{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_45285/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_45285","id":"gutenberg_45285","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45285","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - European","Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Periodicals","The Knickerbocker"],"text":"THE KNICKERBOCKER.\n\n    VOL. X.     SEPTEMBER, 1837.      NO. 3.\n\n\n\n\nSCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE AND ANTIQUITIES.\n\nNUMBER ONE.\n\n\nTHE predominant taste for the study of ancient literature, and the\ninvestigation of antiquity, has been the means of bringing to light\na vast quantity of matter, which, if written in modern times, would\nhardly be regarded of sufficient value to preserve beyond the age in\nwhich it was written. Elegance of style and composition is not the\ndistinguishing trait in _all_ the Grecian and Roman authors which\nhave come down to us; nor are the subjects of sufficient importance\nto merit a preservation of twenty centuries; although it may be safe\nto say, that these qualities in general constitute the beauty and\nvalue of these writings; for we know that the ancients appreciated\nthe works of their great men, as well as we; and to this we must\nowe their preservation. The philosophy of Plato and Socrates--the\nhistories of Herodotus and Livy--the poetry of Homer and Virgil--the\nmetaphysics of Aristotle--the geometry of Euclid, and the eloquence\nof Cicero and Demosthenes, are not regarded now with more esteem\nthan they were in the period in which they were produced, although\nthe great mass of the people were far behind us in knowledge. Poetry\nand eloquence are as attractive to the senses of a savage, as to him\nwho is civilized; and to this circumstance must be attributed the\npreservation and transmission of many poems, of people who have left\nno other memento of their existence.\n\nThe wisdom of the ancient writers above named, was in advance\nof the age in which they lived, yet they were appreciated; and\nalthough kingdoms have risen and fallen, nations have been scattered\nand annihilated, and language itself become corrupted or lost,\nthese memorials of learning and genius have been preserved, amid\nthe general devastation, and still appear in all their original\nbeauty and grandeur, more imperishable than the sculptured column\nor trophied urn; models for nations yet unborn, and drawing forth\nthe admiration of the most accomplished scholars and profound\nphilosophers.\n\nIn addition to these, we possess many valuable histories, learned\ndissertations, poetical effusions, specimens of the early drama,\netc., which, although they may rank lower in their style of\ncomposition, are valuable from the light they throw upon the manners\nand customs of the age in which they were penned, and make us better\nacquainted with the private life, the tastes and occupations, of the\nancients.\n\nThus much may be said of the Greek and Roman people. Their origin,\ntheir history, and their literature, are known in all civilized parts\nof the world; and from the downfall of their respective kingdoms to\nthe present time, we are tolerably well acquainted with the leading\nevents of the history of their descendants, in the modern nations\nof the south of Europe. Not so with the Teutonic people, who occupy\nthe middle and northern parts of that continent. The glory of their\nancestors has never been immortalized; no poet or historian arose\nto transmit to posterity an account of their origin, or the fame\nof their deeds, as letters were first known to the Goths in A. D.,\n360. It is not the intention, in the present essay, to illustrate\nthe literature of the Germanic nations, but to take up that portion\nembraced in the general term of _Scandinavian_, which embraces the\nliterature of Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Iceland. It is also known\nby the term _Old-Northern_ or _Norse_, and as _Icelandic literature_.\nIt is embodied in the Eddas and Historical Sagas as they are called,\nin the countries of the north. The former consists of collections of\nIcelandic poems, written upon parchment, or skins, in the language of\nthat country; and the latter, which include the most important part,\nare relations of historical events which have occurred in Iceland and\nother countries of the north, including Great Britain and Ireland.\nThey also extend to the affairs of Greenland, which we know was\ncolonized by the Scandinavians at an early period, and to accounts of\nvoyages made by them to an unknown land, called Vinland--supposed to\nbe America--and to various parts of Europe.\n\nSuch are the sources of Scandinavian literature. But before we\nattempt to examine these treasures, which form the subject of our\nremarks, it may be well to ask the question, which naturally arises\nhere: Who were this ancient people, who, from the earliest period,\nhave occupied the north of Europe? Whence came they? And to what\nnation of more remote antiquity is their origin to be traced?