briefly and\nimperfectly. The traveller is unworthy of his privilege, and forgetful of\nduty if he extracts not from the scenes described some moral lesson or\nreligious truth. The reader has accompanied me in imagination through\nclassic Sicily. He has seen the lonely temple of Segeste, standing among\nthe mountains like a widowed thing, mourning in silence the departed.\nWhere is the multitude that once thronged around its walls? Mount Erix\nstill battles with the clouds, as in the days of Agathocles. He has\nclambered with me among the prostrate columns of Selinunte: _once_, from\nbeneath those massive porticoes, the Selinuntine, in the pride of his\nheart, looked upon the crowded port and distant mountains as we look on\nthe Hudson, with its white sails and swift steamers, and the neighboring\nhills. Where and what are they? The distant mountains stand, but the great\nworks which he erected to be a living honor to his name and country, are\nperished forever. He has lingered with me among the ruins of the splendid\nAgrigentum. Its numerous temples are dilapidated, or crumbling on the\nearth; its walls, once its vaunted strength, are strewed in shattered\nfragments on the steeps around. The dust of its multitudes serves to\nfertilize the soil of its ancient site! But the stream still flows which\ngave its name to the city, and the hills around yet produce the oil, the\nwine, and the grain. We have sojourned for a time among the melancholy\nvestiges of Syracuse; the scene of battles far more bloody than this land\nhas ever known. The army which the Athenians, inflated with pride and\npresumption, sent against Syracuse, was here defeated. In yonder\nland-locked bay the Athenian fleet, the mightiest that republic had ever\nsent forth, and which they believed _invincible_, was destroyed. And the\nRoman orator has eloquently said, that not only the navy of Athens, but\nthe glory and the empire of that republic, suffered shipwreck in the fatal\nharbor of Syracuse. It was there the wonderful mechanical skill of\nArchimedes was displayed against the Roman fleet, and those quiet waters\nhave been strewed with the dying and the dead. From this deserted citadel,\ncalled of 'Labdalus,' the eye embraces the whole site of the once populous\nSyracuse; and what does it behold? On the distant island of Ortygia, an\ninsignificant town, with a few small craft at anchor in the bay; nearer, a\ndesert of rocky hills, a goat-herd, and a few straggling goats. Turning\naway from the melancholy scene, we behold afar off the snow-clad AEtna.\nWhat a contrast is this to what we have just reviewed in the mind's eye!\n_That_ is the work of God! Since its huge pyramid arose, nation after\nnation has possessed its fertile slopes. The Siculi have labored on its\nsides; the Greek, the Carthaginian and the Roman; the Norman and the\nSaracen have struggled for mastery at its foot; but the roar of the battle\nis past; the chariot and the charioteer are mingled in the dust. Yet yon\nearth-born giant, fed by continual fires, each century augments, and in\nall probability will continue to do so until\n\n  'The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,\n  The solemn temples, yea the great globe itself\n  Shall dissolve, and like the baseless fabric\n  Of a vision, leave not a wreck behind!'\n\nMay we not in these things read deep lessons applicable to ourselves? The\nhistory of the people whose noble works I have endeavored to describe,\nshould in the first place teach us how noble a thing it is to construct\nworks of beauty and utility, not only for our own gratification, but for\nthe benefit of posterity also. The selfish and unreflecting, even the\nmodern utilitarian, will perhaps laugh at the thought, and say: 'What\nfolly to undertake such labors for the benefit of posterity! We will labor\nfor ourselves.' I would ask such persons, what would have been our state\nif the ancients had entertained such grovelling notions? Do they not know\nthat most of the elegant as well as the useful, is the rich bequest of\nthese ancients whom they affect to despise? There is not in the whole city\nof New-York a house, however lowly, but in some part of it I could point\nout a moulding or an ornament that comes from the ancients. But there are\nother points of view perhaps of higher consequence. Their temples were\nerected to the gods; mistaken as they were in their religious notions, we\nChristians may be put to shame by the devotion of the pagan. Not to man\nwere their temples erected. Man enjoyed their beauty; gazed with\nadmiration on their exquisite forms, and lingered under their shady\nporticoes; but the eye of the god to whom each temple was dedicated was\nsupposed to be on the work, and the aim of the builders was perfection in\nevery part; and even that which the eye of the multitude never rested on,\nwas finished with elaborate care. I would ask, is there such a lofty\nfeeling among us? Are we willing to expend toil and cost on that which\nwill never gratify our senses? You will answer no. Is not this then a\nlesson to us? Another view of the matter: These works of art were the\nobjects of veneration and love; city vied with city in their construction;\nit was a noble emulation--think you not _nobler_ than the competition for\nsordid gold? The citizen gazed with pride upon the marble triumphs of his\nnative place; he loved it more than ever, and felt his patriotism kindle\nas he gazed.\n\nLet us not think that rail-roads and canals are the only works worthy of\nmodern civilization. If we look to intents, (and what ought we to look\nat?) I doubt much but the ancients rose superior to us. We are in the\nenjoyment of many advantages of which they knew nothing. The\nwonder-working press was unknown to them; and above all, the beautiful\nlight of Christianity had not been shed on the world. We have the broad\nday; they wrought in the twilight gloom. What majestic monuments of art!\nwhat enduring legacies of beauty! what objects to make a man love his\ncountry more and more, could have been erected with the means expended a\nfew years ago in reckless speculations! Instead of turning with melancholy\nloathing to those broken bubbles on which the hopes and fortunes of many\nof us were suspended, we could at least look with admiration on the marble\npile, and exclaim, 'I also can be proud of the genius and taste of my\ncountry!' Another lesson we may learn from the fate of ancient states: it\nis to beware of presumptuous pride and overweening conceit: these are the\nresult of inconsiderate ignorance. It was through presumptuous pride that\nAthens fell, as I have before intimated. We have reason to fear there are\nmany, some unconscious of the injury they do, and perhaps with just\nintentions, who feed this appetite for undue praise. Others, for mere\npopularity or the applause of the day, minister with adroitness the sweet\nthough poisonous morsel for which our vanity and self-love are\nopen-mouthed; which (to carry on the simile,) puffs us up with the\ncomfortable notion that we are superior in every respect to all other\nnations, ancient or modern. It would be well to turn a deaf ear to this\nsyren's song: let us learn if possible to _know_ ourselves; let us\nremember that there is no perfection, either in men or their institutions;\nand by avoiding a vain and presumptuous spirit, and scanning with a\ncareful eye the causes of the greatness which under Providence we possess,\nwe shall be most likely to approach the perfection which we all desire. We\ncan have little doubt that the Agrigentine considered the institutions of\nhis country as perfect as we do ours; and the citizens of greater states,\nAthens, even Rome itself, indulged in the same pleasing thought. Our only\nmeans of judging of the future is the past. We see that nations have\nsprung from obscurity, risen to glory, and decayed. Their rise has in\ngeneral been marked by virtue; their decadence by vice, vanity, and\nlicentiousness. Let us beware!\n\nI would not have the reader censure me for commencing this article as a\ntraveller and ending it with an attempt to moralize. In reviewing in my\nmind the interesting scenes I have endeavored to describe, I have been led\nback to the thoughts that arose when I trode among the ruins of prostrate\ntemples, and they were _connected_ in my mind; and I will venture again to\nsay, that he is unworthy of the privilege of travelling who gleans not\nfrom the fields he visits some moral lesson or religious truth.\n\n                                                                 T. C.\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS.\n\nWRITTEN AT BEVERLY, MASSACHUSETTS. BY REV. WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.\n\n\n  I.\n\n  In Beverly, the building I sought the other day,\n  Where forty years ago my sire his infant gave away;\n  I sought it, for I coveted where he had placed his foot,\n  My honored, sainted father! mine in filial love to put.\n\n\n  II.\n\n  I entered it: most holy appeared the house of prayer;\n  Yet more than common holiness its beauty seemed to wear;\n  For there the waters bathed me, and solemn words were said,\n  And Father, Son, and Paraclete invoked above my head.\n\n\n  III.\n\n  Of all the congregation who looked in reverence on,\n  The elders and the blooming youth, each worshipper was gone;\n  And he, with hairs of winter, whose office 'twas to lave\n  My baby brow, and name my name, was hidden in the grave!\n\n\n  IV.\n\n  What years have passed of sorrow, that hour and this between!\n  What moments of enjoyment in that interval I've seen!\n  I wept that I had measured the half of being's track;\n  I smiled that worlds were poor to bribe the weary pilgrim back.\n\n\n  V.\n\n  I sighed that in the journey where blessings are so few\n  For even the most favored, I but scanty portion knew;\n  And chiefly in the season of confidence and pride,\n  My youth was forced the dangerous way, without my earthly guide.\n\n\n  VI.\n\n  Where is my sainted father, who took me in his arms,\n  And held me to the minister, and kissed away alarms?\n  I feel his presence near me! he blesses me once more!\n  Ay, where he gave me up to GOD, just forty years before!\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.\n\nHarry Harson.\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nIt was not the failure of his plans, nor the dread of detection, which\nbroke Rust down. He had been prepared for that, and had nerved himself to\nmeet it; but it was a blow coming from a quarter where he had not dreamed\nof harm, and wounding him where alone he could feel a pang, that crushed\nhim. There was something so abject in the prostration of that iron-willed\nman, who had often endured what would have wrung the very souls of other\nmen, without exhibiting any other feeling than contempt, that for a moment\nawed even the hard man who had struck the blow. In proportion as Rust's\ncontrol over his emotions had been great, so now the reaection was\nterrible. He seemed paralyzed in body and mind. No cry escaped him, but\nhis breath rattled as he drew it; his long hair hung loosely over his\nface, and upon the floor; his eyes were closed; his features livid and\ndistorted; and but for his struggling breath, and the spasmodic jerking of\nhis fingers, he seemed dead.\n\n'Lift him up, Bill,' said Grosket, in a subdued tone. 'It's been too much\nfor him. Who'd have thought he had a heart?'\n\nJones smiled grimly, as he said: 'I'm glad you did it, Mr. Grosket. It was\nbetter than murdering him. He wasn't afeard of dying. Is it a fit he's\ngot?'\n\nWithout waiting for a reply, he placed his arms under him and raised him\nup. Rust lay heavily against him, his head falling back, and his arms\ndangling at his side. They carried him to the bench, and placed him on it,\nGrosket standing behind him, and supporting his back.\n\n'I guess he's done for,' said Jones, pushing the hair from his face; 'pity\nit wasn't three days ago--that's all.'\n\n'Get some water, or brandy,' said Grosket; 'I suppose we may as well bring\nhim to. It would be an ugly business if he should die on our hands.'\n\nJones stooped down, and picking up his great coat, commenced fumbling in\nits pocket, and drew out the bottle from which he and Craig had drank, as\nthey were starting on their expedition on the previous night. He held it\nup and looked at it, then muttered: 'It's no use; it's no use.'\n\n'What are you talking about, there?' demanded Grosket, impatiently: 'is it\nempty?'\n\nJones shook it.\n\n'No; there's a drop or two in it. D--n him! I don't like his drinking out\nof this bottle, I don't; I use it myself; and blow me, if I don't think\nhis mouth 'ud p'ison it.'\n\nGrosket cut his scruples short by taking the bottle from him, uncorking\nit, and pouring its contents in Rust's mouth.\n\n'It's a waste,' muttered Jones, eyeing his proceedings with a very\ndissatisfied look. 'I begrudged it to poor Tim; and cuss _him_, it's going\ndown _his_ gullet! I hope it'll choke him.'\n\nGrosket paid no attention to him, but supported Rust, occasionally shaking\nhim by way of stirring up his ideas. Either the liquor or the shakings had\nan effect; for the deadly paleness gradually disappeared from Rust's face;\nhis breath grew less short and gasping; and finally he sat up, and looked\nabout him. His eye was wandering and vacant, and sad and heart-broken\nindeed was his tone.\n\n'My own dear child!' said he, in a voice so mild and winning, and so\nteeming with fondness, that none would have recognized it as Rust's. 'I've\nhad a strange dream, my poor little Mary, about you, whom I have garnered\nup in my heart of hearts.'\n\nHis voice sank until his words were unintelligible, and then he laughed\nfeebly, and passed his hand backward and forward in the air, as if\ncaressing the head of a child. 'Your eyes are very bright, my little girl,\nbut they beam with happiness; and so they shall, always. So they shall--so\nthey shall. Kiss me, my own darling!' He extended his arms, and drew them\ntoward him, as if they enfolded the child, and then bending down his\ncheek, rocked to and fro, and sang a song, such as is used in lulling an\ninfant to sleep.\n\n'My God! He's clean gone mad!' said Jones, staring at him with starting\neyes. 'Dished and done up in ten minutes! That's what I call going to\nBedlam by express.'\n\nAlthough Grosket uttered not a word of comment, his keen gray eye, bright\nas a diamond; his puckered brows; his compressed lips, and his hands\ntightly clasped together, showed that he viewed his work with emotions of\nthe most powerful kind. At length he said, in low tone, as if communing\nwith himself rather than addressing the only person who seemed capable of\nhearing him: 'If he goes mad he'll spoil my scheme. He'll not reap the\nwhole harvest that I have sown for him. He must live; ay, and in his sane\nmind, to feel its full bitterness. I, _I_ have lived,' said he, striking\nhis breast; '_I_ have borne up against the same curse that now is on him.\n_I_ have had the same feeling gnawing at my heart, giving me no rest, no\npeace. _He_ must suffer. He _must_ not take refuge from himself in\nmadness. He _shall_ not,' said he, savagely. 'Ha! ha! who would have\nthought that the flint which the old fellow calls his heart had feeling in\nit?'\n\nWhether these remarks reached Rust's ear, or whether it was that his mind,\nafter the first shock of the intelligence was over, was beginning to\nrally, is a matter of doubt; but from some cause or other, he suddenly\ndiscontinued his singing, passed his hand across his forehead, held his\nlong hair back from his face, and stared about him; his eye wandering from\nGrosket to Jones, and around the room, and then resting on the floor. He\nsat for some time looking steadfastly down, his face gradually regaining\nits stern, unbending character; his thin lips compressing themselves,\nuntil his mouth had assumed its usual expression of bitterness, mingled\nwith resolution.\n\nThe two men watched, without speaking, the progress of this metamorphosis.\nAt last he rose, and turning to Grosket, said in a calm voice:\n\n'You've done your worst; yet you see Michael Rust can bear it;' and then\nbowing to him, he said: 'Good bye, Enoch. Whatever may have happened to\n_my_ child, _I_ am blameless. _I_ never sold her happiness to gratify my\navarice. If she has become what Enoch's child was, the sin does not lie at\n_my_ door. I don't know how it is with _you_.'\n\nTurning to Jones, he said, in the same quiet tone: 'Murderer of your\nbosom-friend, good bye.' The door closed, and he was gone.\n\nA bitter execration from the two men followed him. From Jones, it burst\nforth in unbridled fury, and he sprang forward to avenge the taunt, but\nwas withheld by Grosket, who grasped his arm, then as suddenly\nrelinquished his hold, and said:\n\n'Quick! quick! Jones. Drag him back! It concerns your safety and my plans\nto get him back.'\n\nThe man dashed to the door and down the stairs. In a moment he reaeppeared:\n\n'It's too late. He's in the street.'\n\n'Curse it! that was a blunder! We should have searched him. He carries all\nhis papers with him.'\n\nBut almost at the same moment he seemed to overcome his vexation, for he\nsaid: 'Well, it can't be helped, so there's no use in grumbling about it.\nAnd now, Bill Jones,' said he, turning to the other, 'you know what you've\ndone, and who set you on. So do I. He's worse than you are. If you were\nhim, I'd arrest you on the spot. As it is, I say you had better make\nyourself scarce. Your neck is in danger, for although the death of Tim, if\nthe rumor is true, was accidental----'\n\n'It was, it _was_, Mr. Grosket,' interrupted Jones. 'D--n it, if it was\nRust, if it was only _him_, I wouldn't mind it. I'd die myself, to see\n_him_ swing.'\n\n'Well, hear me,' continued Grosket. 'You were committing a felony when you\nkilled Craig, and his death, although accidental, is murder. I'm no\nlawyer, but I know _that_. You must run for it.'\n\n'I'd cuss all danger,' said Jones, gnawing his lip, 'if I could only lug\nRust in it too.'\n\n'Well, well,' returned Grosket, 'you must take your own course; but\nremember I've warned you. You have some good traits about you, Bill, and\nthat's more than Rust has. Good bye!' He extended his hand to the burglar.\nJones grasped it eagerly.\n\n'Thank you! thank you, Mr. Grosket,' said he, the tears starting to his\neyes. 'If you only knew how I was brought up, how I suffered, what has\nmade me what I am, you wouldn't think so hard of me as some do. But there\nis blood on me, now; that's worse than all. I'll never get over _that_. I\nmight, if it wasn't Tim's. Good bye, God bless ye, Mr. Grosket! My\nblessing won't do you much good, but it can't hurt you.'\n\nGrosket shook his hand, and left the room; and the desperate man, whom he\nleft melted by a transient word of kindness, which had found its way to\nhis rugged heart, buried his face in his hands, and wept.\n\nOnce in the street, Rust endeavored to bear up against his fortune. But he\ncould not. His mind was confused, and all his thoughts were strange,\nfantastic and shadowy. He paused; dashed his hand impatiently against his\nforehead, and endeavored to shake off the spell. No, no! it would not\nleave him. Failure in his schemes! dishonor in his child! He could think\nof them, and of _them_ only. Once on this theme, his mind became more\nbewildered than ever; and yielding himself to its impulses, he fell into a\nslow pace, and sauntered on, with his chin bent down on his breast.\n\nFrom the thickly-settled parts of the town he went on, until he came to\nstreets where the bustle and crowd were less; then to others, which were\nnearly deserted; then on he went, until he reached a quarter where the\nhouses stood far apart, with vacant lots between them. Still he kept on.\nThen came fields, and cottages, and farm-houses, surrounded by tall trees.\nStill on he went, still wading through a mass of chaotic fancies,\nspringing up, and reeling and flitting through his mind; shadows of things\nthat had been, and might be; ghosts of the past; prophets of the future.\nHe had become a very child. At last he stood on the bank of the river; and\nthen for the first time he seemed to awaken from his trance.\n\nIt was a glorious day, whose sunshine might have found its way even into\nhis black heart. Oh! how soft, and mellow, and pure, the hurricane of the\nlast night had left it! Not a cloud in the sky, not a breath to ripple the\nwater, or to wave the long trailing locks of the hoary willows, which\nnodded over its banks.\n\nRust looked about him, with a bewildered gaze, until his eye became fixed\nupon the water. 'It's very quiet, _very_ quiet,' said he; 'I wonder if a\nman, once engulfed in it, feels peace.' He pressed his hand to his breast,\nand muttered: '_Here_ it is gone forever!'\n\nHe loitered listlessly on, under the trees. His step was feeble; and he\nstooped and tottered, as if decrepid. He stopped again, shook his head,\nand went on, looking upon the ground, and at times long and wistfully at\nthe river.\n\nAn old man, leaning on a stout cane, who had been watching him, at last\ncame up. Raising his hat, as he did so, he said:\n\n'You seem, like myself, to be an admirer of this noble river?'\n\nRust looked up at him sharply, ready to gather in his energies, if\nnecessary. But there was nothing in the mild, dignified face of the\nspeaker to invite suspicion, and he replied in a feeble tone:\n\n'Yes, yes; it is a noble river.'\n\n'I've seen many, in my long life,' said the other, 'and have never met its\nequal.'\n\nRust paused, as if he did not hear him, and then continued in a musing\ntone:\n\n'How smooth it is! how calm! Many have found peace there, who never found\nit in life. Drowning's an easy death, I'm told.'\n\nThe stranger replied gravely, and even sternly:\n\n'They have escaped the troubles of life, and plunged into those of\neternity;' and then, as if willing to give Rust an opportunity of\nexplaining away the singular character of the remark, he said: 'I hope\n_you_ do not meditate suicide?'\n\n'No,' replied Rust, quietly, 'not at present; but I've often thought that\nmany a wrecked spirit will find _there_ what it never found on\nearth--peace.'\n\n'The body may,' returned the other, 'but not the soul.'\n\nRust smiled doubtfully, and walked off. The man watched, and even followed\nhim; but seeing him turn from the river, he took another direction,\noccasionally pausing to look back. Not so Rust. From the time he had\nparted with the stranger, he had forgotten him, and his thoughts wandered\nback to their old theme. It was strange that he should believe so\nimplicitly Grosket's tale, coming as it did from one whom he knew hated\nhim. Yet he _did_ believe it. There was proof of its truth in Grosket's\nmanner; in his look; in his tone of assured triumph. Yet although Rust\nbrooded over nothing else that livelong day, he could not realize it; he\ncould not appreciate how desolate and lonely he was. He could only fancy\nhow life would be, if what Grosket had told him _had_ happened. 'This is\nnot all a dream, I suppose,' muttered he, pausing as he went, and passing\nhis hand across his forehead. 'No, no; I'm awake--wide awake; and _I_ am\nMichael Rust; that's more strange than all.'\n\nAfter hours of wandering, he found himself at his office. He ascended the\nstairs, opened the door, and went in. It was dark, for the lights had been\ntwinkling in the shop-windows before he left the street; but he sat down\nwithout observing it; and there he remained until Kornicker came in with a\nlight.\n\nRust made no reply to the salutation which he received. Kornicker placed\nthe light on the table; and after loitering round the room, and busying\nhimself with a few papers which he had arranged on the table, to give it a\nbusiness-like appearance, he asked:\n\n'Do you want me any more, to-night?'\n\n'No; you may go.'\n\nThe dismissal and departure of Mr. Kornicker were almost simultaneous. His\nheavy foot went thumping from step to step, and finally the street-door\nbanged after him. Rust sat without moving, listening to every tramp of his\nheavy foot, until the door shut it out.\n\n'So, he's gone,' said he, drawing a long breath, and cuddling himself up\non his chair. 'He'll be in my way no more to-night.'\n\nHe shivered slightly; and then got up and drew his chair nearer the grate,\nalthough there was no fire in it. 'And _this_ is then the end of my\nscheme,' muttered he; 'I have gone on for years in the same beaten track,\nfighting off all who could interfere with me. The affection of those who\nwould have loved me; friends, relatives, those nearest to me, with the\nsame blood in our veins, nursed in the same arms, who drew life from the\nsame source; this cold heart has repulsed, until they have all abandoned\nme!'\n\nHe leaned his head on his hands, and tears, scalding tears, gushed from\nhis eyes. 'I did it for _her_. It was to get gold to lavish on _her_. I\nwould have chained myself for life to that old man's daughter, to get\nwealth; I would have added the murder of those children to the catalogue\nof my crimes, that I might have grasped their inheritance, to have\nshowered all that I had gathered by toil and crime upon _her_. She was my\nhope, my pride, my own dear darling child; but she is shipwrecked now; she\nhas withered my heart. I would have shed its last blood for her. I\nwould--I _would_; indeed I would! But it's useless to think of it. She can\nnever be what she was; the bright, pure-souled, spotless child whom I\nworshipped. Yes, yes; I _did_ worship her; Why deny it? Better, far\nbetter, she had died, for then I might still have cherished her memory.\nIt's too late. She's become a castaway now.'\n\nHe paused. From a state of deep and querulous despondency, he gradually\nrecovered composure; then his mood grew sterner and sterner; until his\ncompressed lips and flashing eye showed that he had passed from one\nextreme to the other.\n\n'Is there nothing left to live for?' exclaimed he; '_nothing_ left? One\nthing can yet be done. I must ascertain her disgrace beyond a doubt. Then\natonement can and shall be made, or _he_ had better never have been born!'\n\nRust stood up, with an expression of bold, honest indignation, such as he\nhad rarely worn, stamped on every feature. '_This_ must be accomplished,'\nsaid he. 'Everything else must be abandoned: _this_ done, let me die; for\nI cannot love her as I did, and I might hate her: Better die!'\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.\n\nRichard Holmes, Esq. was sitting in his office, two days after the events\nnarrated in the last chapter, with his nose within a few inches of a\nlaw-book which rested on his knees, when he was aroused by the opening of\nthe door, and the entrance of a man. Holmes was so much out of the world,\nand out of the current of business, that he did what a practitioner at the\nbar of his age and standing rarely does; that is, he looked up without\nwaiting till he was addressed.\n\n'Ah, Harson?--it's you, is it?' said he, laying aside his book, but\nwithout rising.\n\nHarry walked up, shook hands with him, and seated himself.\n\n'We've been hard at work, and have made some progress,' said he, taking\noff his hat, and placing it on the table. 'We've got the woman.'\n\n'What woman?'\n\n'Blossom,' replied Harson; 'I've brought her here to answer for herself.\nShe was in Rust's employ, and received the children from him. She's\nbelow.'\n\n'What news of the boy?' inquired Holmes.\n\n'Grosket is after him. He knows where he is. Would you like to see the\nwoman?'\n\n'It would be as well,' said Holmes, drumming on the table. 'We'll hear\nwhat she has to say. Does she communicate what she knows willingly or\nunder compulsion?'\n\n'She's not very talkative;' answered Harson, 'and seems terribly afraid of\nRust.'\n\n'I think we can squeeze the truth out of her,' replied Holmes. 'Bring her\nup.'\n\nHarson went out, and in a few minutes reaeppeared with Mrs. Blossom at his\nheels. The lawyer pointed to a chair, into which the lady sank, apparently\nin a state of great exhaustion and agitation; for she moaned and rocked to\nand fro, and wrung her hands.\n\n'Your name's Blossom, I think,' said Holmes, evincing no sympathy whatever\nwith her sufferings.\n\n'Ah's me! ah's me! I'm very old! I'm very old!' exclaimed the lady,\nmoaning from the very bottom of her lungs, but without making any reply to\nthe question.\n\n'Hark ye,' said Holmes, in a stern tone, 'I have not sent for you, to\nlisten to your moaning, nor to be trifled with in any other way. You have\ncome here to disclose the deeds of a scoundrel; and disclose them you\n_must_. You shall answer all my questions, truly, honestly, and without\nequivocation, or it will be the worse for you. I am aware of offences\ncommitted by you, which, if punished as they merit, would send you to\nprison. I tell you this, that you may know exactly how we stand with\nreference to each other. If you wish to serve yourself, you will find true\nand prompt replies to whatever I ask. What's your name?'\n\nMrs. Blossom oscillated in her chair, glanced at the wall, replied\n'Blossom,' and buried her face in a rag of a shawl.\n\n'Good! Where do you live?' demanded the lawyer. The woman answered, and\nHolmes wrote it down.\n\n'Do you know a man by the name of Michael Rust?'\n\nMrs. Blossom's chair became very uneasy, and she was seized with a violent\ncough. The lawyer waited until her cough was better, and repeated the\nquestion, accompanying it by a look which produced an answer in the\naffirmative.\n\n'What other name did you ever know him to bear?'\n\nMrs. Blossom suddenly found her voice, and replied boldly: 'No other;' and\nhere she spoke the truth; for Rust had trusted her no farther than was\nabsolutely necessary.\n\n'How long have you known him?'\n\nMrs. Blossom again lost her voice, but found it instantly on meeting the\neye of Holmes; and she answered bluntly, 'About four years.'\n\n'What led to your acquaintance?'\n\nThe woman cast a shrewd suspicious glance at him, as if calculating how\nfar she might trifle with impunity; but there was something in his manner\nthat was not encouraging, and she replied, 'that she could not remember.'\n\nHolmes laid down his pen, and pushing back his chair so that he faced her,\nsaid in a quiet but very decided manner:\n\n'Mrs. Blossom, you have been brought here for the purpose of giving us\nsuch information as will enable us to do justice to a person who has been\ngreatly injured by this man Rust. I mention this, not because I suppose\nthe motive will have any great weight with you, but to let you see that\nthe object of our investigation is nothing against yourself. Your answers\nare important to us; for at present we know no other than yourself, of\nwhom we can obtain the information we require. I do not conceal this, nor\nwill I conceal the fact that unless you _do_ answer me, you shall leave\nthis room for a prison. I told you so before; I repeat it now; I will\n_not_ repeat it a third time. I already know enough of the matter on which\nI am interrogating you, to be able to detect falsehood in your answers.'