\n\nTo answer these questions satisfactorily, would be a task as easily\naccomplished, as that of stating with accuracy the origin of the\nEgyptians. Several learned writers, of ancient as well as modern\ntimes, have investigated the subject, without arriving at conclusions\nwhich would agree in the most important points; and strange as it\nmay appear, it is not the less true, that we are better able, after\na lapse of ten or fifteen centuries, to determine the origin of\nthe people by whom Europe was populated, about the period of the\ncommencement of the Christian era, than writers were who flourished\nten centuries ago. At that period, the most noble of inventions had\nnot been brought to light, to treasure up passing events, and what\nhad been preserved by tradition. Letters were not cultivated in\nEurope, and the intercourse between nations of kindred origin was not\nsufficiently close, to have promoted such an inquiry.\n\nThe cultivation and advancement of the science of philology, or\nsystem of universal grammar, has furnished us with a more unerring\nguide by which to trace the origin of the nations of antiquity,\nwhere sufficient of their languages remain, than history itself; for\nthe latter, being in a great degree traditionary, cannot be relied\nupon, when treating of the origin of nations. The primitive history\nof the Scandinavians, Romans, Greeks, Egyptians, and Hindoos, are\nso interwoven with their mythology, that it is extremely difficult\nto separate truth from fiction. In analyzing the various European\nlanguages, on the principles adopted by philologists, we are enabled\nto trace the affinities existing between them; and by a similarity\nof grammatical structure, correspondence of words and phrases, and\nanalogies in the conjugations of verbs and declensions of nouns, to\nclassify the various languages, and ascertain from what family or\nstock they are derived. All the living languages of Europe, with\nthe exception of the Biscayan, or Basque, and the Ga\u00eblic, have been\ntraced to Asia, and to languages which were spoken by the most\nancient people of which we have any record. It is now conceded,\nthat the Celts were one, if not the principal, of the primitive\nnations of Europe, distinguished by different names in different\ncountries. The earliest historians of Europe agree, that they were,\nin a remote period, settled in various parts of that continent--in\nthe mountainous regions of the Alps, and throughout Gaul, whence\nthey migrated to Great Britain and Ireland, and to the central and\nwestern regions of Spain. At a later period, they inundated Italy,\nThrace, and Asia Minor. 'The Hibernians,' says Malte Brun, 'are an\nold branch of the same people; and, according to some authors, the\nHighlanders of Scotland are a colony of the native Irish. The _Erse_,\nor Ga\u00eblic, is the only authentic monument of the Celtic language; but\nit may be readily admitted, that a nation so widely extended must\nhave been incorporated with many states whose dialects are at present\nextinct.'[1]\n\nAnother primitive nation was the ancestors of the Basques, a people\nnow dwindled to a few thousands, and confined to the western base of\nthe Pyrenees. They were closely allied to the Iberians, who occupied\neastern and southern Spain, and a part of Gaul. In the remnant of\nthis people is preserved one of the most remarkable languages that\nphilologists have ever yet investigated, exhibiting undoubted marks\nof originality. 'It is preserved in a corner of Europe, the sole\nremaining fragment of perhaps a hundred dialects, constructed on the\nsame plan, which probably existed, and were universally spoken, at a\nremote period, in that quarter of the globe. Like the bones of the\nmammoth, and the shells of unknown fishes, the races of which have\nperished, it remains a frightful monument of the immense destruction\nproduced by a succession of ages. There it stands, single and alone,\nof its kind, surrounded by idioms whose modern construction bears no\nkind of analogy to it.'[2]\n\nThe south of Europe was occupied by the Etruscans, or Etrurians,\nwhose splendid monuments alone remain to perpetuate their existence;\nalso by the Ausonians, and the Osci. In the east of Europe, we know\nof no other primitive people than the Thracians, which, however, may\nhave included others of less note. They are spoken of by all the\nearly historians, but of their language, no traces are known to exist.\n\nThe north of Europe now alone remains. This part of the continent\nwhich embraces Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and the north of Germany, was\noriginally inhabited by the Goths or Scandinavians; some writers\nusing the former, and others the latter, to distinguish them. Under\nwhatever name they have been known, they have filled so important a\nplace in history, that they deserve more than a passing notice.\n\n'In the beginning of the sixth century,' says Gibbon, 'and after the\nconquest of Italy, the Goths, in the possession of present greatness,\nvery naturally indulged themselves in the prospect of past and future\nglory. They wished to preserve the memory of their ancestors, and to\ntransmit to posterity their own achievements. The principal minister\nof the Court of Ravenna, the learned Cassiodorus, qualified the\ninclination of the conquerors in a Gothic history, which consisted of\ntwelve books, now reduced to the imperfect abridgment of Jornandes.\nThese writers passed, with the most artful conciseness, over the\nmisfortunes of the nation, celebrated its success, and adorned the\ntriumph with many Asiatic trophies, that more properly belonged to\nthe people of Scythia. On the faith of ancient songs, the uncertain\nbut the only memorials of barbarians, they deduced the first origin\nof the Goths from the vast island or peninsula of Scandinavia.'