\n\nThere was something either in the words of the lawyer or in the formation\nof her chair that caused Mrs. Blossom to move very uneasily; and at the\nsame time to cast a glance behind her, as if there existed a strong\nconnection between her thoughts and the door. She was however used to\ntrying circumstances, and did not lose her presence of mind. She made no\nreply, but sat with every faculty, which long training had sharpened to a\nhigh degree of cunning, on the alert; but she was not a little taken by\nsurprise when Holmes, after taking from the table a packet of papers,\nselected one, and having spent a few minutes in examining it, said to her:\n\n'To convince you that we are perfectly acquainted with the nature of your\ndealings with Rust, I will enter into a few details, which may perhaps\nenable you to recollect something more. Four years since, on the sixteenth\nof December, a man by the name of Blossom, with whom you lived, and whose\nname you bear, although you are not his wife, proposed to you to take\ncharge of two children, a boy and girl. At first you refused, but finally\nagreed to do it on receiving five hundred dollars, and the assurance that\nno inquiry would be made as to the treatment they received at your hands,\nand that whether they lived or died was a matter of indifference to the\nperson who placed them in your charge, and would not be too closely\ninvestigated. The children came. They were quite young. You had them for a\nweek, and were then informed that they must go, for a time, to the\ncountry. You asked no questions, but gave them up, and they were sent\naway, the money for their support being furnished by the same hand that\nthrew them upon your mercy. In a year or so they were brought back, and\nwere again entrusted to you, with instructions to break them down, and if\npossible to send them to their graves; but if their bodies were proof\nagainst cruelty, _then_ so to pollute their very souls, and familiarize\nthem with crime, that they should forget what they had been; and that even\nthose who should have loved them best would blush to see what they were.\nYou began your work well, for you had a stern, savage master over\nyou--Michael Rust. Thus much,' said he, 'I know; but I must know more. You\nmust identify the children as the same first delivered to you by Rust. You\nmust disclose the names of the persons with whom they lived in the\ncountry. You must also give me such information as will enable us to\nfasten this crime on Rust. Another person could have proved all this--the\nman Blossom; but you know he is dead.'\n\nHe paused, for Mrs. Blossom's face grew deadly pale as he spoke. It was\nmomentary, however; and might have passed away entirely, had not a strange\nsuspicion fastened itself on his mind. He added in a slow tone: 'What\nailed him, _you_ know best.'\n\nMrs. Blossom's thin lips grew perfectly white; and moved as if she were\nattempting to speak.\n\n'Will you give me the information I require? or will you accept the\nalternative?' said Holmes, still keeping his eye upon her.\n\n'Go on; what do you want?' demanded she, in a quick husky voice.\n\n'You are acquainted with Michael Rust?'\n\n'I am,' replied she, in the same quick, nervous manner.\n\n'How did you first become acquainted with him?'\n\n'You know all that,' was the abrupt reply. 'Why should I go over it again?\nIt's all true, as you said it.'\n\nHolmes paused to make a note of it, and then asked:\n\n'What is the name of the person, in the country, who took charge of the\nchildren?'\n\n'I don't know,' replied the woman. 'Michael Rust sent a man for them, who\ntook them off.'\n\n'Who was this man?'\n\n'I don't know; I never saw him. Mr. Blossom gave the children to him, and\nnever told me his name.'\n\n'Good,' said Holmes, in his short, abrupt manner: 'Where are these\nchildren now?'\n\n'One's at _his_ house,' replied she, pointing to Harson. 'The other, by\nthis time, is with a man named Grosket. He's been arter him, and I suppose\nhas got him by this time.'\n\n'Enoch Grosket?' inquired Holmes.\n\nThe woman nodded. 'I told him where he'd find him. He went straight off to\nfetch him.'\n\n'Will you swear that they are the same children brought to you four years\nsince?' said Holmes, pausing in his writing, and running his eye over the\nnotes which he had made. 'Do you know them to be the same?'\n\n'The man said so, who brought 'em back at the end of the year. That's all\nI know about it. They never left me arter that.'\n\n'Who was that man?'\n\n'Tim Craig,' replied the woman.\n\n'And he's dead. The only person who could reveal their place of\nconcealment during that year, and the name of those who had the care of\nthem. The chain is broken, by which to identify them as the lost children\nof George Colton. Who can aid us in this?'\n\n'I CAN!' said a voice.\n\nAll three started, for there, at their very elbow, stood Michael Rust; but\nRust, fearfully altered, worn down, wan, haggard, with sunken cheeks, and\nfeatures rigid and colorless, as if cut from wax, and with an eye of fire.\nBut wrecked as he was, there was still that strange sneering smile on his\nlip, which seemed as if only parting to utter sarcasm and mockery. But now\nhe was serious in his mood, for he repeated:\n\n'I can, and without my aid the secret must be hid forever.'\n\nHolmes rose, angrily, from his seat.\n\n'What brought _you_ here?' demanded he.\n\n'Be seated, I beg of you,' said Rust, bowing, and speaking in a low,\nmocking tone. 'What brought me here? _You_ called upon _me_, I think; it\nwas but civil to return the visit. I have come to do so.'\n\n'This is idle, Sir,' replied Holmes, coldly. 'You came for some purpose.\nName it. The sooner this interview is over, the more agreeable I suppose\nit will be for both of us.'\n\n'For me, certainly,' said Rust, in a manner so constrained and different\nfrom his usual one, that the lawyer was in doubt whether he was in jest or\nearnest. Then he added, in a bitter tone: 'You ask what brought me here.\nDestiny, folly, revenge perhaps against my own heart's blood. Call it what\nyou will; here I am; and ready to assist in the very matter which now\nperplexes you. What more do you want?'\n\nHolmes replied with a sarcastic smile: 'The assistance of Michael Rust is\nlikely to be as great as his sincerity. We certainly should place great\nreliance on it.'\n\nRust, perfectly unmoved by the taunt, answered in a tone so bitter, so\nfull of hatred to himself, so replete with the outpouring of a cankered\nheart, so despairing and reckless, that the lawyer felt that even in him\nthere might be some truth:\n\n'I care not whether you trust me or not; I care not whether you believe me\nor not. If Michael Rust could ever have been swayed by the opinions of\nothers, it would have been before this; it's too late to begin now. I came\nhere because I have failed in all I undertook; because I am beginning to\nhate the one for whom I have toiled, until I grew gray with the wearing\naway of mind and body; because the soul of life is gone. I do it out of\nrevenge against that person. There is no remorse; no conscience; but it's\nrevenge. Look at me; that person has blasted me. Do I not show it in every\nfeature and limb? Now you understand me. My schemes are abandoned; and I\nshall soon be where neither man nor law can reach me. My secret can do me\nno good; why should I keep it? Perhaps the recollection of past days and\nof past favors from one whom I have wronged, may have had its weight;\nperhaps not. I've come to tell the truth. If you will hear it, well; if\nnot, I go, and it goes with me.'\n\nHolmes and Harson exchanged looks, and Harson nodded, as if in\nacquiescence to some proposition which he supposed the looks of the other\nto indicate.\n\n'Well, Sir,' replied Holmes, 'we will hear what you have to say.'\n\n'Stop,' said Rust; 'before uttering a word, I must have a promise.'\n\nThe lawyer looked at him, and then at Harson, as much as to say: 'I\nexpected it. There's some trick in it.'\n\nRust observed it, and said: 'Spare your suspicions; I have come here to be\nfrank and honest in word and deed; and Michael Rust can be so, when the\nfancy seizes him. The promise I require is this; whatever I may reveal, no\nmatter what the penalty, you will not set the blood-hounds of the law on\nmy track within forty-eight hours. I have yet one act to perform in the\ngreat farce of life. _That_ accomplished, you may do your worst.'\n\n'This is all very strange,' said Holmes, eyeing the thin, excited features\nof his visitor, as if not altogether sure of his sanity; 'if you fear the\npunishment of your misdeeds, why reveal them? Why place yourself in our\npower, or run the risk of our interfering with your future movements?'\n\nRust replied bitterly: 'You shall hear. My whole life has been spent for\none person, my own child. Every faculty of mind and body has been devoted\nto her, and every crime I have committed was for her. Scruples were\ndisregarded; ties of blood set at defiance; every thing that binds man to\nman, that deters from wrong, were disregarded, if they stood in the way of\nthat one grand aim of life. _She_ forgot all! She has broken me down,\nheart and spirit. Love and devotion were crushed with them, and revenge\nhas sprung up from their ruins. Ay! revenge against my own child! Should\nany thing prevent my doing what I have yet to do, and should my brother\ndie, and his children not be found, _she_ would be his heir. _I_ would\nhave labored and _succeeded_, for one who has disgraced me, and made me\nwhat you see me!'\n\nHe stretched out his thin hands, displaying the large veins, coursing\nbeneath the skin, and apparently full to bursting. 'How wasted they are!'\nHe smiled as he looked at them, and then asked: 'Will you promise?'\n\nThe lawyer turned to Harson, and then said: 'I promise; do you, Harson?'\nHarry nodded.\n\n'Good!' said Rust, abruptly. 'You know my name, and much of my history.\nAll the facts which you detailed to me at my office a short time since are\ntrue--true almost to the very letter. Michael Rust and Henry Colton are\none. The plodding, scheming, heartless, unprincipled Henry Colton, who\ncould sell his brother's own flesh and blood for gold; who could forget\nall the kindnesses heaped upon him, and stab his benefactor, and this\nwreck of Michael Rust, are one!'\n\nHe struck his hand against his chest, and strode up and down the room,\nbiting his lips. '_He_ was rich, and _I_ was poor: he gave me the means of\nliving, but I wanted more. I had my eye on his entire wealth, and I wanted\nhim to be in his grave. But he thwarted me in that. Feeble and sickly, so\nthat a breath might have destroyed him, he lived on, and at last, as if to\nbalk me farther, he married. Two children were born; two more obstacles\nbetween me and my aim. Two children!--two more of the same blood for me to\nlove. Ho! ho! how Michael Rust loved those babes!' exclaimed he, clutching\nhis fingers above his head, and gasping as he spoke. He turned, and\nfastening his glaring eye on the lawyer, griped his fingers together, with\nhis teeth hard set and speaking through them, said in a sharp whisper: 'I\ncould have strangled them!'\n\nHe paused; and then went on: 'At last came the thought of removing them.\nAt first it was vague: it came like a shadow, and went off; then it came\nagain, more distinct. Then it became stronger, and stronger, until it grew\ninto a passion--a very madness. At last my mind was made up, and my plans\nformed. I trusted no one, but carried them off myself, and delivered them\nto the husband of that woman,' pointing to Mrs. Blossom. 'I told him\nnothing of their history: he was paid to take charge of them, and asked no\nquestions. Then came the clamor of pursuit. I daily met and comforted my\nbroken-hearted brother and his wife: I held out hopes which I knew were\nfalse; I offered rewards; I turned pursuit in every direction except the\nright one. They both thanked me, and looked upon me as their best friend;\nand so I was, for I kept up hope; and what is life without it? At last the\nsearch approached the neighborhood where the children really were, and\nthey were sent to the country. A man by the name of Craig took them. The\nonly person who was in the secret was Enoch Grosket; but he knew nothing\nrespecting the history of the children, nor where they went.'\n\n'Where was it?' inquired Holmes, anxiously, 'and to whom did you entrust\nthem?'\n\n'I have prepared it all,' said Rust; he drew a letter from his pocket and\nhanded it to him. 'You'll find it there, and the names of the persons;\nthey know nothing of the children; but they can identify them as those\nleft with them four years ago; and they still have the clothes which they\nwore at the time; but the girl's resemblance to her mother will save all\nthat trouble.'\n\nHe paused, with his dark eyes fastened on the floor, and his lips working\nwith intense emotion.\n\n'And is it possible that the love of gold can lead one to crimes like\nthese!' said Holmes, in a subdued tone.\n\n'Love of gold!' exclaimed Rust, fiercely; 'what cared I for gold? Ho! ho!\nMichael Rust values gold but as dross; but it is the world; the cringing,\nobsequious, miser-hearted world, that kisses the very feet of wealth,\nwhich set Michael Rust on; it was this that lashed him forward; but not\nfor himself. I married a woman whom I loved,' said he, in a quick, stern\ntone; 'she abandoned me and became an outcast, and paid the penalty by an\noutcast's fate: she died in the streets. The love which I bore her I\ntransferred to my child. I was poor, and I resolved that she should be\nrich. Can you understand my motive now? I loved my own flesh and blood\nbetter than my brother's. I have now relinquished my plans, and have told\nyou why.'\n\nA pause of some moments ensued, and Rust said: 'Is there any thing more\nthat you want? If so, tell me at once, for after to-day we shall never\nmeet again.'\n\nHolmes ran his eye over the papers, and selecting two letters, handed them\nto Rust, and said:\n\n'How do you account for the difference of that hand-writing, if Michael\nRust and Henry Colton are one?'\n\n'Michael Rust wrote one hand, Henry Colton another,' said Rust; 'but _I_\nwrote both.' He seized a pen, wrote a few words, signed the names Michael\nRust and Henry Colton, and flung it on the table. 'The game had been well\nstudied before it was played.'\n\n'Your writing is well disguised indeed,' said the lawyer, comparing it\nwith the letters; 'it solves that difficulty.'\n\n'Any thing else?' demanded Rust, impatiently; 'my time is limited.'\n\nHolmes shook his head; but Harson said: 'A few words about Jacob\nRhoneland.'\n\n'Well?'\n\n'You accuse him of forgery; what does that mean?'\n\n'He was a fool: I wanted to marry his daughter; I represented myself to\nhim as very rich, to tempt his avarice; that failed. I added entreaties;\n_they_ failed. Then I tried the effect of fear. He was not deaf to that\nfor a long time, but at last he overcame even that.'\n\n'And the tale?'\n\n'Was well fabricated, but false.'\n\n'And Ned Somers?'\n\n'I had to get rid of him: what could I do while he was dallying round the\ngirl? I _did_ get rid of him: a few lies whispered to the old man sent him\nadrift. But I'm tired of this; I came to tell what I pleased, and nothing\nmore, and I must be at work. You must respect your promise,' said he,\nturning to Holmes.\n\n'I shall, and I hope your present errand at least is an honest one.'\n\n'It is,' said Rust, with a strange smile; 'it is to punish a criminal.' He\nopened the door and went off without another word.\n\n\n\n\nNIGHT AND MORNING.\n\n      'To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new!'\n\n                                                              LYCIDAS.\n\n\n  Yes! I have been for many a changeful year,\n  Studious or sensual, gay or wild, or sad,\n  An earnest votary of Evening. She\n  Had something wondrous winning to my eye,\n  So soft she was, and quiet. Often too,\n  Absorbed in books, which were perchance a bane,\n  Perchance a blessing; or in glittering crowds,\n  Gazing all rapt on woman's eloquent face,\n  Nature's most witching and most treacherous page;\n  Or high in mirth with those whose senseful wit\n  Outflashed the rosy wines that warmed its flow,\n  I've held my vigils till the brow of Night\n  Grew pale and starless, and her solemn pomp,\n  Out-glared by day, faded in hueless space.\n  I do repent me of my worship. Night\n  Was given for rest: who breaks this natural law\n  Wrongs body and soul alike. One vigorous hour\n  Of sober day-light thought is worth a night's\n  Slow oscitations of a drowsy mind.\n  'Neath Eve's pale star the desolate heart reverts\n  To those far moments, when the sky was blue,\n  And earth was green, as earth and sky to eyes\n  Once disenchanted, can appear no more.\n\n  We _all_ are mourners. Good men must deplore\n  Lost hours, lost friends, lost pleasures; and the bad\n  Are racked by throes of impotent remorse,\n  Dark, fierce, and bitter; for _themselves_ are lost,\n  And still neglecting what remains of life,\n  They strive by backward reachings to redeem\n  The irredeemable. _Why_ pass the hours,\n  The fleeting hours, in profitless regrets,\n  When each regret but lops _another_ bough,\n  Full of green promise, from the tree of life?\n  You, who in your bereavement truly feel\n  This truth, expressed so sadly and so well:\n  'Joy's recollection is no longer joy,\n  While Sorrow's memory is sorrow still;'\n  I counsel to recant your vows, and come\n  With me to worship at a better shrine,\n  The shrine of Morning.\n                          Morning is the hour\n  Of vigorous thought, unconquerable hope,\n  And high endeavor. All our powers, in sleep\n  Bathed, nurtured, clad, and strung with nerves of steel,\n  Rise from their brief oblivion keen with health,\n  And strong for struggling, and we feel that toil\n  Is toil's own recompense. I deem that Man\n  Is not a retrospective being; for his course\n  Is on, still on; and never should his eyes\n  Turn back, but to detect his errors past,\n  And shun them in his future steps. Too long,\n  Ah! much too long, O world! and oft I've gazed\n  In awe and wonder on thy midnight sleep,\n  While magic Memory, singly or in groups,\n  Upon her faded tablets re-produced\n  Fair and familiar forms of Love and Joy.\n  Oh! _so_ familiar were they, and so fair,\n  Though dim, those blessed faces, that my eyes\n  Grew tremulous with the dew of unshed tears.\n  The gaze hath hurt me. It hath taken their rest\n  And natural joy from body and spirit, and worn\n  Too fast the wheel-work of this frail machine.\n  And now, oh! sleeping Nature! while the stars\n  Smile on thy face, and I in fancy hear\n  The low pulsations of thy dormant life,\n  And feel thy mighty bosom heave and fall\n  With regular breathings; through _my_ little world\n  I feel Disease advancing on his sure\n  And stealthy mission. Well I know his step,\n  The wily traitor! when I mark my short,\n  Quick respirations; and his call I know,\n  As, in the hush of night, my ear alarmed\n  By the heart's death-march notes, repeats its strange\n  And audible beatings.\n                        Down! grim spectre, down!\n  Flap not thy wings across my face, nor let\n  Thy ghastly visage, horrible shadow! freeze\n  My staring eye-balls! Let me fly, O Death!\n  Thy chilling presence, and implore thy soft\n  And merciful brother,[2] dewy Sleep, to drip\n  Papaverous balsam on my eyes, and lull\n  My throbbing temples on his lap to rest!\n\n       *     *     *     *     *\n\n  The day-spring reddens: the first few, faint streaks,\n  Mingling and brightening o'er the eastern skies,\n  Announce the upward chariot of the Sun.\n  Light leaps from Darkness! In the grave of Night\n  Day lays aside his burial-robes, and dons\n  His regal crown, and Nature smiles to see\n  His resurrection, shouting, 'Hail! oh, hail!\n  Eve's younger[3] brother! and again, all hail!\n  Thou bright-eyed Morning! fairest among all\n  Of God's fair creatures! Rise, bright prince, and shine\n  O'er this green earth, from brooding Darkness won,\n  From wild, waste Chaos, and the womb of Night!'\n\n      [2] [Greek: Entha de Nuktos paides eremnes oiki echousin,\n          Hypnos kai Thanatos, k. t. l.] HES. THEOG. 1. 758, etc.\n\n      [3] Observe the order of collocation in Genesis I: 5.\n          'And the EVENING and the MORNING were the first day.'\n\n  Let _me_ too burst the leaden bands of Sleep,\n  And while the blinking stars, all faint and pale\n  With their long watch, recall their courier-rays\n  To their far orbits; and our earthly stars,\n  The stars of Fashion, sick and wan as they,\n  Are wheeling homeward to their feverous rest,\n  Let _me_ walk forth among the silent groves,\n  Or through the cool vales snuff the morning air.\n  How fresh! how breathing! Every draught I take\n  Seems filled with healthiest life, and sends the blood\n  Rushing and tingling through my quickened veins,\n  Like inspiration! How the fluent air,\n  Fanned into motion by thy breezy wings,\n  O, fragrant Morning! blows from off the earth\n  The congregated vapors, dank and foul,\n  By yesterday coagulate and mixed!\n  Miasmas steaming up from sunless fens;\n  The effluvia of vegetable death;\n  Disease exhaled from pestilential beds,\n  And Lust's rank pantings and the fumes of wine;\n  All these, condensed in one pernicious gas\n  By Noon's hot efflux and the reeking Night,\n  Thy filtering breezes make as fresh and sweet\n  As infant slumbers; pure as the virgin's breath\n  Whispering her first love in the eager ear\n  Of her heart's chosen.\n                         On this climbing hill,\n  While, lost in ecstacy, I stand and gaze\n  On the fresh beauties of a world disrobed,\n  How does thy searching breath, oh, infant Day!\n  Inspire the languid frame with new-born life,\n  And all its sinking powers rejuvenate,\n  Freshening the murky hollows of the soul!\n  Good Heaven! How glorious this morning hour,\n  Nature's new birth-time! All her mighty frame,\n  In lowly vale, on lofty mountain-top,\n  And wide savannah, stirs, with sprightful life,\n  Life irrepressible, whose eager thrill\n  Shoots to her very finger-tips, and makes\n  Each little flower through all her delicate threads\n  Each fibrous plant, each blade of corn or grass,\n  And each tall tree, through all its limbs and leaves,\n  Quiver and tremble.\n                       The increasing light\n  Reveals the outlines of the shadowy hills,\n  And, charm by charm, the landscape all comes forth,\n  Wood, stream, and valley; while above that green\n  And waving ocean swells an endless vault\n  Of blue serenity, and round its verge\n  Kindles and flashes with rubescent gleams\n  The far horizon; till the whole appears\n  A sapphire dome, which, edged with golden rim,\n  Spans the green surges of an emerald sea.\n  The Sun is still unseen; yet far before\n  His chariot-wheels a train of glory marks\n  His kindling track, and all the air is now\n  A luminous ocean. Whence these floods of light,\n  Rich with all hues? Say! have the sphered stars,\n  Powdered in shining atoms, fallen and filled\n  The ambient air with their invisible dews?\n  Or have the fugitive particles of light,\n  The Sun's lost emanations, which all night\n  Lay hid in hollows of the earth, or slept\n  In vegetable cells, come forth to greet\n  Their monarch's coming? Are they pioneers\n  Sent to prepare his way, and raise his bright\n  Victorious banner, that their sovereign's eye\n  From his serene pavilion may behold\n  No lingering shadow from the gloomy host\n  Of hateful Darkness, who hast westward borne\n  His routed army and his fading flag?\n  Alas! proud Science, Fancy's sneering foe,\n  Says they are but the Sun's refracted rays,\n  And scintillations from his burning wheels.\n\n  EARTH'S bride-groom rises. Round his glittering head\n  He shakes his streamy locks, and fast and far\n  Sheds showers of splendor; and his blushing bride,\n  Recumbent on her grassy couch, scarce opes\n  Her bashful eyes to meet his ardent gaze.\n  While at the advent of her lord, the Earth,\n  Marking his shining footsteps, with a smile\n  Remembers the espousals of her youth,\n  When morning stars rang out the nuptial song[4]\n  In jubilant chorus; on her milky breast,\n  All the green nurslings of his favor raise\n  Their dewy heads, and welcome his approach\n  With thankful greetings; and each gentle flower\n  Turns her fair face to the munificent god\n  Of her idolatry, and well repays\n  His warm caresses with her perfumed breath.\n\n      [4] 'When the morning stars sang together,' etc.\n          JOB: XXXVIII., 7. In the same chapter observe the\n          astonishing boldness of scripture personification,\n          and the unequalled pomp of oriental imagery.\n\n  But while inanimate nature takes the shows\n  Of life, and joy, and deep and passionate sense,\n  The animal kingdom sleeps not; all its tribes\n  Swell the glad anthem. Birds, that all night long\n  Slept and dreamed sweetly 'neath their folded wings,\n  At nature's summons are awakening now;\n  Nor unmelodiously; for from their throats,\n  In many a warbling trill, or mingled gush,\n  Comes music of such sweet and innocent strength,\n  As might force tears from the black murderer's eyes,\n  And make the sighing captive, while he weeps\n  His own hard wrongs, lift his chained hands, and pray\n  For his oppressor more than for himself.\n\n  Thou, too, my soul, if wearing years have left\n  Aught of high feeling in thy wasted powers,\n  Of gratitude for mercies undeserved,\n  Or hope of future favors, here and now,\n  Upon this breezy hill-top, in the eye\n  Of the bright day-god rising from his sleep,\n  Perform thine orisons:\n                         'Father and King,\n  While here thy quickening breezes round me play,\n  And yonder comes thy visible delegate\n  With his bright scutcheon, to diffuse again\n  All day the rays of thy beneficence\n  Over this lovely earth, thy six days' work;\n  To Thee, ALMIGHTY ONE! thy child would raise\n  A loud thanksgiving. And if this, my strain\n  Of joy and thanks, and supplication, be\n  Or cold, or weak, or insincere in aught,\n  (As our poor hearts deceive themselves so oft,)\n  Thou! O OMNIPOTENT! canst make it warm,--\n  Warm as thy love, strong as thy Son's strong tears,\n  And pure as thine own essence. Formed by Thee,\n  Saved by thy mercy from thy wrath, we all\n  Are guilty ingrates, and the best of men\n  Hath sins perchance which might outweigh the worth\n  Of all the angels. _I_, at least, have sinned,\n  Sinned long and deeply; and if still my heart,\n  Warped by its own bad passions, or allured\n  By the world's glitter and the arts of him,\n  Thy foe and our destroyer, should forget\n  Its source and destiny, and breathe its vows\n  Again to idols, yet reject Thou not\n  This present offering. Let thy Grace surround\n  My steps as with a muniment of rocks,\n  And guide me in the uneven paths of life,\n  A pilgrim shielded by thy hollow hand.\n  And as the grateful earth sends up all day\n  Her exhalations through the bibulous air\n  To the sun, her monarch; and receives them back\n  Rich, soft, and fertile, in the still small shower,\n  That falls invisible from the morning's womb:\n  So may my fervent heart exhale to Thee\n  Daily, the breathings of its thankful prayer.\n  And praise spontaneous; which thy heavenly grace\n  Shall render back in a perpetual dew\n  Of benedictions, making all the waste\n  Green with cool verdure.\n                            Oh! the time hath been,\n  When thy benighted children lost the creed\n  Of thy true worship, and to brutes bowed down,\n  And senseless stones, and, kneeling in sincere\n  But vain devotion, to the creature gave\n  The adoration due to Thee alone,\n  The mighty Maker. Others strove to turn\n  Thine anger from them, by the streaming blood\n  Of human victims; and the reverend priest\n  Stood up, and in the name of people and king,\n  Prayed Thee, or some vain substitute, to bless\n  The holy murder. Even thy chosen, thine own\n  Peculiar nation, did forget that Thou\n  Lov'st the oblation of a grateful heart,\n  A holocaust self-sacrificed to God,[5]\n  And trusted to the blood of bulls and goats,\n  And whole burned offerings. And _still_ mankind\n  Kneel in blind worship. Every heart sets up\n  Its separate Dagon. Fierce Ambition breathes\n  His burning vow, and, to secure his prayer,\n  Makes the dear children of his heart, his own\n  Sweet home's affections and delights, pass through\n  The fire of Moloch: Avarice at the shrine\n  Of greedy Mammon, gluts his eyes with gold:\n  Some to Renown bend low the obsequious knee,\n  Praying to be eternized by a blast\n  From her shrill trumpet: in the glittering halls\n  Of sensual Pleasure some sing songs, and bind\n  Their fair young brows with chaplets steeped in wine;\n  Though soon the chaplets turn to chains, the wines\n  To gall and wormwood, and the festal song\n  To howls and hootings. High above these shrines\n  The great arch-demon and parental Jove\n  Of all the Pantheon, a god unknown\n  But every where adored, omnipotent\n  And omnipresent to the tribes of men,\n  SELF, rears his temple.\n                           But the day shall come,\n  When far and wide o'er the regenerate world,\n  From each green vale and ancient hill, thy sons\n  Duly to Thee shall bring their evening thanks\n  And morning homage. Round each cheerful hearth,\n  Or kneeling in the spreading door-tree's shade,\n  Each human heart, brim-full of love and hope,\n  And holy gratitude, shall send aloft\n  A pure oblation, and the throbbing earth\n  Be one great censer, breathing praise to Thee.'\n\n\t  [5] This line is from one of GRIMKE'S polished and\n\t      most scholar-like orations.\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.[6]\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH BOOK.\n\n    [6] See 'Editor's Table' of the present number.\n\n\nWhen in the year of Redemption 701, WITIZIA was elected to the Gothic\nthrone, his reign gave promise of happy days to Spain. He redressed\ngrievances, moderated the tributes of his subjects, and conducted himself\nwith mingled mildness and energy in the administration of the laws. In a\nlittle while, however, he threw off the mask and showed himself in his\ntrue nature, cruel and luxurious. Considering himself secure upon the\nthrone, he gave the reins to his licentious passions, and soon by his\ntyranny and sensuality acquired the appellation of WITIZIA the Wicked. How\nrare is it to learn wisdom from the misfortunes of others! With the fate\nof WITIZIA full before his eyes, DON RODERICK was no sooner established as\nhis successor, than he began to indulge in the same pernicious errors, and\nwas doomed in like manner to prepare the way for his own perdition.\n\nAs yet the heart of Roderick, occupied by the struggles of his early life,\nby warlike enterprises, and by the inquietudes of newly-gotten power, had\nbeen insensible to the charms of women; but in the first voluptuous calm\nthe amorous propensities of his nature assumed their sway. There are\ndivers accounts of the youthful beauty who first found favor in his eyes,\nand was elevated by him to the throne. We follow, in our legend, the\ndetails of an Arabian chronicler, authenticated by a Spanish poet. Let\nthose who dispute our facts produce better authority for their\ncontradiction.