[3]\n\nNo dependence, of course, can be placed on this history, obtained in\nsuch a manner, and by a people unacquainted with letters. Commencing\non historic ground, as early as the Christian era, and as late as\nthe Antonines, the Goths were established toward the mouth of the\nVistula, and in that fertile province where the commercial cities of\nThorn, Elbing, K\u00f6ningsberg, and Dantzic, were long afterward founded.\nIn the reign of Antonines, the Goths were still seated in Prussia.\nAbout the reign of Alexander Severus, the Roman province of Dacia\nhad already experienced their proximity, by frequent and destructive\ninroads. In this interval, therefore, of about seventy years, Gibbon\nplaces the second migration of the Goths from the Baltic to the\nEuxine.\n\nAnother, and perhaps a more plausible theory, for the origin of\nthe Goths, is that of identifying them with the Thracians. This\ntheory is strongly advocated by Vans Kennedy, who adduces many and\nconclusive arguments in favor of his hypothesis. Then to identify\nthe Scandinavians with the Goths, and their origin is settled. From\nthe time of Herodotus, until the general prevalence of the name of\nGoths, it is undeniable, that the Thracians remained unconquered,\nand that they extended themselves from Macedonia to the Dniester,\nand from the Euxine Sea to the confines of Germany. For, as the Get\u00e6\nare identified by ancient writers with the Thracians, and as neither\nproof nor probability supports the assumption that Thracia was ever\noccupied by either Scythians or Scandinavians, it must necessarily\nfollow, that whatever is predicated of the Get\u00e6, must equally apply\nto the Thracians; and, consequently, if the Get\u00e6 were Goths, the\nGoths were also Thracians. To determine, therefore, the identity of\nthe Get\u00e6 and Goths, it may be remarked, that from Strabo, it appears\nthat the country immediately to the south of the Elbe was inhabited\nby the Suevi; then succeeded the country of the Get\u00e6, which extended\nalong the southern bank of the Danube, and also to the north of that\nriver, as far as the Dniester. The Moesi, likewise, dwelt on both\nbanks of the Danube, and were equally with the Get\u00e6 considered by the\nGreeks to be a Thracian people. The Dacians, also, were a Thracian\npeople.'[4]\n\nIt will be necessary, in the next place, to identify the other\nnations which occupied the interior of Europe from the second to the\nfifth century, with one of the great nations before alluded to, in\norder to arrive at the point in question. The incursions made by the\nbarbarians, as they were called, from the North into Italy, which\neventuated in the overthrow of the Roman empire, have generally been\nattributed to people who crossed the Baltic into Denmark, thence into\nGermany, where, uniting with other tribes, they concentrated their\npower, and established an empire between the Euxine and Adriatic,\non both sides of the Danube. The most distinguished of these German\nnations, as they were called, were the Goths, Vandals, Visigoths,\nand Gepid\u00e6. 'In ancient times,' says Procopius, 'they were called\nSauromat\u00e6 and Melanchl\u00e6ri, and by some the G\u00e6tic nation. They thus\ndiffer from each other in name, but in nothing else; for they are\nall fair, yellow-haired, and good-looking; they observe the same\ninstitutions, and worship the same God, as they are all of the Arian\nsect; and they use the same language, which is called Gothic. It\ntherefore appears to me, that they were all originally the same\nnation.'[5]\n\nThe affinities of language which are so apparent in the languages of\nthe north of Europe and Germany, as well as in Great Britain, do not\nrequire any evidence to prove their identity of origin; and if their\nlanguage was the same, the natural conclusion is, that the people\nwere the same. Gibbon states, that the German nations originally\nemigrated from Scandinavia; but his authority was Jornandes, who\nabridged the history of the Goths, as written by Cassiodorus, before\nalluded to, which is considered as indifferent authority.\n\nAcknowledging the Goths and Scandinavians to be the same, one\noriginated in the other, or each, migrating from the parent stock,\nmust have taken a different course to reach their respective\ncountries. The latter must necessarily have passed around the Gulf of\nBothnia to reach Sweden and Norway, or must have passed to the south\nof the Baltic, through the country of the Goths. The former course\nis altogether improbable, and the latter makes them a branch of the\nGothic nation, which is far the most probable. After quoting numerous\nauthors on this subject, Vans Kennedy comes to the conclusion, that\nfrom the Hellespont the Thracians gradually extended themselves to\nthe shores of the Baltic, and thence to Scandinavia. This hypothesis\nis far the most reasonable, inasmuch as it has support from the\nanalogies of languages; from a close resemblance in the complexion,\ncolor of hair, eyes, etc., and from the testimony of history itself.\nThe Thracians, as before observed, were one of the primitive nations\nof Europe. They are repeatedly noticed by Homer, who speaks of them\nas a numerous and hardy race. Alluding to their country, he says:\n\n    'To where the Mysians prove their martial force,\n    And hardy Thracians tame the savage horse;\n    And where the far-famed Hippomolgian strays,\n    Renown'd for justice and for length of days;\n    Thrice happy race!'