\n\nAmong the few fortified places that had not been dismantled by Don\nRoderick was the ancient city of Denia, situated on the Mediterranean\ncoast, and defended on a rock-built castle that overlooked the sea.\n\nThe Alcayde of the castle, with many of the people of Denia, was one day\non his knees in the chapel, imploring the Virgin to allay a tempest which\nwas strewing the coast with wrecks, when a sentinel brought word that a\nMoorish cruiser was standing for the land. The Alcayde gave orders to ring\nthe alarm bells, light signal-fires on the hill tops, and rouse the\ncountry; for the coast was subject to cruel maraudings from the Barbary\ncruisers.\n\nIn a little while the horsemen of the neighborhood were seen pricking\nalong the beach, armed with such weapons as they could find; and the\nAlcayde and his scanty garrison descended from the hill. In the meantime\nthe Moorish bark came rolling and pitching toward the land. As it drew\nnear, the rich carving and gilding with which it was decorated, its silken\nbandaroles, and banks of crimson oars, showed it to be no warlike vessel,\nbut a sumptuous galleot, destined for state and ceremony. It bore the\nmarks of the tempest: the masts were broken, the oars shattered, and\nfragments of snowy sails and silken awnings were fluttering in the blast.\n\nAs the galleot grounded upon the sand, the impatient rabble rushed into\nthe surf to capture and make spoil; but were awed into admiration and\nrespect by the appearance of the illustrious company on board. There were\nMoors of both sexes sumptuously arrayed, and adorned with precious jewels,\nbearing the demeanor of persons of lofty rank. Among them shone\nconspicuous a youthful beauty, magnificently attired, to whom all seemed\nto pay reverence.\n\nSeveral of the Moors surrounded her with drawn swords, threatening death\nto any that approached; others sprang from the bark, and, throwing\nthemselves on their knees before the Alcayde, implored him, by his honor\nand courtesy as a knight, to protect a royal virgin from injury and\ninsult.\n\n'You behold before you,' said they, 'the only daughter of the King of\nAlgiers, the betrothed bride of the son of the King of Tunis. We were\nconducting her to the court of her expecting bridegroom, when a tempest\ndrove us from our course, and compelled us to take refuge on your coast.\nBe not more cruel than the tempest, but deal nobly with that which even\nsea and storm have spared.'\n\nThe Alcayde listened to their prayers. He conducted the princess and her\ntrain to the castle, where every honor due to her rank was paid her. Some\nof her ancient attendants interceded for her liberation, promising\ncountless sums to be paid by her father for her ransom; but the Alcayde\nturned a deaf ear to all their golden offers. 'She is a royal captive,'\nsaid he; 'it belongs to my sovereign alone to dispose of her.' After she\nhad reposed, therefore, for some days at the castle, and recovered from\nthe fatigue and terror of the seas, he caused her to be conducted, with\nall her train, in magnificent state to the court of Don Roderick.\n\nThe beautiful Elyata entered Toledo more like a triumphant sovereign than\na captive. A chosen band of Christian horsemen, splendidly armed, appeared\nto wait upon her as a mere guard of honor. She was surrounded by the\nMoorish damsels of her train, and followed by her own Moslem guards, all\nattired with the magnificence that had been intended to grace her arrival\nat the court of Tunis. The princess was arrayed in bridal robes, woven in\nthe most costly looms of the orient; her diadem sparkled with diamonds,\nand was decorated with the rarest plumes of the bird of paradise; and even\nthe silken trappings of her palfrey, which swept the ground, were covered\nwith pearls and precious stones. As this brilliant cavalcade crossed the\nbridge of the Tagus, all Toledo poured forth to behold it; and nothing was\nheard throughout the city but praises of the wonderful beauty of the\nprincess of Algiers. King Roderick came forth attended by the chivalry of\nhis court, to receive the royal captive. His recent voluptuous life had\ndisposed him for tender and amorous affections, and, at the first sight of\nthe beautiful Elyata, he was enraptured with her charms. Seeing her face\nclouded with sorrow and anxiety, he soothed her with gentle and courteous\nwords, and, conducting her to a royal palace, 'Behold,' said he, 'thy\nhabitation where no one shall molest thee; consider thyself at home in the\nmansion of thy father, and dispose of any thing according to thy will.'\n\nHere the princess passed her time, with the female attendants who had\naccompanied her from Algiers; and no one but the king was permitted to\nvisit her, who daily became more and more enamoured of his lovely captive,\nand sought, by tender assiduity, to gain her affections. The distress of\nthe princess at her captivity was soothed by this gentle treatment. She\nwas of an age when sorrow cannot long hold sway over the heart.\nAccompanied by her youthful attendants, she ranged the spacious apartments\nof the palace, and sported among the groves and alleys of its garden.\nEvery day the remembrance of the paternal home grew less and less painful,\nand the king became more and more amiable in her eyes; and when, at\nlength, he offered to share his heart and throne with her, she listened\nwith downcast looks and kindling blushes, but with an air of resignation.\n\nOne obstacle remained to the complete fruition of the monarch's wishes,\nand this was the religion of the princess. Roderick forthwith employed the\nArchbishop of Toledo to instruct the beautiful Elyata in the mysteries of\nthe Christian faith. The female intellect is quick in perceiving the\nmerits of new doctrines: the archbishop, therefore, soon succeeded in\nconverting, not merely the princess, but most of her attendants; and a day\nwas appointed for their public baptism. The ceremony was performed with\ngreat pomp and solemnity, in the presence of all the nobility and chivalry\nof the court. The princess and her damsels, clad in white, walked on foot\nto the cathedral, while numerous beautiful children, arrayed as angels,\nstrewed the path with flowers; and the archbishop, meeting them at the\nportal, received them, as it were, into the bosom of the church. The\nprincess abandoned her Moorish appellation of Elyata, and was baptised by\nthe name of Exilona, by which she was thenceforth called, and has\ngenerally been known in history.\n\nThe nuptials of Roderick and the beautiful convert took place shortly\nafterward, and were celebrated with great magnificence. There were jousts,\nand tourneys, and banquets, and other rejoicings, which lasted twenty\ndays, and were attended by the principle nobles from all parts of Spain.\nAfter these were over, such of the attendants of the princess as refused\nto embrace Christianity, and desired to return to Africa, were dismissed\nwith munificent presents; and an embassy was sent to the King of Algiers,\nto inform him of the nuptials of his daughter, and to proffer him the\nfriendship of King Roderick.\n\nFor a time Don Roderick lived happily with his young and beautiful queen,\nand Toledo was the seat of festivity and splendor. The principal nobles\nthroughout the kingdom repaired to his court to pay him homage, and to\nreceive his commands; and none were more devoted in their reverence than\nthose who were obnoxious to suspicion, from their connection with the late\nking.\n\nAmong the foremost of these was Count Julian, a man destined to be\ninfamously renowned in the dark story of his country's woes. He was of one\nof the proudest Gothic families, lord of Consuegra and Algeziras, and\nconnected by marriage with Witizia and the Bishop Oppas; his wife, the\nCountess Frandina, being their sister. In consequence of this connection,\nand of his own merits, he had enjoyed the highest dignities and commands:\nbeing one of the Espatorios, or royal sword-bearers; an office of the\ngreatest confidence about the person of the sovereign. He had, moreover,\nbeen intrusted with the military government of the Spanish possessions on\nthe African coast of the strait, which at that time were threatened by the\nArabs of the East, the followers of Mahomet, who were advancing their\nvictorious standard to the extremity of Western Africa. Count Julian\nestablished his seat of government at Ceuta, the frontier bulwark, and one\nof the far-famed gates of the Mediterranean Sea. Here he boldly faced, and\nheld in check, the torrent of Moslem invasion.\n\nDon Julian was a man of an active, but irregular genius, and a grasping\nambition; he had a love for power and grandeur, in which he was joined by\nhis haughty countess; and they could ill brook the downfall of their house\nas threatened by the fate of Witizia. They had hastened, therefore, to pay\ntheir court to the newly elevated monarch, and to assure him of their\nfidelity to his interests.\n\nRoderick was readily persuaded of the sincerity of Count Julian; he was\naware of his merits as a soldier and a governor, and continued him in his\nimportant command; honoring him with many other marks of implicit\nconfidence. Count Julian sought to confirm this confidence by every proof\nof devotion. It was a custom among the Goths to rear many of the children\nof the most illustrious families in the royal household. They served as\npages to the king, and handmaids and ladies of honor to the queen, and\nwere instructed in all manner of accomplishments befitting their gentle\nblood. When about to depart for Ceuta, to resume his command, Don Julian\nbrought his daughter Florinda to present her to the sovereigns. She was a\nbeautiful virgin, that had not as yet attained to womanhood. 'I confide\nher to your protection,' said he to the king, 'to be unto her as a father;\nand to have her trained in the paths of virtue. I can leave with you no\ndearer pledge of my loyalty.'\n\nKing Roderick received the timid and blushing maiden into his paternal\ncare; promising to watch over her happiness with a parent's eye, and that\nshe should be enrolled among the most cherished attendants of the queen.\nWith this assurance of the welfare of his child, Count Julian departed,\nwell pleased, for his government at Ceuta.\n\nThe beautiful daughter of Count Julian was received with great favor by\nthe queen Exilona, and admitted among the noble damsels that attended upon\nher person. Here she lived in honor and apparent security, and surrounded\nby innocent delights. To gratify his queen, Don Roderick had built for her\nrural recreation, a palace without the walls of Toledo, on the banks of\nthe Tagus. It stood in the midst of a garden, adorned after the luxurious\nstyle of the east. The air was perfumed by fragrant shrubs and flowers;\nthe groves resounded with the song of the nightingale; while the gush of\nfountains and waterfalls, and the distant murmur of the Tagus, made it a\ndelightful retreat during the sultry days of summer. The charm of perfect\nprivacy also reigned throughout the place; for the garden walls were high,\nand numerous guards kept watch without to protect it from all intrusion.\n\nIn this delicious abode, more befitting an oriental voluptuary than a\nGothic king, Don Roderick was accustomed to while away much of that time\nwhich should have been devoted to the toilsome cares of government. The\nvery security and peace which he had produced throughout his dominions, by\nhis precautions to abolish the means and habitudes of war, had effected a\ndisastrous change in his character. The hardy and heroic qualities which\nhad conducted him to the throne, were softened in the lap of indulgence.\nSurrounded by the pleasures of an idle and effeminate court, and beguiled\nby the example of his degenerate nobles, he gave way to a fatal sensuality\nthat had lain dormant in his nature during the virtuous days of his\nadversity. The mere love of female beauty had first enamoured him of\nExilona; and the same passion, fostered by voluptuous idleness, now\nbetrayed him into the commission of an act fatal to himself and Spain. The\nfollowing is the story of his error, as gathered from an old chronicle and\nlegend.\n\nIn a remote part of the palace was an apartment devoted to the queen. It\nwas like an eastern harem, shut up from the foot of man, and where the\nking himself but rarely entered. It had its own courts, and gardens, and\nfountains, where the queen was wont to recreate herself with her damsels,\nas she had been accustomed to do in the jealous privacy of her father's\npalace.\n\nOne sultry day, the king, instead of taking his siesta, or mid-day\nslumber, repaired to this apartment to seek the society of the queen. In\npassing through a small oratory, he was drawn by the sound of female\nvoices to a casement overhung with myrtles and jessamines. It looked into\nan interior garden, or court, set out with orange trees, in the midst of\nwhich was a marble fountain, surrounded by a grassy bank, enamelled with\nflowers.\n\nIt was the high noontide of a summer day, when, in sultry Spain, the\nlandscape trembles to the eye, and all nature seeks repose, except the\ngrasshopper, that pipes his lulling note to the herdsman as he sleeps\nbeneath the shade.\n\nAround the fountain were several of the damsels of the queen, who,\nconfident of the sacred privacy of the place, were yielding in that cool\nretreat to the indulgence prompted by the season and the hour. Some lay\nasleep on the flowery bank; others sat on the margin of the fountain,\ntalking and laughing, as they bathed their feet in its limpid waters, and\nKing Roderick beheld delicate limbs shining through the wave, that might\nrival the marble in whiteness.\n\nAmong the damsels was one who had come from the Barbary coast with the\nqueen. Her complexion had the dark tinge of Mauritania, but it was clear\nand transparent, and the deep rich rose blushed through the lovely brown.\nHer eyes were black and full of fire, and flashed from under long silken\neye-lashes.\n\nA sportive contest arose among the maidens, as to the comparative beauty\nof the Spanish and Moorish forms; but the Mauritanian damsel revealed\nlimbs of voluptuous symmetry that seemed to defy all rivalry.\n\nThe Spanish beauties were on the point of giving up the contest, when they\nbethought themselves of the young Florinda, the daughter of Count Julian,\nwho lay on the grassy bank, abandoned to a summer slumber. The soft glow\nof youth and health mantled on her cheek; her fringed eyelashes scarcely\ncovered their sleeping orbs; her moist and ruby lips were lightly parted,\njust revealing a gleam of her ivory teeth; while her innocent bosom rose\nand fell beneath her bodice, like the gentle swelling and sinking of a\ntranquil sea. There was a breathing tenderness and beauty in the sleeping\nvirgin, that seemed to send forth sweetness like the flowers around her.\n\n'Behold,' cried her companions exultingly, 'the champion of Spanish\nbeauty!'\n\nIn their playful eagerness they half disrobed the innocent Florinda before\nshe was aware. She awoke in time, however, to escape from their busy\nhands; but enough of her charms had been revealed to convince the monarch\nthat they were not to be rivalled by the rarest beauties of Mauritania.\n\nFrom this day the heart of Roderick was inflamed with a fatal passion. He\ngazed on the beautiful Florinda with fervid desire, and sought to read in\nher looks whether there was levity or wantonness in her bosom; but the eye\nof the damsel ever sunk beneath his gaze, and remained bent on the earth\nin virgin modesty.\n\nIt was in vain he called to mind the sacred trust reposed in him by Count\nJulian, and the promise he had given to watch over his daughter with\npaternal care; his heart was vitiated by sensual indulgence, and the\nconsciousness of power had rendered him selfish in his gratifications.\n\nBeing one evening in the garden where the queen was diverting herself with\nher damsels, and coming to the fountain where he had beheld the innocent\nmaidens at their sport, he could no longer restrain the passion that raged\nwithin his breast. Seating himself beside the fountain, he called Florinda\nto him to draw forth a thorn which had pierced his hand. The maiden knelt\nat his feet to examine his hand, and the touch of her slender fingers\nthrilled through his veins. As she knelt, too, her amber locks fell in\nrich ringlets about her beautiful head, her innocent bosom palpitated\nbeneath the crimson boddice, and her timid blushes increased the\neffulgence of her charms.\n\nHaving examined the monarch's hand in vain, she looked up in his face with\nartless perplexity.\n\n'Senior,' said she, 'I can find no thorn, nor any sign of wound.'\n\nDon Roderick grasped her hand and pressed it to his heart. 'It is here,\nlovely Florinda!' said he, 'It is here! and thou alone canst pluck it\nforth!'\n\n'My lord!' exclaimed the blushing and astonished maiden.\n\n'Florinda!' said Don Roderick, 'dost thou love me?'\n\n'Senior,' said she, 'my father taught me to love and reverence you. He\nconfided me to your care as one who would be as a parent to me, when he\nshould be far distant, serving your majesty with life and loyalty. May God\nincline your majesty ever to protect me as a father.' So saying, the\nmaiden dropped her eyes to the ground, and continued kneeling; but her\ncountenance had become deadly pale, and as she knelt she trembled.\n\n'Florinda,' said the king, 'either thou dost not or thou wilt not\nunderstand me. I would have thee love me, not as a father, nor as a\nmonarch, but as one who adores thee. Why dost thou start? No one shall\nknow our loves; and, moreover, the love of a monarch inflicts no\ndegradation like the love of a common man; riches and honors attend upon\nit. I will advance thee to rank and dignity, and place thee above the\nproudest females of my court. Thy father, too, shall be more exalted and\nendowed than any noble in my realm.'\n\nThe soft eye of Florinda kindled at these words. 'Senior,' said she, 'the\nline I spring from can receive no dignity by means so vile; and my father\nwould rather die than purchase rank and power by the dishonor of his\nchild. But I see,' continued she, 'that your majesty speaks in this manner\nonly to try me. You may have thought me light and simple and unworthy to\nattend upon the queen. I pray your majesty to pardon me, that I have taken\nyour pleasantry in such serious part.'\n\nIn this way the agitated maiden sought to evade the addresses of the\nmonarch; but still her cheek was blanched, and her lip quivered as she\nspake.\n\nThe king pressed her hand to his lips with fervor. 'May ruin seize me,'\ncried he, 'if I speak to prove thee! My heart, my kingdom, are at thy\ncommand. Only be mine, and thou shalt rule absolute mistress of myself and\nmy domains.'\n\nThe damsel rose from the earth where she had hitherto knelt, and her whole\ncountenance glowed with virtuous indignation. 'My Lord,' said she, 'I am\nyour subject, and in your power; take my life if it be your pleasure; but\nnothing shall tempt me to commit a crime which would be treason to the\nqueen, disgrace to my father, agony to my mother, and perdition to\nmyself.' With these words she left the garden, and the king, for the\nmoment, was too much awed by her indignant virtue to oppose her departure.\n\nWe shall pass briefly over the succeeding events of the story of Florinda,\nabout which so much has been said and sung by chronicler and bard: for the\nsober page of history should be carefully chastened from all scenes that\nmight inflame a wanton imagination; leaving them to poems and romances,\nand such-like highly seasoned works of fantasy and recreation.\n\nLet it suffice to say, that Don Roderick pursued his suit to the beautiful\nFlorinda, his passion being more and more inflamed by the resistance of\nthe virtuous damsel. At length, forgetting what was due to helpless\nbeauty, to his own honor as a knight, and his word as a sovereign, he\ntriumphed over her weakness by base and unmanly violence.\n\nThere are not wanting those who affirm that the hapless Florinda lent a\nyielding ear to the solicitations of the monarch, and her name has been\ntreated with opprobrium in several of the ancient chronicles and legendary\nballads that have transmitted, from generation to generation, the story of\nthe woes of Spain. In very truth, however, she appears to have been a\nguiltless victim, resisting, as far as helpless female could resist, the\narts and intrigues of a powerful monarch, who had nought to check the\nindulgence of his will, and bewailing her disgrace with a poignancy that\nshows how dearly she had prized her honor.\n\nIn the first paroxysm of her grief she wrote a letter to her father,\nblotted with her tears, and almost incoherent from her agitation. 'Would\nto God, my father,' said she, 'that the earth had opened and swallowed me\nere I had been reduced to write these lines! I blush to tell thee, what it\nis not proper to conceal. Alas! my father; thou hast entrusted thy lamb to\nthe guardianship of the lion. Thy daughter has been dishonored, the royal\ncradle of the Goths polluted, and our lineage insulted and disgraced.\nHasten, my father, to rescue your child from the power of the spoiler, and\nto vindicate the honor of your house!'\n\nWhen Florinda had written these lines, she summoned a youthful esquire,\nwho had been a page in the service of her father. 'Saddle thy steed,' said\nshe, 'and if thou dost aspire to knightly honor, or hope for lady's\ngrace--if thou hast fealty for thy lord, or devotion to his\ndaughter--speed swiftly upon my errand. Rest not, halt not, spare not the\nspur; but hie thee day and night until thou reach the sea; take the first\nbark, and haste with sail and oar to Ceuta, nor pause until thou give this\nletter to the count my father.'\n\nThe youth put the letter in his bosom. 'Trust me, lady,' said he, 'I will\nneither halt nor turn aside, nor cast a look behind, until I reach Count\nJulian.' He mounted his fleet steed, sped his way across the bridge, and\nsoon left behind him the verdant valley of the Tagus.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe heart of Don Roderick was not so depraved by sensuality, but that the\nwrong he had been guilty of toward the innocent Florinda, and the disgrace\nhe had inflicted on her house, weighed heavy on his spirits, and a cloud\nbegan to gather on his once clear and unwrinkled brow.\n\nHeaven, at this time, say the old Spanish chronicles, permitted a\nmarvellous intimation of the wrath with which it intended to visit the\nmonarch and his people, in punishment of their sins; nor are we, say the\nsame orthodox writers, to startle, and withhold our faith, when we meet in\nthe page of discreet and sober history with these signs and portents,\nwhich transcend the probabilities of ordinary life; for the revolutions of\nempires and the downfall of mighty kings are awful events, that shake the\nphysical as well as the moral world, and are often announced by\nforerunning marvels and prodigious omens. With such-like cautious\npreliminaries do the wary but credulous historiographers of yore usher in\na marvellous event of prophecy and enchantment, linked in ancient story\nwith the fortunes of Don Roderick, but which modern doubters would fain\nhold up as an apocryphal tradition of Arabian origin.\n\nNow, so it happened, according to the legend, that about this time, as\nKing Roderick was seated one day on his throne, surrounded by his nobles,\nin the ancient city of Toledo, two men of venerable appearance entered the\nhall of audience. Their snowy beards descended to their breasts, and their\ngray hairs were bound with ivy. They were arrayed in white garments of\nforeign or antiquated fashion, which swept the ground, and were cinctured\nwith girdles, wrought with the signs of the zodiac, from which were\nsuspended enormous bunches of keys of every variety of form. Having\napproached the throne and made obeisance: 'Know, O King,' said one of the\nold men, 'that in days of yore, when Hercules of Libya, surnamed the\nstrong, had set up his pillars at the ocean strait, he erected a tower\nnear to this ancient city of Toledo. He built it of prodigious strength,\nand finished it with magic art, shutting up within it a fearful secret,\nnever to be penetrated without peril and disaster. To protect this\nterrible mystery he closed the entrance to the edifice with a ponderous\ndoor of iron, secured by a great lock of steel; and he left a command that\nevery king who should succeed him should add another lock to the portal;\ndenouncing wo and destruction on him who should eventually unfold the\nsecret of the tower.\n\n'The guardianship of the portal was given to our ancestors, and has\ncontinued in our family, from generation to generation, since the days of\nHercules. Several kings, from time to time, have caused the gate to be\nthrown open, and have attempted to enter, but have paid dearly for their\ntemerity. Some have perished within the threshold, others have been\noverwhelmed with horror at tremendous sounds, which shook the foundations\nof the earth, and have hastened to re-close the door, and secure it with\nits thousand locks. Thus, since the days of Hercules, the inmost recesses\nof the pile have never been penetrated by mortal man, and a profound\nmystery continues to prevail over this great enchantment. This, O King, is\nall we have to relate; and our errand is to entreat thee to repair to the\ntower and affix thy lock to the portal, as has been done by all thy\npredecessors.' Having thus said, the ancient men made a profound reverence\nand departed from the presence chamber.\n\nDon Roderick remained for some time lost in thought after the departure of\nthe men: he then dismissed all his court, excepting the venerable Urbino,\nat that time archbishop of Toledo. The long white beard of this prelate\nbespoke his advanced age, and his overhanging eye-brows showed him a man\nfull of wary counsel.\n\n'Father,' said the king, 'I have an earnest desire to penetrate the\nmystery of this tower.' The worthy prelate shook his hoary head: 'Beware,\nmy son,' said he; 'there are secrets hidden from man for his good. Your\npredecessors for many generations have respected this mystery, and have\nincreased in might and empire. A knowledge of it, therefore, is not\nmaterial to the welfare of your kingdom. Seek not then to indulge a rash\nand unprofitable curiosity, which is interdicted under such awful\nmenaces.'\n\n'Of what importance,' cried the king, 'are the menaces of Hercules, the\nLybian? Was he not a pagan? and can his enchantments have aught avail\nagainst a believer in our holy faith? Doubtless, in this tower are locked\nup treasures of gold and jewels, amassed in days of old, the spoils of\nmighty kings, the riches of the pagan world. My coffers are exhausted; I\nhave need of supply; and surely it would be an acceptable act in the eyes\nof Heaven, to draw forth this wealth which lies buried under profane and\nnecromantic spells, and consecrate it to religious purposes.'\n\nThe venerable archbishop still continued to remonstrate, but Don Roderick\nheeded not his counsel, for he was led on by his malignant star. 'Father,'\nsaid he, 'it is in vain you attempt to dissuade me. My resolution is\nfixed. To-morrow I will explore the hidden mystery, or rather the hidden\ntreasures of this tower.'\n\nThe morning sun shone brightly upon the cliff-built towers of Toledo, when\nKing Roderick issued out of the gate of the city, at the head of a\nnumerous train of courtiers and cavaliers, and crossed the bridge that\nbestrides the deep rocky bed of the Tagus. The shining cavalcade wound up\nthe road that leads among the mountains, and soon came in sight of the\nnecromantic tower.\n\nOf this renowned edifice marvels are related by the ancient Arabian and\nSpanish chroniclers; 'and I doubt much,' adds the venerable Agpaida,\n'whether many readers will not consider the whole as a cunningly devised\nfable, sprung from an oriental imagination; but it is not for me to reject\na fact which is recorded by all those writers who are the fathers of our\nnational history: a fact, too, which is as well attested as most of the\nremarkable events in the story of Don Roderick. None but light and\ninconsiderate minds,' continues the good friar, 'do hastily reject the\nmarvellous. To the thinking mind the whole world is enveloped in mystery,\nand every thing is full of type and portent. To such a mind the\nnecromantic tower of Toledo will appear as one of those wondrous monuments\nof the olden time; one of those Egyptian and Chaldaic piles, storied with\nhidden wisdom and mystic prophecy, which have been devised in past ages,\nwhen man yet enjoyed an intercourse with high and spiritual natures, and\nwhen human foresight partook of divination.'\n\nThis singular tower was round, and of great height and grandeur; erected\nupon a lofty rock, and surrounded by crags and precipices. The foundation\nwas supported by four brazen lions, each taller than a cavalier on\nhorseback. The walls were built of small pieces of jasper, and various\ncolored marbles, not larger than a man's hand; so subtilely joined,\nhowever, that but for their different hues they might be taken for one\nentire stone. They were arranged with marvellous cunning, so as to\nrepresent battles and warlike deeds of times and heroes long since passed\naway; and the whole surface was so admirably polished that the stones were\nas lustrous as glass, and reflected the rays of the sun with such\nresplendent brightness as to dazzle all beholders.[7]\n\n    [7] From the minute account of the good friar, drawn from the\n        ancient chronicles, it would appear that the walls of the\n        tower were pictured in mosaic work.\n\nKing Roderick and his courtiers arrived wondering and amazed, at the foot\nof the rock. Here there was a narrow arched way cut through the living\nstone; the only entrance to the tower. It was closed by a massive iron\ngate, covered with rusty locks of divers workmanship, and in the fashion\nof different centuries, which had been affixed by the predecessors of Don\nRoderick. On either side of the portal stood the two ancient guardians of\nthe tower, laden with the keys appertaining to the locks.\n\nThe king alighted, and, approaching the portals, ordered the guardians to\nunlock the gate. The hoary-headed men drew back with terror. 'Alas!' cried\nthey, 'what is it your majesty requires of us? Would you have the\nmischiefs of this tower unbound, and let loose to shake the earth to its\nfoundations?'\n\nThe venerable archbishop Urbino likewise implored him not to disturb a\nmystery which had been held sacred from generation to generation, within\nthe memory of man; and which even Caesar himself, when sovereign of Spain,\nhad not ventured to invade. The youthful cavaliers, however, were eager to\npursue the adventure, and encouraged him in his rash curiosity.\n\n'Come what come may,' exclaimed Don Roderick, 'I am resolved to penetrate\nthe mystery of this tower.' So saying, he again commanded the guardians to\nunlock the portal. The ancient men obeyed with fear and trembling, but\ntheir hands shook with age, and when they applied the keys, the locks were\nso rusted by time, or of such strange workmanship, that they resisted\ntheir feeble efforts; whereupon the young cavaliers pressed forward and\nlent their aid. Still the locks were so numerous and difficult, that with\nall their eagerness and strength a great part of the day was exhausted\nbefore the whole of them could be mastered.\n\nWhen the last bolt had yielded to the key, the guardians and the reverend\narchbishop again entreated the king to pause and reflect. 'Whatever is\nwithin this tower,' said they, 'is as yet harmless, and lies bound under a\nmighty spell: venture not then to open a door which may let forth a flood\nof evil upon the land.' But the anger of the king was roused, and he\nordered that the portal should be instantly thrown open. In vain, however,\ndid one after another exert his strength; and equally in vain did the\ncavaliers unite their forces, and apply their shoulders to the gate:\nthough there was neither bar nor bolt remaining, it was perfectly\nimmoveable.\n\nThe patience of the king was now exhausted, and he advanced to apply his\nhand; scarcely, however, did he touch the iron gate, when it swung slowly\nopen, uttering, as it were, a dismal groan, as it turned reluctantly upon\nits hinges. A cold, damp wind issued forth, accompanied by a tempestuous\nsound. The hearts of the ancient guardians quaked within them, and their\nknees smote together; but several of the youthful cavaliers rushed in,\neager to gratify their curiosity, or to signalise themselves in this\nredoubtable enterprise. They had scarcely advanced a few paces, however,\nwhen they recoiled, overcome by the baleful air, or by some fearful\nvision. Upon this, the king ordered that fires should be kindled to dispel\nthe darkness, and to correct the noxious and long imprisoned air: he then\nled the way into the interior; but, though stout of heart, he advanced\nwith awe and hesitation.\n\nAfter proceeding a short distance, he entered a hall, or antechamber, on\nthe opposite side of which was a door; and before it, on a pedestal, stood\na gigantic figure, of the color of bronze, and of a terrible aspect. It\nheld a huge mace, which it whirled incessantly, giving such cruel and\nresounding blows upon the earth as to prevent all further entrance.\n\nThe king paused at sight of this appalling figure; for whether it were a\nliving being, or a statue of magic artifice, he could not tell. On its\nbreast was a scroll, whereon was inscribed in large letters, 'I do my\nduty.' After a little while Roderick plucked up heart, and addressed it\nwith great solemnity: 'Whatever thou be,' said he, 'know that I come not\nto violate this sanctuary, but to inquire into the mystery it contains; I\nconjure thee, therefore, to let me pass in safety.'\n\nUpon this the figure paused with uplifted mace, and the king and his train\npassed unmolested through the door.\n\nThey now entered a vast chamber, of a rare and sumptuous architecture,\ndifficult to be described. The walls were incrusted with the most precious\ngems, so joined together as to form one smooth and perfect surface. The\nlofty dome appeared to be self-supported, and was studded with gems,\nlustrous as the stars of the firmament. There was neither wood, nor any\nother common or base material to be seen throughout the edifice. There\nwere no windows or rather openings to admit the day, yet a radiant light\nwas spread throughout the place, which seemed to shine from the walls, and\nto render every object distinctly visible.\n\nIn the centre of this hall stood a table of alabaster, of the rarest\nworkmanship, on which was inscribed in Greek characters, that Hercules\nAlcides, the Theban Greek, had founded this tower in the year of the world\nthree thousand and six. Upon the table stood a golden casket, richly set\nround with precious stones, and closed with a lock of mother-of-pearl; and\non the lid were inscribed the following words:\n\n'In this coffer is contained the mystery of the tower. The hand of none\nbut a king can open it; but let him beware! for marvellous events will be\nrevealed to him, which are to take place before his death.'\n\nKing Roderick boldly seized upon the casket. The venerable archbishop laid\nhis hand upon his arm, and made a last remonstrance. 'Forbear, my son!'\nsaid he; 'desist while there is yet time. Look not into the mysterious\ndecrees of Providence. God has hidden them in mercy from our sight, and it\nis impious to rend the veil by which they are concealed.'\n\n'What have I to dread from a knowledge of the future?' replied Roderick,\nwith an air of haughty presumption. 'If good be destined me, I shall enjoy\nit by anticipation: if evil, I shall arm myself to meet it.' So saying, he\nrashly broke the lock.\n\nWithin the coffer he found nothing but a linen cloth, folded between two\ntablets of copper. On unfolding it, he beheld painted on it figures of men\non horseback, of fierce demeanor, clad in turbans and robes of various\ncolors, after the fashion of the Arabs, with scimetars hanging from their\nnecks, and cross-bows at their saddle backs, and they carried banners and\npennons with divers devices. Above them was inscribed in Greek characters,\n'Rash monarch! behold the men who are to hurl thee from thy throne, and\nsubdue thy kingdom!'\n\nAt sight of these things the king was troubled in spirit, and dismay fell\nupon his attendants. While they were yet regarding the paintings, it\nseemed as if the figures began to move, and a faint sound of warlike\ntumult arose from the cloth, with the clash of cymbal and bray of trumpet,\nthe neigh of steed and shout of army; but all was heard indistinctly, as\nif afar off, or in a reverie or dream. The more they gazed, the plainer\nbecame the motion, and the louder the noise; and the linen cloth rolled\nforth, and amplified and spread out, as it were, a mighty banner, and\nfilled the hall, and mingled with the air, until its texture was no longer\nvisible, or appeared as a transparent cloud: and the shadowy figures\nbecome all in motion, and the din and uproar became fiercer and fiercer;\nand whether the whole were an animated picture, or a vision, or an array\nof embodied spirits, conjured up by supernatural power, no one present\ncould tell. They beheld before them a great field of battle, where\nChristians and Moslems were engaged in deadly conflict. They heard the\nrush and tramp of steeds, the blast of trump and clarion, the clash of\ncymbal, and the stormy din of a thousand drums. There was the clash of\nswords, and maces, and battle-axes, with the whistling of arrows, and the\nhurling of darts and lances. The Christians quailed before the foe; the\ninfidels pressed upon them and put them to utter rout; the standard of the\ncross was cast down, the banner of Spain was trodden under foot, the air\nresounded with shouts of triumph, with yells of fury, and with the groans\nof dying men. Amidst the flying squadrons, King Roderick beheld a crowned\nwarrior, whose back was turned toward him, but whose armor and device were\nhis own, and who was mounted on a white steed that resembled his own war\nhorse Orelia. In the confusion of the flight, the warrior was dismounted,\nand was no longer to be seen, and Orelia galloped wildly through the field\nof battle without a rider.\n\nRoderick stayed to see no more, but rushed from the fatal hall, followed\nby his terrified attendants. They fled through the outer chamber, where\nthe gigantic figure with the whirling mace had disappeared from his\npedestal; and on issuing into the open air, they found the two ancient\nguardians of the tower lying dead at the portal, as though they had been\ncrushed by some mighty blow. All nature, which had been clear and serene,\nwas now in wild uproar. The heavens were darkened by heavy clouds; loud\nbursts of thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged with rain and\nrattling hail.\n\nThe king ordered that the iron portal should be closed; but the door was\nimmoveable, and the cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous turmoil, and\nthe mingled shouts and groans that continued to prevail within. The king\nand his train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted by the tempest.\nThe mountains shook and echoed with the thunder, trees were uprooted and\nblown down, and the Tagus raged and roared and flowed above its banks. It\nseemed to the affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of the tower\nhad issued forth and mingled with the storm; for amidst the claps of\nthunder and the howling of the wind, they fancied they heard the sound of\nthe drums and trumpets, the shouts of armies and the rush of steeds. Thus\nbeaten by tempest, and overwhelmed with horror, the king and his courtiers\narrived at Toledo, clattering across the bridge of the Tagus, and entering\nthe gate in headlong confusion, as though they had been pursued by an\nenemy.\n\nIn the morning the heavens were again serene, and all nature was restored\nto tranquillity. The king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers and\ntook the road to the tower, followed by a great multitude, for he was\nanxious once more to close the iron door, and shut up those evils that\nthreatened to overwhelm the land. But lo! on coming in sight of the tower,\na new wonder met their eyes. An eagle appeared high in the air, seeming to\ndescend from heaven. He bore in his beak a burning brand, and lighting on\nthe summit of the tower, fanned the fire with his wings. In a little while\nthe edifice burst forth into a blaze as though it had been built of rosin,\nand the flames mounted into the air with a brilliancy more dazzling than\nthe sun; nor did they cease until every stone was consumed and the whole\nwas reduced to a heap of ashes. Then there came a vast flight of birds,\nsmall of size and sable of hue, darkening the sky like a cloud; and they\ndescended and wheeled in circles round the ashes, causing so great a wind\nwith their wings that the whole was borne up into the air and scattered\nthroughout all Spain, and wherever a particle of those ashes fell it was\nas a stain of blood. It is furthermore recorded by ancient men and writers\nof former days, that all those on whom this dust fell were afterwards\nslain in battle, when the country was conquered by the Arabs, and that the\ndestruction of this necromantic tower was a sign and token of the\napproaching perdition of Spain.\n\n'Let all those,' concludes the cautious friar, 'who question the verity of\nthis most marvellous occurrence, consult those admirable sources of our\nhistory, the chronicle of the Moor Rasis, and the work entitled 'The Fall\nof Spain,' written by the Moor, Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique. Let them\nconsult, moreover, the venerable historian Bleda, and the cloud of other\nCatholic Spanish writers, who have treated of this event, and they will\nfind I have related nothing that has not been printed and published under\nthe inspection and sanction of our holy mother church. God alone knoweth\nthe truth of these things; I speak nothing but what has been handed down\nto me from times of old.'\n\n\n\n\nANACREONTIC.\n\n      [Greek: To de cheilos, ouk et oida\n              Tini moi tropo poieseis.]\n\n\n  Maiden! first did Nature seek\n  Lilies for thy spotless cheek;\n  When with roses came she next\n  Half delighted, yet more vex'd,\n  For the lilies there, to see\n  Blushing at their purity!\n  Since her labor now was lost,\n  Roses to the wind she tost.\n  One, a bud of smiling June,\n  Falling on thy lips, as soon\n  Left its color, and in death\n  Willed its fragrance to thy breath!\n  Then two drops of crystalled dew\n  From the hyacinth's deep hue,\n  Brought she for thine eyes of blue;\n  And lest they should miss the sun,\n  Bade thy soul to shine thereon.\n  Lilies, Nature gave thy face--\n  Say, thy _heart_ do lilies grace?\n\n_St. Paul's College._                                         G. H. H.\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n  A CHRISTMAS CAROL, IN PROSE: Being a Ghost-Story of Christmas. By\n  CHARLES DICKENS. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.\n\nIf in every alternate work that Mr. DICKENS were to send to the London\npress he should find occasion to indulge in ridicule against alleged\nAmerican peculiarities, or broad caricatures of our actual vanities, or\nother follies, we could with the utmost cheerfulness pass them by unnoted\nand uncondemned, if he would only now and then present us with an\nintellectual creation so touching and beautiful as the one before us.\nIndeed, we can with truth say, that in our deliberate judgment, the\n'Christmas Carol' is the most striking, the most picturesque, the most\ntruthful, of all the limnings which have proceeded from its author's pen.\nThere is much mirth in the book, says a competent English critic, but more\nwisdom; wisdom of that kind which men possess who have gazed thoughtfully\nbut kindly on human life, and have pierced deeper than their fellows into\nall the sunny nooks and dark recesses of the human breast. The barbarous\nnotion has long been exploded, that comic writers were only to be esteemed\nfor their jests, and useful for provoking laughter. CERVANTES, first among\nthe moderns, sent it out of fashion, and blessed that union of wit, sense,\nand pathos, which so many renowned writers have since confirmed; until it\nhas come to be acknowledged, that rich genuine humor is rarely an inmate\nof the mind, if there be not a corresponding depth of earnestness and\nfeeling in the heart. Many of DICKENS' writings, it is justly claimed,\nexhibit this fine, healthy, benevolent spirit. 'His sympathy for human\nsuffering is strong and pure, and he reserves it not for imaginary and\nfictitious distress, but for the real grinding sorrows of life.' And this\nsympathy is more finely displayed in the work under notice, than in any of\nhis previous productions. The design is very fanciful, and there is\ncrowded into it, brief as it is, a world of character and observation. It\nis truly a reflection of life in miniature. Before proceeding to a few\nillustrative extracts, we shall avail ourselves in part of a clear\nsynopsis of the inception and progress of the story, from the pen of a\nLondon contemporary.\n\nSCROOGE is a very rich citizen; a 'squeezing, grinding, grasping,\nscraping, clutching, covetous old sinner.' He has lost all recollection of\nwhat he once was, and what he once felt; is dead to all kindly impulses,\nand proof against the most moving tale. He is almost as keen and gruff as\nold RALPH NICKELBY, to whom he bears a strong family resemblance, and uses\nhis poor clerk, BOB CRATCHIT, just as badly, and has as little feeling for\nhis merry-hearted nephew, who has married for love. The 'carol' begins on\nChristmas-eve. SCROOGE calls his nephew a lunatic for wishing him 'A merry\nChristmas!' and sends him home, sad as harsh words can make him. He keeps\nhis poor shivering clerk in a small tank-like ground-room till the last\nminute of his stipulated time, and then dismisses him with an angry growl.\nHe goes to his usual melancholy tavern to eat his melancholy dinner,\namuses himself in the evening with his banker's book, and then retires to\nhis dreary chambers. He had once a partner, a counterpart of himself, who\nhas been dead for many a year; and while sitting in his lonely room, over\na low fire, the ghost of the deceased partner enters, although the door is\ndouble-locked. He wears a heavy chain, forged of keys and safes; and, like\nHamlet's ghost, tells of the heavy penance he is doomed to suffer in\nspirit for sins committed in the flesh. He has come to warn his partner,\nand to give him a chance of amendment. He tells him he will be visited by\nthree Spirits, on the three following nights, and bids him mark well what\nthey shall disclose. SCROOGE instantly falls asleep, and does not wake\ntill the appointed hour. The three spirits are of Christmas Past,\nChristmas Present, and Christmas to Come. The ghost of Christmas Past\nstands by SCROOGE'S bedside, of an uncertain form, though the belt round\nits body is wondrous light, and a flame shoots up from its head. Yet the\nfigure fluctuates in distinctness, now one part being visible and now\nanother. The spirit seizes the hand of SCROOGE, and they float through the\nair together. The old man is taken to the haunts of his childhood, and he\nis conscious of 'a thousand odors floating in the air, each one connected\nwith a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long\nforgotten.' Each circumstance of the time past is restored. The village\nschool; a boy left deserted in the school-room, whom SCROOGE recognises as\nhis former self reading 'Robinson Crusoe;' till at last a lovely girl, who\nthrows her arms round the boy's neck, and bids him come home to a 'merry,\nmerry Christmas.' Then the scene changes, and SCROOGE is once more in the\nhouse of the kind-hearted master of his youth, who loved to keep Christmas\nas it was kept in the olden time, and he recognises himself the most\njoyous of the joyous group. Then comes the scene of his manhood, when he\ndeserted his betrothed for a wealthier bride; and last, he views the girl\nhe had deserted, the mother of a happy blooming family. This picture is\ndelightfully sketched; it is enough to make a bachelor in love with\nwedlock. The scene is too affecting for the changed and worldly miser; he\nimplores to be removed from the familiar place; he wrestles with the\nspirit, and awakened by the struggle, finds himself once more in his own\nroom, and in darkness.\n\nAgain he has a long sleep. Christmas Present comes in the shape of a\ngiant, with a holly-green robe. SCROOGE perceives him seated in his room,\nwith his noble head crowned with holly wreath studded with icicles,\nreaching to the ceiling. His throne is a wine-cask and his foot-stool a\ntwelfth-cake. In his hand he bears a blazing torch, from which he\nsprinkles down gladness upon every threshhold he enters. An immense fire\nglows and crackles in the grate, the walls and ceiling are hung with\nliving green, and all around are heaped up the choice provisions collected\nto make Christmas glad. The giant leads SCROOGE forth. They pass through\nstreets and lanes, with every house bearing token of rejoicing by its\nroaring fire or its sprig of holly, till they come to the dwelling of poor\nBOB CRATCHIT, old SCROOGE'S clerk. And here ensues a picture worthy of\nWILKIE in his best days:\n\n    'Perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off\n    his power, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature,\n    and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to\n    Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him,\n    holding to his robe; and on the threshhold of the door the Spirit\n    smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the\n    sprinkling of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen 'Bob'\n    a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his\n    Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his\n    four-roomed house!\n\n    'Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but\n    poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribands, which are\n    cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth,\n    assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave\n    in ribands; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the\n    saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous\n    shirt-collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and\n    heir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself\n    so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the\n    fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl,\n    came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt\n    the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious\n    thoughts of sage-and-onions, these young Cratchits danced about\n    the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while\n    he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the\n    fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked proudly at the\n    sauce-pan lid to be let out and peeled.\n\n    ''What has ever got your precious father, then?' said Mrs.\n    Cratchit. 'And your brother, Tiny Tim; and Martha warn't as late\n    last Christmas Day by half-an-hour!'\n\n    ''Here's Martha, mother!' said a girl, appearing as she spoke.\n\n    ''Here's Martha, mother!' cried the two young Cratchits. 'Hurrah!\n    There's _such_ a goose, Martha!'\n\n    ''Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!' said\n    Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl\n    and bonnet for her, with officious zeal.\n\n    ''We'd a deal of work to finish up last night,' replied the girl,\n    'and had to clear away this morning, mother!'\n\n    ''Well! Never mind so long as you are come,' said Mrs. Cratchit.\n    'Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless\n    ye!'\n\n    ''No, no! There's father coming,' cried the two young Cratchits,\n    who were every where at once. 'Hide, Martha, hide!'\n\n    'So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with\n    at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging\n    down before him; and his thread-bare clothes darned up and\n    brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas\n    for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported\n    by an iron frame!\n\n    ''Why, where's our Martha?' cried Bob Cratchit looking round.\n\n    ''Not coming,' said Mrs. Cratchit.\n\n    ''Not coming!' said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high\n    spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from\n    church, and had come home rampant. 'Not coming upon Christmas\n    Day!'\n\n    'Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in\n    joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and\n    ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim,\n    and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the\n    pudding singing in the copper.\n\n    ''And how did little Tim behave?' asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she\n    had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter\n    to his heart's content.\n\n    ''As good as gold,' said Bob, 'and better. Somehow he gets\n    thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest\n    things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the\n    people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it\n    might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day who made\n    lame beggars walk, and blind men see.'\n\n    'Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled\n    more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.\n\n    'His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came\n    Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother\n    and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up\n    his cuffs, as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made\n    less shabby, compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and\n    lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to\n    simmer; Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went\n    to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high\n    procession.\n\n    'Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the\n    rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan\n    was a matter of course: and, in truth, it was something very like\n    it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before-hand\n    in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the\n    potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the\n    apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim\n    beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits\n    set chairs for every body, not forgetting themselves, and,\n    mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths,\n    lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be\n    helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was\n    succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly\n    all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast;\n    but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing\n    issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and\n    even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the\n    table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!\n\n    'There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there\n    ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and\n    cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by\n    the apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner\n    for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great\n    delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish,) they\n    hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the\n    youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion\n    to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss\n    Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear\n    witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in.\n\n    'Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in\n    turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the\n    back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose: a\n    supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All\n    sorts of horrors were supposed.\n\n    'Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper.\n    A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an\n    eating house, and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a\n    laundress's next door to that? That was the pudding. In half a\n    minute Mrs. Cratchit entered: flushed, but smiling proudly: with\n    the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm,\n    blazing in half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with\n    Christmas holly stuck into the top.\n\n    ''Oh, a wonderful pudding!' Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too,\n    that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs.\n    Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the\n    weight was off her mind, she would confide she had had her doubts\n    about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about\n    it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a\n    large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any\n    Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.\n\n    'At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the\n    hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being\n    tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon\n    the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all\n    the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit\n    called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow\n    stood the family display of glass; two tumblers, and a custard-cup\n    without a handle.\n\n    'These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden\n    goblets would have done: and Bob served it out with beaming looks,\n    while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and crackled noisily.\n    Then Bob proposed:\n\n    ''A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!'\n\n    'Which all the family re-echoed.\n\n    ''God bless us every one!' said Tiny Tim, last of all.\n\n    'He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool.\n    Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the\n    child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he\n    might be taken from him.'\n\nCould any thing be more life-like, more beautiful, more touching, than\nthis description? But let us skip the journeyings of Christmas Present for\na moment, that we may accompany Christmas to Come to the dwelling of poor\nBOB CRATCHIT:\n\n    'The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his\n    feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to\n    find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob\n    Cratchit's house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found\n    the mother and the children seated round the fire.\n\n    'Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as\n    statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book\n    before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing.\n    But surely they were very quiet!\n\n    ''And He took a child, and set him in the midst of them.'\n\n    'Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had not dreamed them. The\n    boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the\n    threshhold. Why did he not go on?\n\n    'The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to\n    her face.\n\n    ''The color hurts my eyes,' she said.\n\n    'The color? Ah, poor Tiny Tim!\n\n    ''They're better now again,' said Cratchit's wife. 'It makes them\n    weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father\n    when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time.'\n\n    ''Past it, rather,' Peter answered, shutting up his book. 'But I\n    think he's walked a little slower than he used, these few last\n    evenings, mother.'\n\n    'They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady,\n    cheerful voice, that only faltered once:\n\n    ''I have known him walk with--I have known him walk with Tiny Tim\n    upon his shoulder, very fast, indeed.'\n\n    ''And so have I,' cried Peter. 'Often.'\n\n    ''And so have I!' exclaimed another. So had all.\n\n    ''But he was very light to carry,' she resumed, intent upon her\n    work, 'and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble--no\n    trouble. And there is your father at the door!'\n\n    'She hurried out to meet him; and Bob in his comforter--he had\n    need of it, poor fellow--came in. His tea was ready for him on the\n    hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the\n    two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a\n    little cheek, against his face, as if they said, 'Don't mind it,\n    father. Don't be grieved!'\n\n    'Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the\n    family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the\n    industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They would be\n    done long before Sunday, he said.\n\n    ''Sunday! You went to-day then, Robert?' said his wife.\n\n    ''Yes, my dear,' returned Bob. 'I wish you could have gone. It\n    would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But\n    you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a\n    Sunday. My little, little child!' cried Bob. 'My little child!'\n\n    'He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have\n    helped it, he and his child would have been further apart,\n    perhaps, than they were.\n\n    'He left the room, and went up stairs into the room above, which\n    was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas. There was a chair\n    set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one\n    having been there lately. Poor Bob sat down in it, and when he had\n    thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face.\n    He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite\n    happy.'\n\n'Let not that man be trusted' who can read this affecting picture of\nparental love for a poor little cripple-boy, without feeling the\ntear-drops swelling to his eyes. But let us return and take one more\nexcursion with the former Spirit. Observe the faithfulness and the range\nof the writer's imagination:\n\n    'And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood\n    upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone\n    were cast about, as though it were the burial-place of giants; and\n    water spread itself wheresoever it listed--or would have done so,\n    but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing-grew but moss\n    and furze, and coarse, rank grass. Down in the west the setting\n    sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the\n    desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and frowning lower,\n    lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night.\n\n    ''What place is this?' asked Scrooge.\n\n    ''A place where Miners live, who labor in the bowels of the\n    earth,' returned the Spirit. 'But they know me. See!'\n\n    'A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced\n    toward it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a\n    cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. An old, old man\n    and woman, with their children and their children's children, and\n    another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their\n    holiday attire. The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the\n    howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a\n    Christmas song; it had been a very old song when he was a boy; and\n    from time to time they all joined in the chorus. So surely as they\n    raised their voices, the old man got quite blithe and loud; and so\n    surely as they stopped, his vigor sank again.\n\n    'The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge hold his robe,\n    and passing on above the moor, sped whither? Not to sea? To sea.\n    To Scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a\n    frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened\n    by the thundering of water, as it rolled, and roared, and raged\n    among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to\n    undermine the earth.\n\n    'Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from\n    the shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year\n    through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Great heaps of seaweed\n    clung to its base, and storm-birds--born of the wind one might\n    suppose, as sea-weed of the water--rose and fell about it, like\n    the waves they skimmed.\n\n    'But even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire,\n    that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray\n    of brightness on the awful sea. Joining their horny hands over the\n    rough table at which they sat, they wished each other a Merry\n    Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them--the elder, too,\n    with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the\n    figurehead of an old ship might be--struck up a sturdy song that\n    was like a Gale in itself.\n\n    'Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on,\n    on--until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore,\n    they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the\n    wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch;\n    dark, ghostly figures in their several stations: but every man\n    among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or\n    spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas\n    Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board,\n    waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another\n    on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some\n    extent in its festivities: and had remembered those he cared for\n    at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember\n    him.'\n\nThe second of these spirits accompanies SCROOGE to a scene that is well\nworth seeing, and the like of which many of our readers have doubtless\noften encountered--a regular Christmas frolic; in the present instance at\nthe residence of his nephew, who has a sister, a lovely, plump damsel,\nwith a lace tucker: she was pretty, exceedingly pretty. 'With a dimpled,\nsurprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to\nbe kissed, as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots about her\nchin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and the sunniest pair\nof eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head. Altogether she was\nwhat you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory, too. Oh,\nperfectly satisfactory!' Is not the following a most glowing sketch\nof a well known pastime?\n\n    'But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After a while\n    they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes,\n    and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a\n    child himself. Stop! There was first a game at blindman's buff. Of\n    course there was. And I no more believe Topper was really blind\n    than I believe he had eyes in his boots. My opinion is, that it\n    was a done thing between him and Scrooge's nephew; and that the\n    Ghost of Christmas Present knew it. The way he went after that\n    plump sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the credulity\n    of human nature. Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the\n    chairs, bumping up against the piano, smothering himself among the\n    curtains, wherever she went, there went he. He always knew where\n    the plump sister was. He wouldn't catch any body else. If you had\n    fallen up against him, as some of them did, and stood there; he\n    would have made a feint endeavoring to seize you, which would have\n    been an affront to your understanding: and would instantly have\n    sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. She often cried\n    out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not. But when, at last,\n    he caught her; when, in spite of all her silken rustlings, and her\n    rapid flutterings past him, he got her into a corner whence there\n    was no escape; then his conduct was the most execrable. For his\n    pretending not to know her; his pretending that it was necessary\n    to touch her head-dress, and farther to assure himself of her\n    identity by pressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a certain\n    chain about her neck; was vile, monstrous! No doubt she told him\n    her opinion of it, when, another blindman being in office, they\n    were so very confidential together, behind the curtains.'\n\nThe Ghost of Christmas to Come is the third spirit. It is a stately\nfigure, surrounded in black and impenetrable drapery. It leads SCROOGE\ninto the heart of the city, and he hears his acquaintance talking\njestingly of one departed; into the Exchange, and he sees another standing\nagainst his peculiar pillar; into a haunt of infamy, where wretches are\ndividing the spoils and hoardings of the dead; into a wretched room, where\na corpse lies shrouded, whose face Scrooge dares not uncover; into\ndwellings made miserable by the grasping avarice of those who had wealth\nthey could not use; into his nephew's house, shorn of its comforts, where\nthe inmates, care-worn and weary, are wringing their hands with distress;\ninto poor BOB CRATCHIT'S abode, made cheerless by death; and lastly, into\na sad churchyard, where, on the stone of a neglected grave, is inscribed\nhis own name! He implores the spirit to say whether these shadows may not\nbe changed by an altered life. Its trembling hand seems to give consent.\nHe pleads earnestly for a more decisive sign, and while he does so, the\nphantom dwindles down into a bed-post, and SCROOGE sits upright in his\nbed. Who cannot imagine the conclusion? It is broad day. He looks out of\nthe window: the bells are ringing; the people are going to church; all\nproclaim it as Christmas Day. The future is yet before him, and he is\nresolved to make the most of it. The prize turkey is got in haste from the\nneighboring poulterer's, and sent by a cab to BOB CRATCHIT'S; and SCROOGE\nhastens off to his nephew's to dinner, where he finds the vision of the\nspirit realized. SCROOGE from that hour is another and a better man. We\nhave in conclusion but three words to say to every reader of the\nKNICKERBOCKER who may peruse our notice of this production: READ THE WORK.\n\n\n  WANDERINGS OF A JOURNEYMAN TAILOR THROUGH EUROPE AND THE EAST. Between\n  the years 1824 and 1840. By P. D. HOLTHAUS, Journeyman Tailor, from\n  Werdohl, in Westphalia. Translated from the third German edition, by\n  WILLIAM HOWITT. J. WINCHESTER: 'New World' Press.\n\nAn air of great simplicity and truth pervades this wander-book of the\nGerman schneider. Mr. HOWITT tells us, that when in the autumn of 1840 he\nreturned to his native village, a great reputation preceded him, and all\ncame, eager to see the brave traveller, and to listen to the relation of\nhis adventures. He never sought purposely to turn conversation upon the\nsubject of his travels, nor to impress an idea of his own importance; but\nwhen he was drawn into discourse, it was speedily found that he had noted\nand deeply impressed on his mind every thing with a truly admirable\ninterest, and an acute spirit of observation, for one of his rank and\neducation; that he had not merely passed through the countries, but had\ngleaned valuable matter on his journey; various things which he had\nbrought with him testified this interest, such as different kinds of coin,\nengravings, plans of cities, etc. We have found, on an examination\nnecessarily cursory, the commendatory remarks of the Berlin\n_Gesellschafter_ upon this work to be well deserved: 'We see in the\nindividual expressions almost every where the evidence of its being the\nproduction of immediate observation. There prevails through the whole a\nnoble simplicity and singleness of purpose, a genuinely German sound mode\nof thinking; here and there is not wanting a humorous and pithy remark.\nThe author sees in every place nature and men without spectacles, and\nthence it arises that we acquire from his book a more living and actual\nview of foreign countries, especially of Egypt, Palestine, and Turkey,\nthan was the case from the travelled labors of many a learned and\ncelebrated man. Frequently, nay almost always, it is a fact, that the\nlearned are destitute of the opportunity of acquiring a knowledge of the\nreal life of the people, while it is exactly here that the greatest\npeculiarity of the manners and customs of foreigners is to be found. Our\nhonest hand-worker lived among the people, and therefore possessed the\nbest means to describe them in graphic characters.' There is something\nvery forcible and comprehensive in the subjoined passage from the author's\npreface. It is indeed a sort of compendium of the most interesting portion\nof the writer's journeyings:\n\n    'From my youth up, it was my most living desire to see the world.\n    When I heard or read of foreign lands, I became sad at heart, and\n    thought: 'Wert thou but of years that thou couldst travel!' Now\n    are all the wishes of my youth fulfilled. I have made the attempt\n    by land and water, and that in three quarters of the world. I have\n    wandered several times through GERMANY, POLAND, HUNGARY, and\n    WALLACHIA; I was a long time in BUDAPEST and CONSTANTINOPLE; and\n    undertook, with the money which I had saved there, a pilgrimage\n    through EGYPT to the HOLY LAND. I kneeled at the BIRTH-PLACE and\n    the SEPULCHRE of the SAVIOUR; stood in adoration on the holy MOUNT\n    ZION, on TABOR, GOLGOTHA, and the MOUNT OF OLIVES; bathed in\n    JORDAN; washed myself in the LAKE OF GENNESARETH; looked in vain\n    around me on the DEAD SEA for living objects; was in the workshop\n    of ST. JOSEPH; and in many other holy places of which the sacred\n    Scriptures make mention. Thence I returned to Constantinople, and\n    betook myself through Athens, where I worked nearly a year, and\n    thence through Italy, France, and Belgium, homeward to my\n    Fatherland.'\n\nThe first German edition of fifteen hundred copies of the work was at once\nexhausted; a second speedily followed; a third was soon announced; and the\nfourth is doubtless ere this before a wide class of German readers. We\ncheerfully commend the book to the public acceptance.\n\n\n  BENTHAMIANA: OR SELECT EXTRACTS FROM THE WORKS OF JEREMY BENTHAM. With\n  an Outline Opinion on the Principal Subjects discussed in his Works.\n  In one volume, pp. 446. Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD. New-York:\n  WILEY AND PUTNAM.\n\nThis work contains a copious selection of those passages in the works of\nJEREMY BENTHAM which appear to be chiefly distinguished for merit of a\nsimply rhetorical character; which, appearing often in the midst of long\nand arduous processes of reasoning, or in the course of elaborate\ndescriptions of minute practical arrangements, demanding from an active\nmind severe thought and unflagging attention, have scarcely had their due\nweight with the general reader, nor secured their just meed of admiration.\nHe was singularly careless, writes his editor, in distributing his\npleasing illustrations of playfulness, or pathos, or epigrammatic\nexpression. His 'mission' he considered to be that of an instructor and\nimprover; and the flowers which, equally with more substantial things,\nwere the produce of his vigorous intellect, he looked upon as scarcely\nworthy of passing attention, and deserving of no more notice than to be\npermitted to grow wherever the more valued objects of his labors left them\na little room. The volume comprehends a vast variety of sound opinion, and\nable though brief argument upon themes which relate to the social, moral\nand religious well-being of mankind. Touching the style of the writer, as\nevinced in these selections, we should say that it was formed mainly upon\na due avoidance of prolixity, (an observance not always characteristic of\nBENTHAM'S writings,) concerning which he himself very justly remarks:\n'Prolixity may be where redundancy is not. Prolixity may arise not only\nfrom the multifarious insertion of unnecessary articles, but from the\nconservation of too many necessary ones in a sentence; as a workman may be\noverladen not only with rubbish, which is of no use for him to carry, but\nwith materials the most useful and necessary, when heaped up in loads too\nheavy for him at once.' A useful hint this, to unpractised writers.\n\n\n  THE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN BURNS AND CLARINDA. With a Memoir of Mrs.\n  M'LEHOSE, (CLARINDA.) Arranged and edited by her Grandson, W. C.\n  M'LEHOSE. In one volume, pp. 293. New-York: R. P. BIXBY AND COMPANY.\n\nWe have no doubt that the contents of this well-executed little volume are\naltogether authentic; full particulars relative to the custody and\nauthenticity of the correspondence and the state of preservation of the\noriginal manuscripts being given in the preface. But we are very sorry to\nsay so much against the book as this fact implies. It would be far better\nfor the reputation of the immortal Bard of Scotland, if some hereditary\nfriend, chary of his undying fame, were to come before the public with a\npamphlet disproving entirely the agency of BURNS in this correspondence.\nTo those who are acquainted with previous records in the private history\nof the world-renowned poet, it is painful to convict him, out of his own\nmouth, of duplicity in matters of the heart; of insincerity in the\nprofession of simultaneous passion for various lovers; and of other acts\nwhich are alike indefensible and disreputable. We must needs marvel too\nthat the 'CLARINDA' of the correspondence should have been doomed by a\nnear descendant to the exposure inseparable from the revelations of this\nvolume. That the treatment which she received at the hands of one whose\nduty it was to 'love, cherish, and protect' her, was equally undeserved\nand inexcusable, we can well believe; but that the 'platonic attachment,'\nwhich sprung up in a night, like the gourd of JONAH, and gradually waxed\nto 'passion at fever-heat,' was justified by these facts, or sanctioned by\npropriety, or that its history in detail is calculated to elevate the\ncharacter of woman, or exercise a healthful moral influence, we have just\nas little reason to doubt. There is a sprinkling of verse in an appendix,\nwhich BURNS was good enough to praise. It is of that kind 'which neither\ngods nor men permit;' and is conclusive, not of BURNS'S judgment, but of\nhis 'tender' sycophancy.\n\n\n\n\nEDITOR'S TABLE.\n\n\nSOME 'SENTIMENTS' ON SONNETS, WITH SUNDRY SPECIMENS.--Thanks to our\never-welcome correspondent, 'T. W. P.' for his pleasant, pertinent and\nimproving sentiments on sonnets. Arriving at too late an hour for a place\namong our guests at the _table d' hote_, perhaps he will not object to sit\nat our humble side-table, and converse familiarly with the reader; since,\nas honest SANCHO remarked of the Duke, 'Wherever _he_ sits, there will be\nthe _first place_.' Our friend has a fruitful theme. How many borrowed\nprose-passages have we seen, with their original brightness dimmed or\ndeflected in a sorry sonnet! Nine in ten of our modern examples in this\nkind, when one comes to analyze them, will be found to consist of stolen\nideas, combined with what SOUTHEY would call 'bubble, and bladder, and\ntympany.' But perpend the subjoined: 'Ever since the fatal days of\nPETRARCH AND GUIDO CAVALIANTI, mankind have suffered more or less from the\nchronic infliction of Sonnets. With them indeed the complaint was\nconstitutional, and came in the natural way; under so mild and gentle a\nform withal, that little danger was to be apprehended for Italian\ntemperaments, except a degree of languor, general debility, and a\ndisagreeable singing in the ears. It was only when it worked its way into\nEnglish blood, that the virus assumed its most baneful character.\nSHAKSPEARE, among other illustrious victims, was afflicted by it in his\nyouth, but seems to have recovered during his residence in the metropolis.\nPossibly the favor of the royal hand might have proved more beneficial\nthan that of the Earl of Southampton. Perhaps he was _touched_ for it by\nELIZABETH, as JOHNSON was by Queen ANNE for the scrofula. However that may\nbe, we know very well that the disorder is now rooted among us, and that\nevery week produces decided cases of Sonnets, sometimes so severe as to be\nintolerable. In this condition of the mental health of our country, since\nthe evil cannot be cured, it were a work at once philanthropical and\npatriotic, so to modify it and regulate its attacks, that it may settle\ndown into a moderate degree of annoyance, like the lighter afflictions of\nmild measles and mumps. We can always calculate upon the duration of each\n'fytte,' as none ever exceeds the fourteenth spasm. When the just\ndozen-and-two convulsions are past, the danger is over, and the offensive\nmatter may be removed by a newspaper, or discharged into some appropriate\nmagazine. There is good reason for designating the complaint as a\n_periodical_ one.\n\nWe intend, one of these days, provided our remarks attract sufficient\nattention, to publish a volume upon this subject. We have the materiel by\nus and about us; and as soon as we can make arrangements with Mr. POH for\na puff in the 'North-American Review,' or the 'Southern Literary\nMessenger,' we shall broach the affair to Mr. FIELDS, the enterprising\npublisher. We have moreover desired Mr. WHIPPLE to write to his friend Mr.\nMACAULAY in England, who will doubtless be proud to foster American\nletters by a hoist in the 'Edinburgh.' There is only one other thing\nabsolutely requisite for the success of the book, and that is the\nappearance of this article in the KNICKERBOCKER. Befriend me then with\nyour fine taste, renowned HERR DIEDRICH! and give me room. I shall not\ndive deeply into the matter now; but for the good of my young countrymen,\nthe labor of whose brains is incompatible with a fruitful development of\nwhiskers, I wish to put forth a page of advice that may save them a world\nof fatigue. It is common with those who are far gone in this tuneful\ndisorder to set up late o' nights and tipple coffee. Under my new system,\nI will engage that they may retire to bed on mulled-punch nightly, at\neleven, and yet effect all that they now perform with the greatest injury\nto their eyes and complexions. But _pocas pallabras_--enough of this\npreface: will not the thing speak for itself? There needs no farther\nintroduction for these brief extracts from the aforesaid work:\n\nTHE EASIEST WAY OF DISCHARGING A SONNET.\n\nA SONNET (as before stated) consists of fourteen and no more spasms. They\nare calm, deliberate twinges, however, and upon a homoeopathical\nprinciple, the great object should be to get over each one in the calmest\npossible manner; _idem cum eodem_. The thing cannot be treated too coolly,\nfor its very essence is dull deliberation. The name sonnet is probably\nderived, through the Italian _sonno_, from the Latin word for sleep, in\nallusion to its lethargic quality. The best mode of encouraging the efflux\nof the peccant humor is for the patient to have a cigar in his mouth. The\nnarcotic fumes of tobacco are highly favorable to its ejection. The first\nstep then is the selection of rhymes. Fourteen of these in their proper\norder should be written perpendicularly on the right hand of a smooth\nsheet of white paper. When this is done, it is necessary to read them\nover, up and down, several times, until some general idea of a subject or\na title suggests itself. Great care must be taken, in the selection of\nrhymes, to get as original ones as possible, and such as shall strike the\neye. Still greater should be the precaution not to choose such incongruous\nrhymes as may not easily be welded together or amalgamated into one whole\nby the mercury of fancy. For instance, it would be well to avoid coupling\nsuch words as moon and spoon, breeze and cheese and sneeze; Jove and\nstove; hope and soap; all which it might be difficult to bring together\nharmoniously. Here the artist, the man of true science, will discover\nhimself. SHELLEY affords a good choice of rhymes; chasm and spasm; rift\nand drift; ravine and savin, are useful conjunctions. If you have a\nravine, it will be very easy to stick in a savin, but you must avoid a\n_spavin_, or your verse may halt for it. This we call being artistical.\n_Benissimo!_ then. Having fixed upon your subject, all you have to do is\nto fill up the lines to match the ends, and this, in one evening's\npractice, will become as easy, the same thing in fact, as the filling up\nof the blank form of an ordinary receipt.\n\nBut the most expeditious and surest way of procuring a good Sonnet is the\nDivision of Labor System. This has often been unconsciously practised by\nmodern poets, but it has never been explicitly set forth till now. Every\nbody knows that even in the fabrication of so small a thing as a needle,\nthe process is facilitated by dividing it among a number of hands; as to\none the eye, to another the point, to one the grinding, to another the\npolishing. In the same way, to render a sonnet pointed and sharp, to\npolish it and insure it against cutting the thread of its argument, the\nwork should be performed by two or more. Every sonnet, in short, ought to\nbe a translation. I do not say a translation from the German or any other\njargon, but a translation from English--from one man's into another man's\nEnglish. It is absurd for one workman to do both rhyming and thinking. In\nthis go-ahead age and country, that were a palpable waste of time. Take\nany 'matter-ful' author, cut out a juicy slice of his thought, and make\nthat your material. Trim it, compress it, turn it and twist it upside down\nand inside out, vary it any way but the author's own, and you will be\nlikely to effect a speedy and wholesome operation. What a saving of time\nis here! Who will be silly enough to manufacture his own thinkings into\nverse when the world is so full of excellent stuff as yet unwrought in the\ngreat mine of letters? Let us not burn up our own native forests while we\ncan fetch coals from Newcastle. What a pleasant prospect for readers too!\nA man may be sure _then_, that a sonnet shall contain a thought. He will\nnot be gulled into experiments upon decent-looking, respectable dross and\nplausible inanity. He shall not dig hungrily for an idea, and be filled\nwith volumes of wind. With the fourteenth pang his anxiety shall be over,\nand he shall drop asleep satisfied; _tandem dormitum dimittitur_.\n\nNot to anticipate farther our forthcoming book, nor to forestall the\ncritics in any more extracts, we shall lay before the reader two or three\nsamples of work done according to this system. CARLYLE has furnished our\nraw material. His pages are so full of poetry that little time need be\nexpended in selecting a fit piece for working up. See now if these be not\nsonnets which BOWLES might have been proud to claim. Each one is warranted\nto contain a thought; an hour or so would suffice for the completion of\nhalf a dozen such. Observe too, that little deviation is necessary from\nthe original, the words falling naturally into both rhythm and rhyme. We\ncommence with a few translations from Carlyle. The initial specimen is\ntaken from Herr TEUFELSDROeCKH'S remarks on BONAPARTE. This is the passage:\n\n    'The man (NAPOLEON) was a Divine Missionary, though unconscious of\n    it, and preached through the cannon's throat this great doctrine:\n    _La carriere ouverte aux talens_; 'The Tools to him that can\n    handle them.' . . . Madly enough he preached, it is true, as\n    Enthusiasts and first Missionaries are wont, with imperfect\n    utterance, amid much frothy rant, yet as articulately perhaps as\n    the case admitted. Or call him, if you will, an American\n    Backwoodsman, who had to fell unpenetrated forests, and battle\n    with innumerable wolves, and did not entirely forbear strong\n    liquor, rioting, and even theft; whom notwithstanding the peaceful\n    Sower will follow, and as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless.'\n\n                                SARTOR RESARTUS: BOOK II., CHAP. VIII.\n\nSONNET I.--NAPOLEON.\n\n  Napoleon was a Missionary merely,\n  Who through the cannon's throat this truth expressed,\n  Unconsciously, divinely and sincerely,\n  _The Tools to him that handles 'em the best._\n  Madly enough, indeed, the man did preach,\n  Amid much rant, as all Enthusiasts do,\n  And yet with as articulate a speech\n  As the strange case, perhaps, allowed him to.\n  Or call him a Backwoodsman, if you will;\n  Who, forced to fell unpenetrated woods,\n  And doomed innumerable wolves to kill,\n  Got drunk sometimes, and stole his neighbor's goods;\n  Whom will the Sower follow ne'ertheless,\n  And as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless.\n\nOr let us try the following description of the Hotel de Ville in the\nFrench Revolution:\n\n    'O evening sun of July! how at this hour thy beams fall slant on\n    reapers amid peaceful woody fields; on old women spinning in\n    cottages; on ships far out on the silent main; on Balls at the\n    Orangerie of Versailles, where high-rouged dames of the palace are\n    even now dancing with double-jacketted Hussar officers; and also\n    on this roaring Hell-porch of a Hotel de Ville. Babel-tower, with\n    the confusion of tongues, were not Bedlam added with the\n    conflagration of thoughts, was no type of it. One forest of\n    distracted steel bristles endless in front of an Electoral\n    Committee.'\n\n                                FRENCH REVOLUTION: BOOK V., CHAP. VII.\n\nSONNET II.--THE HOTEL DE VILLE.\n\n  O evening sun of most serene July!\n  How at this hour thy slant refulgence pours\n  On reapers working in the open sky,\n  And women spinning at their cottage doors,\n  On ships far out upon the silent main,\n  On gay Versailles, where through the light quadrille\n  Hussars are leading forth a high-rouged train,\n  And on the hell-porch-like Hotel de Ville.\n  Not Babel's tower with all its million tongues,\n  Save Bedlam too therewith had added been,\n  To mingle burning brains with roaring lungs,\n  Could feebly imitate that dreadful din;\n  One endless forest of distracted steel\n  Bristling around that mad Hotel de Ville!\n\nOr to return to Professor TEUFELDROeCKH'S vast chaos of ideas. Let us try\nanother passage therefrom:\n\n    'It struck me much as I sat beside the Kuhbach, one silent\n    noontide, and watched it flowing, gurgling, to think how this same\n    streamlet had flowed and gurgled through all changes of weather\n    and of fortune, from beyond the earliest date of history. Yes,\n    probably on the morning when JOSHUA forded Jordan; even as at the\n    midday when CAESAR, doubtless with difficulty, swam the Nile, yet\n    kept his Commentaries dry; this little Kuhbach, assiduous as\n    Tiber, Eurotas or Siloa, was murmuring on across the wilderness,\n    unnamed, unseen.'\n\n                                 SARTOR RESARTUS: BOOK II., CHAP. III.\n\nSONNET III.--ETERNITY OF NATURE.\n\n  One silent noonday, as I sat beside\n  The gurgling flow of Kuhbach's little river,\n  Methought how, even as I saw it glide,\n  That stream had flowed and gurgled on forever.\n  Yes, on the day when JOSHUA passed the flood\n  Of ancient Jordan; when across the Nile\n  CAESAR swam (hardly, doubtless, through the mud,)\n  Yet kept his Commentaries dry the while,\n  This little Kuhbach, like Siloa's rill,\n  Or Tiber's Tide, assiduous and serene,\n  Ev'n then, the same as now, was murmuring still\n  Across the wilderness, unnamed, unseen.\n  Art's but a mushroom--only Nature's old;\n  In yon grey crag six thousand years behold!\n\nFrom the same chapter of the same book we venture one more extract. It is\nwhere the Professor is full of grief and reminiscences; where, reflecting\non his first experience of wo in the death of Father ANDREAS, he becomes\nonce more spirit-clad in quite inexpressible melancholy, and says, 'I have\nnow pitched my tent under a cypress-tree,' etc.:\n\nSONNET IV.--BLISS IN GRIEF.\n\n  Under a cypress-tree I pitch my tent:\n  The tomb shall be my fortress; at its gate\n  I sit and watch each hostile armament,\n  And all the pains and penalties of Fate.\n  And oh ye loved ones! that already sleep,\n  Hushed in the noiseless bed of endless rest,\n  For whom, while living, I could only weep,\n  But never help in all your sore distress,\n  And ye who still your lonely burthen bear,\n  Spilling your blood beneath life's bitter thrall,\n  A little while and we shall all meet _there_,\n  And one kind Mother's bosom screen us all;\n  Oppression's harness will no longer tire\n  Or gall us there, nor Sorrow's whip of fire.\n\nBut we are borrowing too much from our embryo volume. Patience, dear\nPublic! until we can find a publisher. In the mean time, examine the\nspecimens we have presented to you. Can any one tell us where to look for\nsonnets, more satisfactory than these? We congratulate our country on the\nprospect of our soon having an American literature. Let our industrious\nyoung aspirants try a work in which they may succeed in producing\nsomething of sterling value. A year or two will suffice to turn half the\nplodding prose writers of Britain into original poets. Every brilliant\narticle that appears in the Quarterly might here renascent spring forth\nlike Arethusa, in a new and more melodious voice; bubbling up in a pretty\nepic or stormy lyric. See, for example, how easily SIDNEY SMITH might be\ndone into rhyme:\n\nSONNET V.\n\n  I never meet at any public dinner\n  A Pennsylvanian, but my fingers itch\n  To pluck his borrowed plumage from the sinner,\n  And with the spoil the company enrich.\n  His pocket-handkerchief I would bestow\n  On the poor orphan; and his worsted socks\n  Should to the widow in requital go\n  For having sunk her all in Yankee stocks;\n  To John the footman I would give his hat,\n  Which only cost six shillings in Broadway:\n  As for his diamond ring--I'd speak for that;\n  His gold watch too my losses might repay:\n  Himself might home in the next steamer hie,\n  For who would take him--or his word? Not I.\n\n\n'LEGENDS OF THE CONQUEST OF SPAIN.'--Some eighteen years ago, a work in a\nsingle volume, entitled as above, and written by the author of the\n'Sketch-Book,' was issued from the press of MURRAY, the celebrated London\nbook-seller. It would seem to have been put forth as a kind of\n_avant-courier_ of 'The Chronicles of the Conquest of Granada;' but unlike\nthat elaborate work, was never republished in this country, and has never\nbeen included in any of the complete editions of Mr. IRVING'S writings. We\nare indebted to the kind courtesy of a gentleman who has been spending\nsome months with our distinguished countryman and correspondent at Madrid,\nfor a copy of the book, which he obtained at that capital. We have good\nreason to believe that it has been encountered by few if any readers on\nthis side the Atlantic. A very stirring extract from its pages will be\nfound elsewhere in this Magazine. Mr. IRVING introduces the legends to his\nreaders with a few prefatory sentences, in which he states that he has\nventured to dip more deeply into the enchanted fountains of old Spanish\nchronicle than has usually been done by those who have treated of the\neventful period of which he writes; but in so doing, he only more fully\nillustrates the character of the people and the times. He has thrown the\nrecords into the form of legends, not claiming for them the authenticity\nof sober history, yet giving nothing that had not a historical foundation.\n'All the facts herein contained,' says the writer, 'however extravagant\nsome of them may be deemed, will be found in the works of sage and\nreverend chroniclers of yore, growing side by side with long acknowledged\ntruths, and might be supported by learned and imposing references in the\nmargin.' To discard every thing wild and marvellous in this portion of\nSpanish history is to discard some of its most beautiful, instructive, and\nnational features; it is to judge of Spain by the standard of probability\nsuited to tamer and more prosaic countries. Spain is virtually a land of\npoetry and romance, where every-day life partakes of adventure, and where\nthe least agitation or excitement carries every thing up into extravagant\nenterprise and daring exploit. The Spaniards in all ages have been of\nswelling and braggart spirit, soaring in thought, and valiant though\nvainglorious in deed. When the nation had recovered in some degree from\nthe storm of Moslem invasion, and sage men sought to inquire and write the\nparticulars of the tremendous reverses which it produced, it was too late\nto ascertain them in their exact verity. The gloom and melancholy that had\novershadowed the land had given birth to a thousand superstitious fancies;\nthe woes and terrors of the past were clothed with supernatural miracles\nand portents, and the actors in the fearful drama had already assumed the\ndubious characteristics of romance. Or if a writer from among the\nconquerors undertook to touch upon the theme, it was embellished with all\nthe wild extravagances of an oriental imagination, which afterward stole\ninto the graver works of the monkish historians. Hence the chronicles are\napt to be tinctured with those saintly miracles which savor of the pious\nlabors of the cloister, or those fanciful fictions that betray their\nArabian Authors. Scarce one of their historical facts but has been\nconnected in the original with some romantic fiction, and even in its\ndivorced state, bears traces of its former alliance. The records in\npreceding pages are 'illuminated' by these prefatory remarks of our\nauthor, if their _truth_ be not altogether established! How the Count\nJULIAN receives the account of the dishonor of his child, and his conduct\nthereupon; and how DON RODERICK hastens, through various tribulation, to\nhis final overthrow; will be matter for another number. Meanwhile the\nreader will not fail to note the great beauty of the descriptions, which\nin the hands of our great master of the power and beauty of 'the grand old\nEnglish tongue,' assume form and color, and stand out like living pictures\nto the eye.\n\n\nAMERICAN PTYALISM: 'QUID RIDES?'--A pleasant correspondent, whom our\nreaders have long known, and as long admired and esteemed, in a familiar\ngossip, (by favor of 'Uncle SAMUEL'S mail-bag,) with the Editor, gives us\nthe following 'running account' of his ruminations over an early-morning\nquid of that 'flavorous weed' so well beloved of our friend Colonel STONE.\nIt is in some sort a defence of American ptyalism, and in the tendency of\nits inculcations, reminds us of the arguments in favor of the cultivation\nof a refined style of _murder_, which should constitute it one of the fine\narts, to which we gave a place many months back: 'After having in my\nbroken dreams perambulated every part and parcel of the universe, and then\ntossed about for hours on an ocean of bodily discomforts, each a dagger to\nrepose, and mental disquietudes, of which any one was enough to wither all\nthe poppies of Somnus, I rose about four o' my watch, and commenced\nchewing the narcotic weed of Virginia. For you must know that in childhood\nalmost, through a precocious mannishness and a desire of experimental\nknowledge, I commenced the habit of tobacco-chewing, and the vice born of\na freak, has 'grown with my growth,' till now it holds me as in a 'vice'\nscrewed up and secured by a giant. (Please observe that there's a pun in\nthat last sentence.) Where the conventionalities of society compel me to\nattidunize my appearance and customs into the stiffness of gentility, I\npuff the Havana; but when the privacy of my own room or the solitude of\nthe roads and fields permit me to vulgarize to my liking, I thrust a ball\nof 'Mrs. MILLER'S fine-cut,' or a fragment of the 'natural James' River\nsweet,' between the sub-maxillary bone and its carnal casement, and then\nmasticate and expectorate 'a la Yankee.' or 'more Americano.' Pah! oh!\nfie! for shame! and all other interjections indicative of horror, or\nexpressive of disgust. '_Quousque tandem?_' Beg your pardon, Mrs.\nTROLLOPE. '_Quamdiu etiam?_' I implore your commiseration, Captain BASIL.\n'_Oh, tempora! oh, mores!_' Have mercy, illustrious and\npraise-bespattered, and almost Sir-Waltered BOZ. Do not, under the uneasy\nweight of glory, and in the intoxicating consciousness of a right to the\noligarchic exclusiveness of the goose-quill 'haute volee,' strike right\nand left among your sturdy democratic adorers, because they choose to\nconvert their mandibles into quid-grinders, and their [Greek: chasmat'\nodonton] into ceaseless jet d'eaux of saliva. Reflect that the 'quid'\nassists in a philosophic investigation of the 'quiddities' of things, and\nthat from this habit alone perhaps we have made such advances in casuistry\nas to have discovered equity in repudiation, freedom in mobocracy, and the\nsword of justice in the bowie-knife. Chewing is eminently democratic,\nsince all chewers are 'pro hac _vice_' on a perfect equality, and a\n'millionaire;' or, for that matter, a 'billionaire,' if we had him, would\nnot hesitate to take out of his mouth a moiety of his last 'chew' and give\nit to an itinerant Lazarus. What can be more admirable than this 'de bon\nair' plebeianism, and universal right-hand of fellowship? Does not he who\nextends among the people the use of this democratizing weed, emphatically\ngive them a '_quid_ pro quo?' Are not slovenliness and filth the virtues\nof republics, while neatness and elegance are vices of court-growth, and\nexpand into their most ramified and minute perfectness of polish only in\nthe palaces of kings? Furthermore, oh laurelled and triumphant PICKWICK!\nif expectoration be filthy, it must be because the 'thing expectorated' is\nunclean; and if so, is it not more decent to become rid of the 'unclean\nthing' by the readiest process, than to retain it, making the stomach a\nreceptacle of abominations? And are you, Sir Baronet of the realm\nimaginary, subject to no gross corporeal needs and operations? And if, as\nyou will say, you perform those foul rites in a state of retiracy, are you\nnot adding the sin of hypocrisy to your preexistent guilt? If it has\nsucceeded to you, as to few penny-a-liners, to have emerged by the sale of\nyour Attic-salt from the attics of Grub-street into the 'swept and\ngarnished chambers' of the Regent, and if after quaffing the ale of\nBow-street, procured by caricatures of Old Baily reports, you have sipped\nyour hockheimer, while standing, scarce yet unbewildered, in the gas-light\nsplendor reflected from the 'vis-a-vis' mirrors of Almack's, yet do not\nexalt yourself above all that is fleshly. Reflect that you, so lately\nunrivalled, can now see a EUGENE SUE whose brow is umbraged by laurels of\na more luxuriant and lovely green. Cease your expectorations of bile upon\na great people; admit that mastication of the 'odorous vegeble' is a\nSpartan virtue; and we will again vote you an Anak in the kingdom of pen\nand paper. Then again shall we be led to believe that your praises and\nyour vituperations are equally unpurchasable. Then once more shall we\nthink you would swallow no golden pill, nor suffer your throat to be\nulcerated by a silver quinsy.'\n\n\nGOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--If any of our readers are\ndesirous of looking into the _rationale_ of irrationality, to employ a\nhighly 'unitive' phrase, let them take up, if they can command it, the\n'_Annual Report of the Managers of the New York State Lunatic Asylum_,'\none of the clearest and most comprehensive documents in its kind that we\nhave ever perused. It proceeds from the capable pen of A. BRIGHAM, M. D.\nthe superintendent and physician of the institution, and is full upon the\ndefinition, causes and classification of insanity; the size and shape of\nthe heads of the patients; the pulse; description of the building; daily\nroutine of business, diet, labor, amusements, religious worship, visitors,\nsuggestions to those who have friends whom they expect to commit to the\ncare of the asylum, etc., etc. The cause of insanity in _fifty_ out of two\nhundred and seventy-six patients is attributed to religious anxiety,\nproduced by long attendance on protracted religious meetings, etc. Want of\nsleep is decidedly the most frequent and immediate cause of insanity, and\none the most important to guard against. 'So rarely (says the\nsuperintendent) do you see a recent case of insanity that is not preceded\nby want of sleep, that we regard it as almost the sure precursor of mental\nderangement.' As evidences of the difficulty of arranging the insane in\nclasses, founded on symptoms, Dr. BRIGHAM gives us the following synopsis\nof individual peculiarities noticed among certain of the inmates of the\nAsylum:\n\n    'In addition to emperors, queens, prophets and priests, we have\n    one that says he is nobody, a nonentity. One that was never born,\n    and one that was born of her grandmother, and another dropped by\n    the devil flying over the world. One has had the throat cut out\n    and put in wrong, so that what is swallowed passes into the head,\n    and another has his head cut off and replaced every night. One\n    thinks himself a child, and talks and acts like a child. Many\n    appear as if constantly intoxicated. One has the gift of tongues,\n    another deals in magic, several in animal magnetism. One thinks he\n    is a white polar bear. A number have hallucinations of sight,\n    others of hearing. One repeats whatever is said to him, another\n    repeats constantly words of the same sound, as door, floor. One is\n    pursued by the sheriff, many by the devil. One has invented the\n    perpetual motion and is soon to be rich; others have already\n    acquired vast fortunes: scraps of paper, buttons and chips are to\n    them, large amounts of money. Many pilfer continually and without\n    any apparent motive, while others secrete every thing they can\n    find, their own articles as well as those of others. A majority\n    are disposed to hoard up trifling and useless articles, as scraps\n    of tin, leather, strings, nails, buttons, etc., and are much\n    grieved to part with them. One will not eat unless alone, some\n    never wish to eat, while others are always starving. One with a\n    few sticks and straws fills his room with officers and soldiers,\n    ships and sailors, carriages and horses, the management of which\n    occupies all his time and thoughts. Some have good memory as\n    regards most things, and singularly defective as to others. One\n    does not recollect the names of his associates, which he hears\n    every hour, yet his memory is good in other respects. One says he\n    is THOMAS PAINE, author of the 'Age of Reason,' a work he has\n    never read; another calls himself General WASHINGTON; and one old\n    lady of diminutive size calls herself General SCOTT, and is never\n    so good-natured as when thus addressed. One is always in court\n    attending a trial, and wondering and asking when the court is to\n    rise. Another has to eat up the building, drink dry the canal, and\n    swallow the Little Falls village, and is continually telling of\n    the difficulty of the task.'\n\nThe superintendent prefers a classification founded upon the faculties of\nthe mind that appear to be disordered; and he thinks he could place all\nhis patients in one of the three following classes: _Intellectual\nInsanity_, or disorder of the intellect without noticeable disturbance of\nthe feelings and propensities; _Moral Insanity_ or derangement of the\nfeelings, affections, and passions, without any remarkable disorder of the\nintellect; and _General Insanity_, in which both the intellectual\nfaculties and the feelings and affections are disordered. The State Asylum\nis a fine imposing edifice, delightfully situated near the pleasant\nvillage of Utica, in Oneida county, and is becoming greatly distinguished\nfor success in the treatment and cure of insanity. . . . WE heard a little\nanecdote at a _bal costume_ the other evening, (whether from the dignified\nand stately HELEN MACGREGOR or the beautiful MEDORA, we 'cannot well make\nout,') which is worth repeating. A retired green-grocer, rejoicing in the\neuphonious name of TIBBS, living at Hackney, near London, sorely against\nhis will, and after warm remonstrance, finally yielded to his wife's\nentreaty that he would go in character to a masquerade-ball, given to the\n'middling interest' by one of his old neighbors. He went accoutred as a\nknight, wearing his visor down. What was his surprise on entering the\nroom, to find first one and then another member of the motley company\nslapping him familiarly on the back, with: 'Halloa! TIBBS! who thought to\nsee _you_ here! What's the news at Hackney?' In dismay that his ridiculous\nsecret was out, he hurried from the scene, and hastened home in a state of\ngreat excitement from the mortification to which he had been subjected. 'I\n_told_ you I should be known,' said he to his wife; 'I _knew_ I should!'\n'No wonder!' she replied; 'you've got your name and residence on your\nsteel cap: 'Mr. TIBBS, Hackney!'' He had forgotten to remove the address\nwhich the London costumer had affixed to it as a direction! . . . HOW many\nthousand times, in thinking of the onward career of our glorious and\nthrice-blessed country, have we felt the emotions to which our esteemed\nfriend and contributor, POLYGON, gives forceful expression in the closing\nlines of a beautiful poem of his, which we have encountered to-day for the\nfirst time:\n\n  'Oh! long through coming ages, born\n    When _we_ shall slumber cold and still,\n  The sultry summer will adorn\n    The verdant vale and hazy hill;\n  And Autumn walking even and morn\n    Through bearded wheat and rustling corn,\n  See Plenty from her streaming horn\n    His largest wishes fill.\n\n  'Europe's rich realms will then admire\n    And emulate our matchless fame,\n  And Asia burn with fierce desire\n    To burst her galling bonds of shame!\n  Greece will resume th' Aonian lyre,\n    And Rome again to heaven aspire,\n  And vestal Freedom's quenchless fire\n    From the pyramids shall flame!'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is a sort of pathetic humor in the following parody by PUNCH upon\nthe prize exhibitions of cattle in England. A more forcible exposition of\nthe different condition of the human and brute animal in that country\ncould not well be conceived. It must be premised that a large hall is\nfitted up with pens on either side, and over the head of the occupant\npaste-board tickets are appended by the Poor Law Commissioners, detailing\ntheir names, weights, ages, the regimen to which they have been subjected,\nand other particulars; as thus: 'PETER SMALL. Aged forty. Weight at period\nof admission twelve stone. Confined three months. Present weight nine\nstone. Fed principally on water-gruel. Has been separated from his wife\nand children in the work-house, and occasionally placed in solitary\nconfinement for complaining of hunger. Employment, breaking stones.' 'JANE\nWELLS. Aged seventy. Weight five stone; lost two stone since her\nadmission, one month ago. Gruel diet; tea without sugar; potatoes and\nsalt. Has been set to picking opium.' 'JOHN TOMPKINS. Aged eighty-five.\nHas seen better days. On admission, weighed eleven stone, which has been\nreduced to eight and three-quarters. Diet, weak soup, with turnips and\ncarrots; dry bread and cheese-parings; a few ounces of meat occasionally,\nwhen faint. Came to the work-house with his wife, who is five years\nyounger than himself. Has not been allowed to see her for a month; during\nwhich period has lost in weight two ounces on an average per day. Employed\nin carrying coals.' Faithful portraits, no doubt, of thousands who crowd\nthe thick-clustering pauper-houses of England, who have\n\n  'No blessed leisure for love nor hope,\n  But only time for grief!'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOur umqwhile New-Haven friend, who commented upon our 'light gossip' a few\nmonths since, will pardon us for quoting, in corroboration of the\nexculpatory 'position' which we assumed in alluding to his animadversions,\nthe following remarks by the author of the 'Charcoal Sketches,' JOSEPH C.\nNEAL, Esq.: 'Gossip, goodly gossip, though sometimes sneered at, is after\nall the best of our entertainments. We must fall back upon the light web\nof conversation, upon chit-chat, as our main-stay, our chief reliance; as\nthat _corps de reserve_ on which our scattered and wearied forces are to\nrally. What is there which will bear comparison as a recreating means,\nwith the free and unstudied interchange of thought, of knowledge, of\nimpression about men and things, and all that varied medley of fact,\ncriticism and conclusion so continually fermenting in the active brain? Be\nfearful of those who love it not, and banish such as would imbibe its\ndelights yet bring no contribution to the common stock. There are men who\nseek the reputation of wisdom by dint of never affording a glimpse of\ntheir capabilities, and impose upon the world by silent gravity; negative\nphilosophers, who never commit themselves beyond the utterance of a\nself-evident proposition, or hazard their position by a feat of greater\nboldness than is to be found in the avowal of the safe truth which has\nbeen granted for a thousand years. There is a deception here, which should\nnever be submitted to. Sagacity may be manifest in the nod of Burleigh's\nhead; but it does not follow that all who nod are Burleighs. He who\nhabitually says nothing, must be content if he be regarded as having\nnothing to say, and it is only a lack of grace on his part which precludes\nthe confession. In this broad 'Vienna' of human effort, the mere\n'looker-on' cannot be tolerated. It is part of our duty to be nonsensical\nand ridiculous at times, for the entertainment of the rest of the world.\nIf we are never to open our mouths until the unsealing of the aperture is\nto give evidence of a present Solomon, and to add something to the Book of\nProverbs, we must for the most part, stand like the statue of Harpocrates,\nwith 'Still your finger on your lips, I pray.' If we do speak, under such\nrestrictions, it cannot well be, as the world is constituted, more than\nonce or twice in the course of an existence, the rest of the sojourn upon\nearth being devoted to a sublimation of our thought. But always wise,\nsensible, sagacious, rational; always in wig and spectacles; always\nalgebraic and mathematical; doctrinal and didactic; ever to sit like\nFRANKLIN'S portrait, with the index fixed upon 'causality;' one might as\nwell be a petrified 'professor,' or a WILLIAM PENN bronzed upon a\npedestal. There is nothing so good, either in itself or in its effects, as\ngood nonsense.' Upon reading the foregoing, we laid Mr. YELLOWPLUSH'S\n'flattering function' to our soul, that after all, we need not greatly\ndistrust the reception of our monthly salmagundi, since one good producer\nand critic may be held as in some sort an epitome of the public; and\nespecially, since any one subsection of our hurried Gossip, should it\nchance to be dull, or void of interest, may be soon exhausted, or easily\nskipped. . . . WE observed lately, in the pages of a monthly contemporary,\nan elaborate notice of the poems of ALFRED TENNYSON, who has written many\nsomewhat affected and several very heartful and exquisite verses; and were\nnot a little surprised to find no reference to two of the most beautiful\npoems in his collection; namely, the 'New-Year's Eve,' and its\n'Conclusion.' The first embodies the reflections of a young maiden,\nsinking gradually under that fell destroyer, CONSUMPTION. It is new-year's\neve, and she implores her mother to 'call her early,' that she may see the\nsun rise upon the glad new year, the last that she shall ever see. How\ntouchingly the associations of nature are depicted in these stanzas:\n\n  To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind\n  The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;\n  And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see\n  The blossom on the black thorn, the leaf upon the tree.\n\n  There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane:\n  I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again:\n  I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high;\n  I long to see a flower so before the day I die.\n\n  The building rook will caw from the windy tall elm-tree,\n  And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,\n  And the swallow will come back again with summer o'er the wave.\n  But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.\n\n  Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,\n  In the early, early morning the summer sun will shine;\n  Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,\n  When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.\n\n  When the flowers shall come again, mother, beneath the waning light,\n  You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night:\n  When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool,\n  On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.\n\n  You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,\n  And you'll come sometimes and see me, where I am lowly laid.\n  I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,\n  With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.\n\n  I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;\n  You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow;\n  Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,\n  You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.\n\n  If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;\n  Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;\n  Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,\n  And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away.\n\n  Good-night, good-night! when I have said good-night for evermore,\n  And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,\n  Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green:\n  She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.\n\n  She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor:\n  Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more:\n  But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set\n  About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.\n\nThe poor girl's prayer to 'live to see the snow-drop,' in the spring-time,\nis answered. The violets have come forth, and in the fields around she\nhears the bleating of the young lambs. She is now ready to die, and knows\nthat the time of her departure is at hand, for she has had a 'warning from\nheaven.' The reader should have sat by the bed-side of one slowly fading\naway by consumption, and have heard the wild March wind wail amidst the\nboughs of leafless trees without, rightly to appreciate the faithfulness\nof these lines:\n\n  'I did not hear the dog howl, mother, nor hear the death-watch beat,\n  There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet:\n  But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,\n  And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.\n\n  All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;\n  It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;\n  The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,\n  And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.\n\n  For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;\n  I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;\n  With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd,\n  And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.\n\n  I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed,\n  And then did something speak to me--I know not what was said;\n  For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,\n  And up the valley came again the music on the wind.\n\n  But you were sleeping; and I said, 'It's not for them: it's mine.'\n  And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.\n  And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,\n  Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.'\n\n'This blessed music,' she says, 'went that way my soul will have to go.'\nShe is reconciled to her inevitable fate; yet still she casts a 'longing,\nlingering look behind,' to the beautiful world she is leaving forever. Her\nreflections are imbued with a deep pathos; the second line of the first\nstanza, especially, 'teems with sensation:'\n\n  'O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;\n  He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know:\n  And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,\n  Wild flowers are in the valley for other hands than mine!\n\n  O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done\n  The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun;\n  For ever and for ever with those just souls and true:\n  And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?\n\n  For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home,\n  And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come;\n  To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,\n  Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.\n\n       *     *     *     *     *\n\nWe are indebted to a friend and correspondent at the Phillippine Islands,\nfor two very instructive and amusing volumes, of which we intend the\nreader shall know more hereafter. The first is entitled '_Portfolio\nChinensis_,' or a collection of authentic Chinese State Papers, in the\nnative language, illustrative of the history of the late important events\nin China, with a translation by J. LEWIS SHUCK; the second, a '_Narrative\nof the late Proceedings and Events in China_,' by JOHN SLADE, editor of\nthe 'Canton Register.' In looking over these publications, we are struck\nwith the vigor and pertinacity with which, when once their minds were made\nup, the Chinese authorities pursued their object of abolishing opium\nforever from the celestial empire. Edicts against the 'red-bristled\nforeigners' from England, and the people of the American or 'flower-flag\nnation,' who should hoard up the smoking earth or vaporous drug, were\nenforced by others addressed to the natives, intended to lessen or\nannihilate the demand. The remonstrances with the opium-smokers themselves\nare exceedingly pungent. The 'Great Emperor, quaking with wrath,' having\nexamined the whole matter, and 'united the circumstances,' saturates the\nHigh Commissioner LIN with his own bright 'effulgence of reason,' who\nthereupon promulges: 'Although the opium exists among the outside\nbarbarians, there is not a man of them who is willing to smoke it himself;\nbut the natives of the flowery land are on the contrary with willing\nhearts led astray by them; and they exhaust their property and brave the\nprohibitions, by purchasing a commodity which inflicts injury upon their\nown vitals. Is not this supremely ridiculous! And that you part with your\nmoney to poison your own selves, is it not deeply lamentable! How is it\nthat you allow men to befool you? Thus the fish covets the bait and\nforgets the hook; the miller-fly covets the candle-light, but forgets the\nfire. Ye bring misfortunes upon yourselves! Habits which are thus\ndisastrous are unchangeable, being like the successive rolling of the\nwaves of the sea. Is not your conduct egregiously strange? We the governor\nand Fooyuen have three times and five times again and again remonstrated\nwith and exhorted you, giving you lucid warning. Surely, you are indeed\ndreaming, and _snoring_ in your dreams!' These multiplied edicts, and the\noffers of _rewards_, to 'encourage repentant and fear-stricken hearts,'\nseem to have led to a little trickery on the part of certain cunning\nmandarins, if we interpret aright this clause in an ensuing 'lucid\nwarning:' 'The opium-pipes which are delivered up must be distinguished\nclearly as to whether they are real or false. Those having on the outside\nof them the marks of use, and within the oily residue of the smoke, are\nthe genuine ones; and those which are made of new bamboo, and merely\nmoistened with the smoky oil, are the false ones.' A 'spec.' had evidently\nbeen made by means of false 'smoking-implements.' But the most amusing\nportions of these volumes are the vermillion edicts against the 'outside\nbarbarians,' who had irritated the sacred wrath to the cutting off of\ntheir trade. The estimates of the Fooyuen, it will be seen, are of that\nvague kind usually designated among us as 'upward of considerable.'\nAlluding to the 'blithesome profits' which had accrued from an intercourse\nwith China, he says: 'I find that during the last several tens of years\nthe money out of which you have duped our people, by means of your\ndestructive drug, amounts I know not to how many tens of thousands of\nmyriads. Your ships, which in former years amounted annually to no more\nthan several tens, now exceed a hundred and several tens, which arrive\nhere every year. I would like to ask you if in the wide earth under heaven\nyou can find such another profit-yielding market as this is? Our great\nChinese Emperor views all mankind with equal benevolence, and therefore it\nis that he has thus graciously permitted you to trade, and become as it\nwere steeped to the lips in gain. If this port of Canton, however, were to\nbe shut against you, how could you scheme to reap profit more? Moreover,\nour tea and rhubarb are articles which ye foreigners from afar cannot\npreserve your lives without; yet year by year we allow you to export both\nbeyond seas, without the slightest feeling of grudge on our part. Never\nwas imperial goodness greater than this! Formerly, the prohibitions of our\nempire might still be considered indulgent, and therefore it was that from\nall our ports the sycee leaked out as the opium rushed in: now, however,\nthe Great Emperor, on hearing of it, actually quivers with indignation,\nand before he will stay his hand the evil must be completely and entirely\ndone away with.' But these denunciations are not unmingled with\nincitements to fear in another direction: 'You are separated from your\nhomes by several tens of thousands of miles, and a ship which comes and\ngoes is exposed to the perils of the great and boundless ocean, arising\nfrom curling waves, contrary tides, thunders and lightnings, and the\nhowling tempest, as well as the jeopardy of crocodiles and whales!\nHeaven's chastisements should be regarded with awe. The majesty and virtue\nof our Great Emperor is the same with that of heaven itself! Our celestial\ndynasty soothes and tranquillizes the central and foreign lands, and our\nfavor flows most wide. Our central empire is exuberant in all kinds of\nproductions, and needs not in the slightest degree whatever the goods of\nthe outer seas.' As matters are about proceeding to an open rupture with\nthe 'red-bristled foreigners,' and preparations are making to 'fire upon\nthem with immense guns,' there ensues a bit of Chinese diplomacy, which is\nespecially rich. After a long interview by a committee with the _Chefoo_,\nduring which all sorts of arguments are urged upon Snow, the American\nConsul, and VAN BASEL, the Netherlands Consul, to induce them to sign a\n'duly-prepared bond,' that none of their countrymen shall thenceforth\nbring opium to China, the audience is suddenly closed with: 'To-morrow the\nChefoo will be at the Consoo-house, and wait from nine till night to\nreceive the bonds. _Now go home and go to bed!_' But enough for the nonce\nof JOHN CHINAMAN. . . . IN alluding to Mr. COLE'S graphic account of the\n_Ascent of Mount AEtna_, in our last issue, we spoke of its late eruption.\nWhile reading the proof of that portion of our 'Gossip,' a friend handed\nus a letter lately received from an American missionary lady at the\nSandwich Islands, from which we extract the subjoined vivid description of\nthe great volcano at Hawaii: 'You know,' says the writer, 'something, I\nsuppose, of the geological character of this island. It seems as though a\nvast crater had boiled over and poured its fiery liquid in every\ndirection. This lava, having cooled and hardened, forms the basis of the\nisland. The district of Kau is a rich, luxuriant spot, surrounded by\ndesolate fields of scoriae, which renders it difficult of access. We are\nsituated six miles from the sea, sufficiently elevated to give us a\ncommanding view of its vast expanse of waters. We can occasionally spy a\nsail floating like a speck on its surface. From the shore, the country\ngradually rises into a range of verdant mountains, whose summits appear to\ntouch the clouds. Proceeding northward toward Hilo, there is a gradual\nrise, until you reach the Great Volcano, about six miles distant. In\nmaking the tour to Hilo, we camped here the second night, on the brink of\nthe burning gulf. Suppose a vast area of earth, as large as the bay of\nNew-York, to have fallen in to the depth of several thousand feet. At the\nbottom of this great cauldron, you behold the liquid fire boiling and\nbubbling up, partly covered with a thick black scum. There are two or\nthree inner craters, which have been formed by the lava cooling on its\nsides while the liquid sunk below. The gentlemen mostly descended into\nthis crater, but I was fully satisfied with a look from above. The earth\nis cracked all around at the top, and portions of it are continually\nfalling in. Steam issues from open places in all the region. This volcano\nhas been in action from time immemorial, as the natives all assert, and\nhas been with them an object of idolatrous worship. The range of mountains\ncontinues for some thirty miles beyond this, and terminates in the\nsnow-capped summit of Mounadoa. This mountain is in full sight at Hilo,\nand about thirty miles distant. Since we have been here it has been the\nscene of the most wonderful volcanic eruptions ever yet seen on this\nisland. Mr. P----, in company with Mr. C----, visited it a week or two\nsince, and ascended the mountain to the old crater, from whence the flood\nof lava proceeded. Fire has not been seen in it within the remembrance of\nthe oldest natives. An immense river of burning lava is at this time\nrunning down the side of the mountain, in a subterraneous channel, from\nthree to four miles wide. They had a good view of it through air-holes in\nthe lava, over which they were walking, which was like a sea of glass;\nfrequently sinking in different places in consequence of the intense heat\nbelow. It will probably yet find its way to the surface somewhere, and,\nlaying prostrate every thing that opposes it, pursue its devastating\ncourse to the sea. Truly we live in a world of wonders!' . . . BY the by,\nspeaking of volcanos: it will be remembered that in 1831 an island was\nthrown up by volcanic eruption in the Mediterranean sea, off the south\ncoast of Sicily. It presented the form of a round hill, about one hundred\nand twenty feet above the sea's level, with thick clouds of white smoke\nissuing from it. As may well be imagined, it excited great wonder and\ncuriosity, and was visited by vast numbers of people. An Austrian, a\nFrench and a British vessel met there at the same time. A dispute arose as\nto what power the island should belong, what it should be named, etc.;\nwhen a British sailor leaped on shore, and planted on the topmost peak the\nunion-jack. Nine cheers proclaimed Britannia victorious. On returning\nshortly after, to take another look at their newly-acquired possession,\nthey found to their dismay that, like Aladdin's palace, the island had\ndisappeared, leaving the Mediterranean as smooth as if the magic wonder\nhad never reared its head! This circumstance suggested the following lines\nby a correspondent:\n\n  FATHER NEPTUNE, one day, as he traversed the seas,\n  Much wanted a spot to recline at his ease:\n  For long tossed and tired by the billow's commotion,\n  ''Tis a shame,' cried the god, 'I'm confined to the ocean.\n  I'll have an island!' To VULCAN he flew,\n  Saying, 'Help me this time, and in turn I'll help you.\n  To make a new island's an excellent scheme;\n  And I think, my dear VULCAN, we'll raise it by steam.'\n  'Agreed!' cried the god.\n                            Straight to work they repair,\n  And throw an abundance of smoke in the air.\n  This mariners saw, and it did them affright;\n  They straightway concluded all could not be right.\n  'We'll to Sicily repair, and appeal to powers civil,\n  For certainly this is the work of the devil!'\n  The Austrians and French came the wonder to view:\n  Said Britain, in anger, 'That isle's not for you!\n  For us, us alone, did Britannia design it,\n  And, d' ye see, we'll be d----d if we ever resign it!\n  On that island we'll land! there our standard we'll raise!\n  We will there plant our jack, if the island should blaze!'\n\n  The gods, in great wrath, heard all this contention:\n  'Dear NEPTUNE,' said VUL., 'this has spoiled our invention.'\n  'It has,' said the god, 'but, I swear by my trident,\n  The proud sons of Britain shall never abide on 't!\n  It was raised for a god, and no vile worthless mortal\n  On that island shall dwell, to eat oysters and turtle.\n  Down! down with it, VUL., that will best end the quarrel,\n  And I'll be content with my old bed of coral.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'MILK FOR BABES,' an elaborately-concocted satire upon a certain class of\n'learned and pious hand-books for urchins of both sexes,' is not without\nhumor, and ridicules what indeed in some respects deserves animadversion.\nWe affect as little as our correspondent what has been rightly termed 'a\nclumsy fumbling for the half-formed intellect, a merciless hunting down of\nthe tender and unfledged thought,' through the means of 'instructive'\nlittle books, wherein an insipid tale goes feebly wriggling through an\nunmerciful load of moral, religious and scientific preaching; or an\napparently simple dialogue involves subjects of the highest difficulty,\nwhich are chattered over between two juvenile prodigies, or delivered to\nthem in mouthfuls, curiously adapted to their powers of swallowing. 'The\nminor manners and duties,' says our correspondent, 'are quite overlooked\nby misguided parents now-a-days;' and this he illustrates by an anecdote:\n'THOMAS, my son,' said a father to a lad in my hearing, the other day,\n'won't you show the gentleman your last composition?' 'I don't want to,'\nsaid he. 'I _wish_ you would,' responded the father. 'I wont!' was the\nreply; 'I'll be goy-blamed if I do!' A sickly, half-approving smile passed\nover the face of the father, as he said, in extenuation of his son's\n_brusquerie_: 'Tom don't lack manners generally; but the fact is, _he's\ngot such a cold, he is almost a fool_!' Kind parent! happy boy! . . . WE\nwould counsel such of our readers as can command it, to secure the perusal\nof '_Hugh Adamson's Reply to John Campbell_,' in the matter of\ninternational copy-right. Mr. CAMPBELL, being a paper dealer, and greatly\nbenefitted in his business by the increased sale of stock consequent upon\nthe influx of cheap republications, is naturally very anxious to prevent\nthe passage of an international copy-right law. As might be anticipated of\nsuch an advocate, his real reasons are all based upon the _argumentum ad\ncrumenam,_ the argument to the _purse_. Mr. ADAMSON, in a few satirical,\nwell-reasoned, sententious paragraphs, has fairly demolished the\nsuperstructure which Selfishness had reared, and exposed the\nmisrepresentations upon which alone the unsubstantial fabric could have\nrested. It is quiet and good-natured, but _cutting_; and will act as an\nantidote to the elaborate sophistry of Mr. CAMPBELL'S ambitious\n_brochure_. . . . WE think we shall publish 'L. D. Q.'s '_Parody_;' but\nshould like him to change the third stanza, which is 'like a mildewed ear,\nblasting its wholesome brothers.' The other verses are capital. One of the\ncleverest modern parodies which we remember, was written in a Philadelphia\njournal, and touched upon some exciting city event, before the Court of\nSessions. It was in the measure of '_The Cork Leg_,' and _ran_ somewhat as\nfollows:\n\n  'The defendant said that it was too bad\n  To be taken up before Judge CON-RAD.\n\n       *     *     *     *     *\n\n  Now Mr. H----, the lawyer, was there,\n  With a pretty good head, but not very much hair,\n  So little, in fact, that a wig he must wear,\n                            Ri tu den u-den a!'\n\nThe parody had the jogging, jolting air of the original, and was replete,\nwe recollect, with whimsical associations. . . . WE shall venture to\npresent here the comments of two most valued friends and contributors,\nupon the performances of two _other_ esteemed friends and favorite\ncorrespondents. Of '_The Venus of Ille_,' the one writes as follows: 'I\nfully sympathise with you in your admiration of this tale, as well as of\n'The Innocence of a Galley-Slave.' I could not in the perusal of them both\nbut feel the vast superiority of the Grecian over the Gothic style. For in\nspite of all the humor and wit and nature and pathos of the DICKENS and\nLEVER school, there is something more of the Gothic and grotesque in their\npaintings than in these pure and unforced limnings of the able Frenchman.\nWhere the ground-work of the tale is of sufficiently bold conception, and\nthe incidents offer hooks enough to hang interest upon, there can be no\ndoubt that this cool style is by far the most effectual in the end. The\nmore strained and heated style of some other modern authors will be very\neffectual for awhile, but the excitement of the reader will flag sooner.\nThe reason is, that too much descriptive and passionate power is expended\non minor portions of the tale; and the enthusiasm of the reader is\npartially exhausted before he comes to the grand catastrophe, where it\nshould be most of all elicited. But writers like WALTER SCOTT, or this\nFrenchman, are self-possessed and meditative in a great portion of their\nwritings; by skilful touches giving the reader every thing necessary for\nhim to know in reference to characters and scenes; and on any great\nemergency their sudden heat carries the reader away captive.' The\nadmiration expressed by our other accomplished friend for the chaste and\ngraceful essays of a still more accomplished correspondent (there is\nnothing like disparagement in this comparison) is widely shared, as we\nhave the best reason to know, by our readers on both sides of the\nAtlantic: 'JOHN WATERS! There is a drab-coated plainness about the name,\nwhich is at the same time _liquid_ and musical; not more liquid and\nmusical, howbeit, than those charming commentaries of his on every variety\nof quaint topic; full of an amiable grace, tinged with the most delicate\nhue of a fine humor; a refined ore drawn from no ordinary mine without\nalloy; like the compositions of SAPPHO, to which an unerring critic has\napplied the expression, [Greek: chruseiotera chrusou]; the very best of\ngold. Doves never bore choicer _billet-doux_ beneath their wings. A\nbeautiful sentiment always touches the heart, though couched in homely\nphrase; but when one knows how to cull from our mother-tongue the most\nexpressive words, and has gained that enviable mastery, making them fall\ninto their own places, and thus become inseparable from the idea, the\nperfection of art is gained. Serve us up these choice _morceaux_ each\nmonth, dear EDITOR; let them not be missed from the generous board, lest\nthe banquet be incomplete. Let me tell you, in passing, that your\ncorrespondent HARRY FRANCO'S tale is a caution to dowagers. Never have I\nencountered such a startling incident on the high seas, out of 'DON JUAN.'\n. . . DID it occur to 'N.' that the change suggested in the mere\ninscription of his epigram, '_Religious Disputation_,' would be entirely\nout of keeping? 'Uniting the circumstances,' as Commissioner LIN would\nsay, would produce such discrepancy as was occasioned lately at a\ndemocratic meeting in one of the western States, where a certain\nresolution in favor of our old friend and correspondent, Gen. CASS, was\nmade to undergo a slight metamorphosis by the substitution of the name of\nMr. VAN BUREN; causing it to read something like this: 'Whereas Gen.\nMARTIN VAN BUREN emigrated to the west from New-Hampshire in early life\nwith his knapsack on his back, and unsheathed his sword in repelling the\nIndians and fighting against the British!' etc. This historical fiction,\nin the antagonistic excitement of the moment, was carried by an almost\nunanimous vote! . . . INVERSION of mere words, or involution of phrase and\nsyntax, let us whisper in the ear of our Troy correspondent, is not a very\ngreat beauty in poetry. His own good thoughts are spoiled by this\naffectation. It requires an artist to employ frequent inversion\nsuccessfully. The opening of the '_Lines on a Bust of Dante_', by Mr. T. W.\nPARSONS, affords a pleasing example in this kind. It is clear and musical:\n\n  'See from this counterfeit of him\n    Whom Arno shall remember long,\n  _How stern of lineament, how grim\n    The father was of Tuscan song_.'\n\nInversion should be naturally suggested, not forced. . . . IT is to be\ninferred, we fear, that the late 'principal editor' of the '_Brother\nJonathan_' does not take it in good part that the new proprietors of that\nnow popular journal saw fit to arrest its rapid decadence, by a removal of\nthe inevitable cause of such a consummation. Lo! how from his distant\ndown-east ambush, with characteristic phrase, he denounces them as\n'cowards' and 'puppies!' Whereupon, in a response appropriately brief, the\n'brave few' of the 'principal editor's' old readers who have 'endured unto\nthe end,' are informed by the new incumbent, that the tabooed ci-devant\nfunctionary 'seems disturbed because he was not suffered to kill the\n'Brother Jonathan' as he had killed every journal in which he was\npermitted to pour out his vapid balderdash. He is a perfect BLUEBEARD\namong newspapers. He no sooner slaughters one, than he manages to get hold\nof another, and butcher that with the same remorseless indifference.' The\neditor adds: 'He once enjoyed the honor of some connection with the 'New\nWorld,' and would have consigned that well-known sheet to the tomb of the\nCapulets, had not the publishers foreseen the danger, and escaped in\nseason.' We merely note these facts, as corroborative of a remark or two\nof our own, in our last issue. . . . '_An Incident in Normandy_', we\nshrewdly suspect, is _not_ 'from the French;' if it be, all that we have\nto say is, that such pseudo-rhapsodists as the writer could never by any\npossibility _love_ nature. The thing is altogether _over-done_. A\nFrenchman's opinion, however, COWELL tells us, should never be taken where\nthe beauties of nature are concerned, _unless they can be cooked_. There\nis another grave objection to the article; which consists in the undue\nfrequency of Italian and French words and phrases, foisted into the\nnarrative. We have a strong attachment to plain, perspicuous _English_.\nOurs is a noble language, a beautiful language; and we hold fully with\nSOUTHEY, who somewhere remarks that he can tolerate a Germanism, for\nfamily sake; but he adds: 'He who uses a Latin or a French phrase where a\npure old English word does as well, ought to be hung, drawn and quartered,\nfor high treason against his mother-tongue.' . . . '_The Song of the New\nYear_, by Mrs. NICHOLS, in a late number,' writes a Boston correspondent,\n'is an excellent production, and a fair specimen of the improved style of\nour occasional American verse. Suppose a book-worm should light on poetry\nof equal merit among FLATMAN'S, FALCONER'S, PRIOR'S, or PARSELL'S\ncollections? Would it not shine forth, think you? Indeed our lady-writers\nare wresting the plume from our male pen mongers unco fast.' 'That's a\nfact.' Mrs. NICHOLS has a sister-poet at Louisville, Kentucky, who has a\nvery charming style and a delicious fancy. A late verse of hers in some\n'_Lines to a Rainbow_,' signed 'AMELIA,' which we encountered at a\nreading-room the other day, have haunted our memory ever since:\n\n  'There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives\n  Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves;\n  When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose,\n  Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose.'\n\nMOORE never conceived a more beautiful simile than this. . . . NUMBER TWO\nof the '_Reminiscences of a Dartmoor Prisoner_' will appear in our next\nissue. We have received from the writer a very interesting and amusing\nmanuscript-volume, filled with patriotic poetry, containing vivid pictures\nof scenes and events in the daily routine of the prison, as well as\nsketches of Melville Island Prison, and reminiscences of striking events\nin the lives of sundry of the prisoners, in the progress of the American\nwar. We shall refer more particularly to this entertaining collection in\nan ensuing number. . . . THE Lines on '_Niagara Falls at Night_' are\nentirely too terrific for our pages. They are almost as 'love-lily\ndreadful' as the great scene itself. 'M.' _must_ 'try again,' that is\nquite certain; and we are afraid, _more_ than once. . . . TU DOCES!\nDoubtless many of our young readers, especially in the country, have often\npondered over the zig-zag hieroglyphics which covered the tea-chests at\nthe village-store, and marvelled what 'HOWQUA,' which was inseparable from\nthese inscriptions, could mean. It was the name of the great Hong\nmerchant, 'the friend of Americans,' who died recently at Canton, at an\nadvanced age, leaving his vast wealth to two sons. Here is an elegy\nwritten upon his death by his brother-merchant TINGQUA, which is now being\nsung about Canton to a dolorous air, accompanied by the _yeih-pa_ and the\n_tchung_, a curious sort of guitar and harp in common use. The elegy\ncomprises a little outline, together with hints and allusions, prettily\nconveyed, of the principal biographical events of HOWQUA'S career, and is\nentitled\n\n    TINGQUA'S TEARS.\n\n    I weep for HOWQUA. He was the friend of my youth. We often rose\n    before day-break, and gazed together at the soft blue clouds round\n    the retiring moon.\n\n    At that time I smiled on HOWQUA. We both grew old together. We\n    often went to the tombs of our fathers, side by side, and thought\n    tenderly of the loving dead.\n\n    Weep friends of the Hong. All friends at home (literally\n    _Celestial_ friends,) and all natives of outside countries weep;\n    weep excessively. For HOWQUA is no more.\n\n    HOWQUA was a fixed man. He had reason. Loving old laws, old\n    customs, and all things long since established as wise, he\n    therefore hated change.\n\n    HOWQUA was very rich. He had no half-thinkers and third-smokers\n    (meaning _no partners_,) and no branch-breakers to his universal\n    tea-dealings.\n\n    Also he had lands for rice and pasture, and to play at ball, and\n    villas, and ponds of fish, and fifteen field-bridges of carved\n    wood gilt, and seven domestic bridges inlaid with ivory birds and\n    dragons.\n\n    Also he had money in the foreign mysteries (probably meaning the\n    _funds_.)\n\n    Also he had doings with several things of great value, and shares\n    of large ship-loads. But never would he touch the hateful\n    opium-trade, after the recent mad insolences.\n\n    Also he had some wives.\n\n    Also the GREAT EMPEROR loved him, though HOWQUA was only as the\n    poorest man before that Yellow Illumination of our day and night.\n\n    The body of my friend was slight, and easily injured; like the\n    outside of people's pocket-watch when she walk against the sun\n    (that is, an injured watch that _goes wrong_.) But my dear friend\n    for whom I shed these tears had a head with many eyes.\n\n    HOWQUA knew what to do with his unnecessary gold. He built a\n    temple to Buddha, and thus made the god a present of 2,000,000\n    dollars, to the excessive delight of his Essence and Image.\n\n    Also, HOWQUA gave 800,000 dollars to assist the ransom of his\n    beloved Canton from the fangs of the late war; to the excessive\n    delight of the Fighting-minded Barbarians.\n\n    Weep, then, for HOWQUA, even as I weep. He was the friend of my\n    youth. Together we grew old, walking toward our fathers' tombs. We\n    might have died together; but it is well that one old friend\n    should be left a little while to weep.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe paper upon '_American Interior and Exterior Architecture_' we are\nquite certain would not have the tendency which the writer contemplates.\nIt would discourage rather than foster that better taste which is gaining\nground among us. In this city, how great have been the improvements in the\nexterior and interior decorations of our dwellings, within the last eight\nyears! We remember the time as it were but yesterday, when the beautiful\nmuslin window-shades, first introduced among us by Mr. GEORGE PLATT, were\nconsidered a luxury of interior decoration--as indeed many of them were.\nBut from these small yet promising beginnings, our accomplished artist has\ngone on, until his extensive establishment is filled with specimens of\nrich and elaborate architectural decorations, for the various styles of\nwhich the reigns of French and English sovereigns have been put under the\nmost liberal contribution. Our wealthy and tasteful citizens have vied\nwith each other in the enriching and beautifying of their mansions; while,\nalso emulous, a kindred class in our sister-cities have laid requisitions\nupon Mr. PLATT'S architectural and decorative genius, (for in him it _is_\ngenius, and of no intermediate order,) which have convinced _him_ at\nleast, that the 'laggard taste' which our correspondent arraigns, is 'not\nso slow' as he seems to imagine. . . . WHO was '_Dandy Jim from\nCaroline_,' of whom every boy in the street is either whistling or\nsinging, and whom we 'have heard spoken of' by musical instruments and\nthat of all sorts, at every party or ball which we have found leisure to\nattend during the gay season? We are the more anxious to glean some\nparticulars touching the origin and history of this personage, because his\nfame is rife among our legislators, and the 'lobby-interest' at Albany; if\nwe may judge from a quatrain before us, which hints at a verbal\npeculiarity of our excellent representative, Alderman VARIAN, whose _v_\nalways takes the form of a _w_, especially in his rendering of a foreign\ntongue; as witness his being 'just on the _qwi-wi-we_ for the capitol,' on\none occasion, and the subjoined versification of another of his Latin\nsentences, with cockney 'wariations:'\n\n  'Then here's a health to WARI-AN,\n  That '_Weni, widi, wici_' man!\n  He talk de grammar werry fine,\n  Like DANDY JIM o' Caroline:\n      For my ole massa tol' me so,' etc.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is in these humane and benevolent days an increasing sympathy in the\npublic mind for a man condemned to 'march sorrowfully up to the gallows,\nthere to be noosed up, vibrate his hour, and await the dissecting-knife of\nthe surgeon,' who fits his bones into a skeleton for medical purposes.\n'There never was a public hanging,' says a late advocate of the abolition\nof capital punishment, 'that was productive of any thing but evil.' There\nis an anecdote recorded of WHITFIELD, however, which seems to refute this\nposition, in at least one instance. This eloquent divine, while at\nEdinburgh, attended a public execution. His appearance upon the ground\ndrew the eyes of all around him, and raised a variety of opinions as to\nthe motives which led him to join in the crowd. The next day, being\nSunday, he preached to a large body of men, women and children, in a field\nnear the city. In the course of his sermon, he adverted to the execution\nwhich had taken place the preceding day. 'I know,' said he, 'that many of\nyou will find it difficult to reconcile my appearance yesterday with my\ncharacter. Many of you will say, that my moments would have been better\nemployed in praying with the unhappy man, than in attending him to the\nfatal tree, and that perhaps curiosity was the only cause that converted\nme into a spectator on that occasion: but those who ascribe that\nuncharitable motive to me are under a mistake. I witnessed the conduct of\nalmost every one present on that occasion, and I was highly pleased with\nit. It has given me a very favorable impression of the Scottish nation.\nYour sympathy was visible on your countenances, and reflected the greatest\nhonor on your hearts: particularly when the moment arrived in which your\nunhappy fellow creature was to close his eyes on this world forever, you\nall, as if moved by one impulse, turned your heads aside and wept. Those\ntears were precious, and will be held in remembrance. How different was it\nwhen the Saviour of mankind was extended on the cross! The Jews, instead\nof sympathizing in his sorrows, triumphed in them. They reviled him with\nbitter expressions, with words even more bitter than the gall and vinegar\nwhich they gave him to drink. Not one of them all that witnessed his\npains, turned the head aside even in the last pang. Yes, there was one;\nthat glorious luminary, (pointing to the sun,) veiled his bright face and\nsailed on in tenfold night!' _This_ is eloquence! Would that we could have\nseen the beaming features, the 'melting eye, turned toward heaven,' which\nindelibly impressed these words upon the heart of every hearer! . . . MANY\nof our readers will doubtless remember the time when Professor J----, the\ncelebrated 'artist in hair,' was flourishing in his glory, and when his\nfame was perhaps as rife in New-York and Boston as that of any man living,\nin his line of art. His advertisements too, so unique in their\ngrandiloquent phraseology, will not soon be forgotten by those who relish\nsuch things. The Professor is not now, as regards worldly prosperity, the\nman he used to be; but his gentlemanly feeling still clings to him, and\nhis pride in his profession is as enthusiastic as ever. We observe by a\nBoston journal that he is once more trying his luck in our eastern\nmetropolis; and this reminds us of an anecdote concerning him. A friend\ntells us that some months since he encountered the professor at a\ncoffee-house, where he was rehearsing to a rather verdant customer the\nformer glories of his professional life. Among other things, 'At one\ntime,' said he, 'I was sent for by express, to go to Philadelphia on\nprofessional business.' 'To do what?' asked his listener. 'To make wigs\nfor the Signers of the Declaration of Independence!' replied J----, with a\npompous air. Now the professor's comrade was not very quick-witted, as we\nhave already hinted, and it did not occur to him at the moment whether the\nsigners were men only of yesterday, or of the last century; and he\nrejoined, in a tone of wonder: 'What! do they _all_ wear wigs?' '_All?_'\nreplied the professor, with a look of mingled piety and triumph; 'why,\nSir, did you ever know a wax-figure to wear its own hair? Men of flesh and\nblood, now-a-days, don't know any better; but the _man of wax_, Sir,\npossesses a truer taste, and always consults the PERRUQUIER!' The relator\nsays it would be impossible to convey an adequate idea of the superb\nmanner in which the last word was uttered; the full round tone, and the\ntonsorial flourish of the right hand, as if it still grasped the magic\nbrush and scissors. . . . THE reader will have gathered from an incidental\nallusion in an article by Mr. GEORGE HARVEY, in our last number, some idea\nof the fervent enthusiasm with which he has studied and copied Nature, in\nher every variety of season and changes of the hour, in executing his\nbeautiful _Landscape Drawings_. We have neither the leisure nor space for\nan _adequate_ notice of these pictures; but being solicitous that our town\nreaders should participate in the great enjoyment which they have afforded\nus, we would direct them to Mr. HARVEY'S exhibition-room at the old Apollo\nGallery, nearly opposite the Hospital, in Broadway. . . . HERE is a\npleasant specimen of an '_Unnecessary Disclaimer_,' for which we are\nindebted to a metropolitan friend: 'A few evenings since, as a gentleman\nwas walking up Broadway, and just as he was crossing the side-walk at the\njunction of White-street, his feet suddenly slipped from under him, his\nhat flew forward with the involuntary jerk, and he measured his length on\nthe side-walk, striking his bare head on the hard ice, till all rang\nagain. At the instant it chanced that a lady and gentleman were just\nemerging from White-street into Broadway, and the prostrate sufferer,\nlying directly across their path, interrupted for a moment their farther\nprogress. He soon recovered his feet, however, and with one hand on his\nnewly-developed bump, and the other on his breast, he turned to the couple\nwhose passage he had impeded, and exclaimed with cool gravity: 'Excuse me;\n_I didn't intend to do it!_' Probably he didn't; at all events, his word\nwas not disputed. . . . MOST likely our readers have not forgotten an\nadmirable satire upon the 'Songs of the Troubadours,' from which we\nextracted some months since the affecting story of 'The Taylzour's\nDaughter.' Something in the same style is '_The Doleful Lay of the\nHonorable I. O. Uwins_,' a gentleman who threw himself away upon a\nbailiff's daughter, to escape from the restraints and pungent odors of a\nsponging-house. The 'whole course of wooing' and the result are hinted at\nin the ensuing lines:\n\n  'There he sate in grief and sorrow,\n    Rather drunk than otherwise,\n  Till the golden gush of morrow\n    Dawned once more upon his eyes;\n  Till the spunging bailiff's daughter,\n    Lightly tapping at the door,\n  Brought his draught of soda-water,\n    Brandy-bottomed as before.\n\n  'Sweet REBECCA! has your father,\n    Think you, made a deal of brass?'\n  And she answered: 'Sir, I rather\n    Should imagine that he has.'\n  UWINS, then, his whiskers scratching,\n    Leer'd upon the maiden's face;\n  And her hands with ardor catching,\n    Folded her in his embrace.\n\n  'La, Sir! let alone--you fright me!'\n    Said the daughter of the Jew:\n  'Dearest! how these eyes delight me!\n    Let me love thee, darling, do!'\n  'Vat is dish?' the bailiff mutter'd,\n    Rushing in with fury wild;\n  'Ish your muffins so vell butter'd\n    Dat you darsh insult ma shild?'\n\n  'Honorable my intentions,\n    Good ABEDNEGO, I swear!\n  And I have some small pretensions,\n    For I am a Baron's heir.\n  If you'll only clear my credit,\n    And a thousand give or so,\n  She's a peeress; I have said it!\n    Don't you twig, ABEDNEGO?'\n\n  'Datsh a very different matter!'\n    Said the bailiff, with a leer;\n  'But you musht not cut it fatter\n    Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear!\n  If you seeksh ma approbation,\n    You must quite give up your rigsh;\n  Alsho, you mosht join our nation,\n    And renounch ta flesh of pigsh.'\n\n       *     *     *     *     *\n\n  At a meeting of the Rabbis,\n    Held about the Whitsuntide,\n  Was this thorough-paced Barabbas\n    Wedded to his Hebrew bride.\n  All his former debts compounded,\n    From the spunging-house he came;\n  And his father's feelings wounded\n    With reflections on the same.'\n\nIt is a very dear marriage for UWINS, for on visiting his father the\nBaron, that incensed nobleman tells the double-dyed apostate never to\ncross his threshold again, and directs JOHN the porter to kick him into\nthe street. The order is anticipated:\n\n  'Forth rushed I. O. UWINS, faster\n    Than all winking, much afraid\n  That the orders of the master\n    Would be punctually obeyed;\n  Sought his club, and there the sentence\n    Of expulsion first he saw:\n  No one dared to own acquaintance\n    With a bailiff's son-in-law.\n\n  Uselessly down Bond-street strutting,\n    Did he greet his friends of yore;\n  Such a universal cutting\n    Never man received before.\n  Till at last his pride revolted;\n    Pale, and lean, and stern, he grew;\n  And his wife REBECCA bolted\n    With a missionary Jew.\n\n  Ye who read this doleful ditty,\n    Ask ye where is UWINS now?\n  Wend your way through London city,\n    Climb to Holborn's lofty brow;\n  Near the sign-post of 'The Nigger,'\n    Near the baked-potato shed,\n  You may see a ghastly figure,\n    With three hats upon his head.\n\n  When the evening shades are dusky,\n    Then the phantom form draws near,\n  And, with accents low and husky,\n    Pours effluvia in your ear;\n  Craving an immediate barter\n    Of your trousers or surtout,\n  And you know the Hebrew martyr,\n    Once the peerless I. O. U.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA friend, in a recent letter to the Editor, thus alludes to the '_National\nIntelligencer_,' one of the ablest and most dignified journals in the\ncountry, and to two of its 'special correspondents:' 'Mr. WALSH, who\nwrites from Paris, seems an incorporation of European literature and\npolitics; and his articles are, in my belief, the most valuable now\ncontributed to any journal in the world. Willis is the lightest and most\nmercurial 'knight of the quill' in all the tournament. It is astonishing\nwith what dexterity, felicity, and grace he touches off the veriest trifle\nof the day, investing the trite with originality, and giving the value of\nwit and poetry to the worthless and the dry. Pity that this brilliant\n'quid nunc' should degenerate into a mere trifling '_arbiter\nelegantiarum_,' and expend his buoyant and ductile genius in the\nindictment of ephemeral paragraphs. His genius, it is true, has little\nsolidity; but if he would rest two or three years on his oars, he might\ncollect the scatterings of wit and poetry, which would in that time accrue\nto him from his readings and reflections, into a volume of essays, etc.,\nwhich would be inferior in brilliancy and piquancy to but few of any\nnation.' Possibly; but in the mean time, let us advise our friend, Mr.\nWILLIS has the little substantials of every-day life to look after. He\n'pleases to write' frequently and _currente calamo_, because he 'pleases\n_to live_.' Fame is one thing, and can be waited for; there are other\nthings that cannot tarry so well. Mr. WILLIS has 'seen the elephant.' He\nknows that KENNY MEADOWS is not far out of the way in his humorous picture\nof '_The Man of Fame and the Man of Funds_,' wherein a shadowy hand\nprotrudes from cloud-land, holding a pair of steel-yards, to resolve the\ncomparative weight of an appetizing leg-of-mutton, and a huge\nlaurel-wreath. The mutton 'has it' all to nothing, and the wreath 'kicks\nthe beam! . . . PUNCH, up to the latest dates, suddenly makes his\nappearance in our sanctum. Merriest of Merry Andrews, he is ever welcome!\nHis 'COMIC BLACKSTONE,' must be of great service to legal gentlemen. In\nit, among other things, we are enlightened as to the '_Rights of the\nClergy_.' We subjoin a few items: 'An archbishop is a sort of inspector of\nall the bishops in his province; but he does not call them out as an\ninspector would so many policemen, to examine their mitres, and see that\ntheir lawn sleeves are properly starched, before going on duty in their\nrespective dioceses. An archbishop may call out the bishops, just as a\nmilitia colonel may call out the militia.' 'A bishop (_episcopes_) is\nliterally an overseer, instead of which it is notorious that some of them\nare overlookers of their duties, and blind to the state of their diocese,\nthough they call it their see.' 'The duties incumbent on a parson are,\nfirst to act as the incumbent, by living in the place where he has his\nliving. Formerly, a clergyman had what is called the benefit of clergy in\ncases of felony; a privilege which, if a layman had asked for, he would\nhave been told that the authorities would 'see him hanged first.' 'A\ncurate is the lowest grade in the church, for he is a sort of journeyman\nparson, and several of them meet at a house of call in St. Paul's\nChurch-Yard, ready to job a pulpit by the day, and being in fact\n'clergyman taken in to bait' by the landlord of the house alluded to.'\nConcerning '_Subordinate Magistrates_,' as officers of the customs,\noverseers of the poor, etc., we glean the following information:\n'Tide-waiters are overseers of the customs duties, therefore it is their\nduty to overlook the customs. Custom is unwritten law, and a practice may\nbe termed a custom when it can be proved to have lasted for a hundred\nyears. Now, can any man doubt that the custom of defrauding the customs\nhas endured more than a hundred years? Then the practice has become a law,\nand for observing this law, which, it seems, is one of our time-revered\ninstitutions, and a profitable proof of the wisdom of our ancestors,\nlanding-waiters and tradesmen are to be prosecuted and punished. Monstrous\ninjustice!' 'Overseers of the Poor are functionaries who sometimes\nliterally over-see or over-look the cases of distress requiring\nassistance. The poor law of ELIZABETH has been superseded by a much poorer\nlaw of WILLIAM the Fourth, the one great principle of which is, to afford\nthe luxury of divorce to persons in needy circumstances. It also\ndiscountenances relief to the able-bodied, a point which is effected by\ndisabling, as far as possible, any body who comes into the work-house. The\nPoor Law is administered by three Commissioners, who spend their time in\ndiluting gruel and writing reports; trying experiments how little will\nsuffice to prevent a repeal of the union between the soul and the body.'\nWe have this information concerning the clock heretofore complained of:\n'PUNCH has been accused of hitting this clock very hard when it was down;\nand it certainly must be admitted that it was wholly unable to strike in\nreturn. We are happy to say that the wound has been followed by the clock\nbeing at last wound, and we now offer to take it by the hands in a spirit\nof friendship. We have been told that the long stagnation has been caused\nby the absurd scruples of the pendulum, which refused to go from side to\nside, lest it should be accused of inconsistency.' Under the different\nmonths, 'PUNCH'S Almanack' gives many important directions, one of which\nis for the proprietors of the public gardens: 'Now trim your lamps, water\nyour lake, graft new noses on statues, plant your money-taker, and if the\nseason be severe, _cut your sticks_.' The following '_Tavern Measure_' is\ndoubtless authentic: Two 'goes' make one gill; two gills one 'lark;' two\nlarks one riot; two riots one cell, or station-house, equivalent to five\nshillings.' For office-clerks, as follows: Two drams make one 'go;' two\ngoes one head-ache; two head-aches one lecture; two lectures 'the sack.'\nTo those gentlemen who are lovers of the Virginia weed in its native\npurity, a list of prices, 'furnished by one of the first _Spanish_\nhouses,' is published. It includes 'choice high-dried dock-leaf regalias,'\n'fine old cabbage Cuba's,' 'genuine goss-lettuce Havana's,' and\n'full-flavored brown-paper Government Manilla's!' Two scraps under the\nhead of '_University Intelligence_' must close our quotations: 'Given the\n_force_ with which your fist is propelled against a cabman, and the\n_angle_ at which it strikes him; required the _area_ of mud he will cover\non reaching the _horizontal plane_.' 'Show the incorrectness of using\n_imaginary quantities_, by attempting to put off your creditors with\nrepeated promises to pay them out of your Pennsylvania dividends.' . . .\nMANY German physicians and surgeons hold that there remains in the brain\nof a decollated head some degree of thought, and in the nerves something\nof sensibility. It is stated by his biographer, that in the case of Sir\nEVERARD DIGBY, executed for a participation in the Gunpowder Plot, the\ntongue pronounced several words after the head was severed from the body.\nAfter the execution of CHARLOTTE CORDAY, also, it is alleged that the\nexecutioner held up her lovely head by its beautiful hair, and slapped the\npale cheeks, which instantly reddened, and gave to the features such an\nexpression of unequivocal indignation, that the spectators, struck by the\nchange of color, with loud murmurs cried out for vengeance on barbarity so\ncowardly and atrocious. 'It could not be said,' writes Dr. SUE, a\nphysician of the first eminence and authority in Paris, 'that the redness\nwas caused by the blow, since no blow can ever recall any thing like color\nto the cheeks of a corpse; beside, this blow was given on one cheek, and\nthe other equally reddened.' Singular facts. Do they not militate against\ncertain theories of 'nervous sensation' recently promulgated in our\nphilosophical circles? . . . DOESN'T it sicken you, reader, to hear a\nyoung lady use that common but horrid commercial metaphor, '_first-rate?_'\n'How did you like CASTELLAN, last evening, Miss HUGGINS?' '_Oh,\nfirst-rate!_' 'When a girl makes use of this expression,' writes an\neastern friend, 'I mutter inly,' 'Your pa' sells figs and salt-fish, I\nknow he does.' And it is all very well and proper, if he _does_; but for\nthe miserable compound itself, pray kill it dead in your Magazine! Hit it\nhard! By the by, talking of odd phrases, hear this. A young Italian friend\nof mine, fresh from Sicily as his own oranges, a well-educated, talented\nperson, who has labored hard to get familiar with English letters, and has\nread our authors, from CHAUCER downward, dilated thus on the poets: 'PO-PE\nis very mosh like HORACE; I like him very mosh; but I tink BIR-RON was\nvery sorry poet.' 'What!' quoth I, 'BYRON a sorry poet! I thought he was a\nfavorite with Italians?' 'Oh, yes; I adore him very mosh; I almost do\nadmire him; but he was very _sorry_ poet.' 'How so? BYRON a sorry bard?'\n'Oh, yes, very sorry; don't you think so? _molto triste_--very\nmel-_an_-choly; don't you find him so? I always feel very sorry when I\nread him. I think he's far more sorry than PETRARCA; don't you?' This will\nremind the reader of the very strong term used by a Frenchman, who on\nbeing asked at a soiree what was the cause of his evident sadness,\nreplied: 'I av just hear my fader he die: _I_ am ver' mosh _dissatisfied!_'\n. . . WE shall _probably_ find a place for the paper entitled '_Foreigners\nin America_.' The writer touches with a trenchant pen upon 'the social\nabuses which the first families in the metropolis tolerate at the hands of\ndisreputable exquisites and titled rascals.' Nervous words, but not\nundeserved. 'How much more rapidly a fashionable foreigner will move in\nthe high road of preferment than one of your thinking, feeling, complex\npersons, in whom honor, integrity and reason make such a pother that no\nstep can be taken without consulting them!' . . . WE have indulged in one\nor two sonorous guffaws, and several of Mr. COOPER's 'silent laughs,' over\nthe following 'palpable hit' from a New-Jersey journal: 'A\ntalking-machine,' says the 'Newton Herald,' 'which speaks passable French,\ncapital English, and choice Italian, is now to be seen at New-York. It is\nmade of wood, brass, and gum-elastic.' 'A similar machine,' adds the\n'Sussex Register,' 'compounded of buckram, brass, and soap-locks, and\nfamiliarly called 'GREEN JOSEY,' is to be seen in Newton, at the Herald\noffice; though we cannot say that it speaks _any_ language 'passably.' It\nfrequently makes the attempt, however, and here is one of its last\n'essays:' 'Gov. GILMER is understood to have had a standing CART-BALANCE\nfor any appointment under the present administration, which he might\nchoose to _except_; but he will not _except_ an appointment of any kind\nunder this administration.' Isn't that 'standing _cart-balance_' rich? The\nusual phrase _carte-blanche_, which in the sentence quoted might be\nrendered by 'unconditional offer,' is transmogrified into _cart-balance_!\nAmong all the blunders perpetrated by conceited ignorance in its attempts\nto _parley-voo_, this stands unequalled. We have seen _hic jacet_ turned\ninto _his jacket_, in an obituary; that was a trifle; but CART-BALANCE\novercomes our gravity!' So it does ours. The anecdote, to adopt the\nreading of a kindred accomplished linguist whom we wot of, is a 'capital\n_jesus-de-sprit!_' . . . THE beginning of 'L.'s '_Stanzas_' is by no means\nunpromising; but what a 'lame and impotent conclusion!'\n\n  'Lord HOWE he went out,\n   And LORD! how he came in!'\n\nThe third verse would do credit to STREET, so graphic and poetical are the\nrural images introduced; but it runs into the fourth, a stanza 'most\ntolerable, and not to be endured.' Our young friend may be assured that we\nshall _not_ 'regard with indifference' any thing from his pen that may\nfulfil the _promise_ of the lines to which we allude. Na'theless, he must\n'squeeze out more of his whey.' . . . THE admirers of one of the most\npopular contributors that this Magazine ever enjoyed, will be glad to meet\nwith the following announcement:\n\n    'BURGESS, STRINGER AND COMPANY, corner of Broadway and Ann-street,\n    New-York, have in press the Literary Remains of the late WILLIS\n    GAYLORD CLARK, including the _Ollapodiana Papers_, with several\n    other of his Prose Writings, not less esteemed by the public;\n    including also his '_Spirit of Life_,' a choice but comprehensive\n    selection from his Poetical Contributions to the Literature of his\n    Country; together with a Memoir: to be edited by his twin-brother,\n    LEWIS GAYLORD CLARK, Editor of the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine. The\n    publishers do not consider it necessary for them to enlarge upon\n    the character of the writings which will compose the above volume.\n    The series of papers under the title of _Ollapodiana_ will be\n    remembered with admiration and pleasure, by readers in every\n    section of the United States. Their rich variety of subject; their\n    alternate humor and pathos; the one natural, quiet, and\n    irresistibly laughable; the other warm from the heart, and\n    touching in its tenderness and beauty; won for them the cordial\n    and unanimous praise of the press throughout the Union, and\n    frequent laudatory notices from the English journals.\n    Reminiscences of early days; expositions of the Ludicrous and the\n    Burlesque, in amusing Anecdote; Limnings from Nature; and 'Records\n    of the Heart,' were among their prominent characteristics. It is\n    not too much to say of the other Prose Writings which the volume\n    will contain, that although of a somewhat different character,\n    they are in no respect inferior to the _Ollapodiana_, in their\n    power to awaken and sustain interest. The _Poetical Writings_ of\n    Mr. CLARK are too well known to require comment. They have long\n    been thoroughly established in the national heart, and have\n    secured for the writer an enviable reputation abroad.'\n\nThe work will be embraced in four numbers, of ninety-six~pages each,\nstereotyped upon new types in the best manner, and printed upon fine white\npaper; and the price will be but twenty-five cents for each number. Need\nwe ask the interest of our friends, of the friends of the Departed, in\nbehalf of the volume in question? . . . THE ITALIAN OPERA, at Sig. PALMO'S\nnew and beautiful temple in Chambers-street, has taken the town captive.\n_I Puritani_ was first produced, and to overflowing houses at each\nrepresentation. _Belisario_ is now running a similar successful career. We\nshall have occasion in our next to advert more at large to this very\npopular establishment, and to notice in detail the _artists_ (with and\nwithout the _e_) who compose its prominent attractions. . . . SINCE the\ndirection given by an afflicted widow to some humane persons who had found\nthe body of her husband in a mill-race, full of eels, 'Take the eels up to\nthe house, and _set him again_!' we have seen nothing more affecting than\nan anecdote of a widower at St. Louis, who, on seeing the remains of his\nlate wife lowered into the grave, exclaimed, with tears in his eyes:\n'Well, I've lost sheep, and I've lost cows, but I never had any thing to\ncut me up like this!' As CARLYLE says, 'his right arm, and spoon, and\nnecessary of life' had been taken away, and he could not choose but weep.\n. . . THE typographical error to which our Natchez friend alludes was\ncorrected in some two or three thousand sheets; hence we dispense with his\ntrifling errata. 'I remember a clergyman in New-England,' once wrote an\naccomplished contributor to us, 'that when 'the rains descended and the\nfloods came and the winds blew,' carried away in the pulpit in the height\nof his ardor the wrong house, and left that _standing_ that was built upon\nthe sand. After the service was over I ventured to observe to my uncle,\nParson C----, (whose assistant had been preaching) that this seemed to be\na new reading to the parable, and that I wondered when Mr. A---- had\ndiscovered his error, as he did at the time of re-iteration, that he did\nnot correct it. My uncle defended his curate, and observed that if he had\n_then_ corrected himself, he would have carried away _both_ houses, which\nwas utterly in opposition to all Scripture. Part of the audience, said he,\nwere asleep; and many of the rest so drowsy that, so long as one of the\nhouses was taken off, the moral was enforced upon their perceptions as\nwell by the one as the other. If he had made a _thorough_ correction, he\nwould have roused the attention of the whole parish, and nothing else\nwould have been talked of for nine days. When a man has made an error he\nhad better let other people make a discovery; and this truth, my lad, said\nhe, you will understand better when you grow up.' Let us conclude with an\nexpression of great force and newness: 'Comment is unnecessary.' . . .\n'T.N.P.'s article, as he will perceive, is anticipated by the initial\npaper in the present number. How does he like the new definition of\nTranscendentalism: _Incomprehensibilityosityivityalityationmentnessism_?'\nTo us, it seems 'as clear as mud!' . . . THE graceful 'penciller' of the\n'_New Mirror_' weekly journal copies the beautiful '_Lines to a Cloud_'\nfrom our January number, with the remark: 'This BRYANT-like, finished and\nhigh-thoughted ('a vile phrase') poetry was written by a young lady of\nseventeen, and is her first published production. She is the daughter of\none of our oldest and best families, resident on the Hudson. If the noon\nbe like the promise of the dawn of this pure intellect, we have here the\nbeginning of a brilliant fame.' We think '_The two Pictures_,' from the\nsame pen, in our February issue fully equal to the fair writer's\n_coup-d'essai_. By the by, it would have been but simple courtesy, as it\nstrikes us, to have given the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine credit for the lines\nin question. . . . NUMEROUS articles in prose and verse are on file for\ninsertion, touching which we shall hope soon to have leisure to advise\nwith the writers by letter.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'AMERICA WELL DEFENDED' would not be inappropriate as a true designation\nof a beautifully printed pamphlet before us, from the press of Mr.\nBENJAMIN H. GREENE, Boston, containing a 'Letter to a Lady in France on\nthe supposed Failure of a National Bank, the supposed Delinquency of the\nNational Government, the Debts of the several States, and Repudiation:\nwith Answers to Inquiries concerning the Books of Capt. MARRYAT and Mr.\nDICKENS.' We have read this production with warm admiration of its calm\nand dignified style, the grouping and invariable _pertinence_ of its\nfacts and arguments; and the absence of every thing which savors of\n_retaliatory_ spirit, in its animadversions upon the misrepresentations of\nthe United States by the English press. Expositions are offered of the\ncharacter of the old United States' Bank, as contradistinguished from the\n'United States' Bank of Pennsylvania;' of the origin and nature of our\npublic debts, national as well as of the separate States, etc. The themes\nof love of money, gravity of manners, of slavery, lynch-law, mobs, etc.,\nare next considered; and the pamphlet concludes with some remarks upon the\nstrength of our government, general results of our experiment, and our\ngrowing attachment to the Union. The author we understand to be Mr. THOMAS\nG. CARY, a distinguished merchant, who has brought the observation and\nknowledge of a _practical_ life in aid of his reasoning, throughout his\npamphlet. It has passed, we are glad to learn, to a speedy second edition;\nand we cannot but hope that it may be re-published in England. It could\nnot fail to produce great good, in the rectification of gross errors in\nrelation to this country.\n\n\nPARLEY'S CABINET LIBRARY.--In this work Mr. GOODRICH proposes to furnish\nthe public with forty numbers, at twenty-five cents each, of biographical,\nhistorical and miscellaneous sketches, designed for the family circle, and\nespecially for youth. The first two numbers consist of the lives of famous\nmen of modern times; as SCOTT, BYRON, BONAPARTE, BURNS, BURKE, GOETHE,\nJOHNSON, MILTON, SHAKSPEARE, BACON, etc. The next two numbers are devoted\nto famous men of ancient times; as CAESAR, HANNIBAL, CICERO, ALEXANDER,\nPLATO, etc. The fifth and sixth numbers contain the 'Curiosities of Human\nNature,' as ZERA COLBURN, CASPAR HAUSER, etc. The seventh and eighth\ncontain the lives of benefactors: as WASHINGTON, FRANKLIN, HOWARD, FULTON,\nBOWDITCH, etc. We notice also, in the biographical series, the lives of\ncelebrated Indians and celebrated women. The historical sketches will\npresent a series of striking pictures, illustrative of the history of the\nfour quarters of the globe. The miscellaneous department will embrace\narts, sciences, manners and customs of nations, a view of the world and\nits inhabitants, etc., etc. The intention of the author is to furnish a\nlibrary of twenty volumes, devoted to the most interesting portions of\nhuman knowledge, with the design of rendering their subjects interesting\nand attractive to the general reader. Several of the numbers are now\nissued; and judging from these, we are happy to give the work our hearty\napprobation. The sketches will not be found to be _mere_ sketches, drawn\nfrom cyclopedias: the author has evidently gone to the original sources,\nand culled with care the most interesting points on each subject. A\ncontemporary expresses surprise that he has been able to say so much that\nis striking, just and new, in so brief a space; a praise in which we fully\nconcur. The work entitled 'Curiosities of Human Nature' is one of the\ndeepest interest, and is calculated to suggest profound reflections as to\nthe capacities of the human mind. The two numbers devoted to the American\nIndians, as well as other volumes, present a good deal of new and curious\nmatter. The life of JETAU, the Indian VOLTAIRE, is very striking. The\nBenefactors will be read with gratification by every one who loves to\ndwell upon the actions of those who have been great in doing good. The\nmoral tendency of these works is excellent, and they may be read with\npleasure as well as profit by old and young. They are happily adapted to\nthe family as well as the school-library; and we are glad to know that\nthey have been adopted for the latter purpose in some of our principal\ncities. They will constitute a wholsome check upon, as well as an\nagreeable substitute for, most of the trashy and pernicious literature\nthat is now so freely poured upon the public. Mr. JOHN ALLEN, at the\noffice of the KNICKERBOCKER, is the agent for this city.\n\n\n'WONDERS OF THE HEAVENS.'--A superb large quarto volume has recently been\nput forth by Messrs. ROBERT P. BIXBY AND COMPANY, entitled, 'The Wonders\nof the Heavens: being a Popular View of Astronomy, including a full\nIllustration of the Mechanism of the Heavens; embracing the Sun, Moon, and\nStars, with descriptions of the planets, comets, fixed stars,\ndouble-stars, the constellations, the galaxy or milky way, the zodiacal\nlight, aurora-borealis or northern-lights, meteors, clouds, falling-stars,\naerolites, etc.; illustrated by numerous maps and engravings.' We cannot\ntoo highly commend this volume to our readers. The author, Mr. DUNCAN\nBRADFORD, has kept constantly in view one object, viz: to make his subject\nplain and interesting to the people. Instead of mingling mathematics with\nhis great theme, to such an extent as to alarm the neophyte at the very\nthreshold of the temple of astronomy, he has with a wise judgment selected\nfrom the best works, including the latest, those parts that were least\nencumbered with the abstruse and the unintelligible; and the illustrations\nserve to make his sublime teachings still more clear.\n\n\nROGERS' POEMS.--We have not seen a more beautiful volume for a twelvemonth\nthan the new illustrated edition of 'Poems by SAMUEL ROGERS, with\nrevisions and additions by the author,' recently issued by Messrs. LEA AND\nBLANCHARD, Philadelphia. It is indeed in all respects an _exquisite_ work;\nbeing printed upon the finest drawing-paper, with a large clear type, and\nillustrated with ten engravings on steel, from paintings by the very first\nartists in England. The volume opens with the 'Pleasures of Memory,' and\ncontains every thing from the author's pen which his maturest\nconsideration has deemed most worthy of preservation. We cordially commend\nthis admirable work to the attention of every reader of the KNICKERBOCKER\nto whom it may be accessible.","title":"The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, March 1844: Volume 23, Number 3","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":61667}