\n                               ILIAD, B. XIII., v. 1, p. 13.\n\nThey are afterward spoken of by Herodotus, and subsequently by\nProcopius, from the latter of which we have quoted. As a nation,\nthe Thracians have long been extinct. Even of their language there\nremains no vestige, except what is seen in the Teutonic languages\nat the North; those of the South, of Pelargic origin, are by some\nphilologists derived from the Thracian, inasmuch as the affinities\nof the languages of the north and south of Europe are sufficient\nto deduce them from some earlier language, all traces of which are\nextinct.\n\nThis subject might be carried much farther, by tracing the analogies\nof language which exist between the German and Sanscrit, or between\nthe English and Sanscrit, and of the affinity between the Persian\nand the two European languages named. They are all so striking as to\nplace it beyond a doubt that some connexion existed at a very remote\nperiod of antiquity, between the people by whom these languages are\nspoken. On this point, the great philologist Adelung observes, that\nit has excited the greatest wonder and astonishment. 'The fact is\nundeniable; and the German found in Persian consists not only of a\nremarkable number of radical words, but also in particles, and is\neven observable in the grammatical structure. This circumstance will\nadmit of two explanations, either from a later intermingling of the\ntwo languages, after they were completely formed, or from their both\nbeing derived from the same mother tongue.'[6]\n\nHaving thus traced the Scandinavians to the Thracians, which latter\npeople, from their proximity to Asia, must have preserved parts of\ntheir mother tongue, particularly if that was the Persian or Zend,\nand noticed the remarkable affinity existing, even in our day, in the\nlanguages of Teutonic people (of which the Scandinavians are one) and\nthe Persian, the antiquity of the former, and their descent from one\nof the original nations of Asia, will be sufficiently apparent, to\ntake up the subject which heads this article.\n\nThe early history of the North was traditionary, until the\nintroduction of Christianity, with which Roman letters were also\nintroduced. These were easily adapted to express the various sounds\nof their languages; and being much more convenient and applicable to\nreduce their songs, tales, and histories into, than the characters\nheretofore used, they were soon after embodied in them. The letters\nin use, previous to the introduction of the Roman alphabet, were\nRunic. This alphabet consisted of sixteen letters, which are said to\nbe Phoenician in their origin, and to have been introduced by Odin.\nThey were used to sculpture important events on rocks and monuments,\nmany of which are still found in various parts of the North, as well\nas in Great Britain. In another place, a more particular account\nwill be given of these _Runes_, as they are called, accompanied by\ntranslations.\n\nIt does not appear that the Runic letters had ever been employed to\nmuch extent, on parchment, to record passing events, or to preserve\nthe lays, which memory alone had transmitted from generation to\ngeneration. Like all other people of antiquity, the Scandinavians had\ntheir bards, synonymous with the rhapsodists of Greece. They were\nknown by the name of _Skalds_, and were both poets and historians.\n'They were the companions and chroniclers of kings, who liberally\nrewarded their genius, and sometimes entered the lists with them in\ntrials of skill in their own art. A regular succession of this order\nof men was perpetuated--a list of two hundred and thirty in number,\nof the most distinguished in the three kingdoms of Norway, Denmark,\nand Sweden, among whom are several crowned heads, and distinguished\nwarriors of the heroic age. Canute the Great retained several Skalds\nat his court, among whom was one from Iceland, 'who,' says Snorre\nSturleson, 'having composed a short poem on Canute, went, for the\npurpose of reciting it, to the king, who was just rising from table,\nand thronged with suitors. The impatient poet craved an audience\nfrom the king for his lay, assuring him that it was very short.\nThe wrath of Canute was kindled, and he answered the Skald with a\nstern look: 'Are you not ashamed to do what none but yourself has\ndared--to write a _short_ poem upon me? Unless, by the hour of dinner\nto-morrow, you produce a _drapa_, above thirty strophes long, on the\nsame subject, your life shall pay the penalty.' The inventive genius\nof the poet did not desert him. He produced the required poem, and\nwas liberally rewarded by the king with fifty marks of silver.[7] The\nimprovisatores of modern times forcibly remind us of the northern\nSkalds, who, without the genial skies and classic land of Italy to\nexcite their imagination, produced their lays with equal facility,\nand expressed their ideas, which correspond with the wildness\nand rigidity of the North, as the Italian bards assimilate their\neffusions with the mildness of their climate, and the delightful\nlandscapes with which they were surrounded. Southey thus alludes to\nthem:\n\n        ----'Wild the Runic faith,\n    And wild the realms where Scandinavian chiefs\n    And Skalds arose, and hence the Skald's strong verse\n    Partook the savage wildness.'\n\nThe most important part of Old Northern, or Icelandic literature, is\nthat contained in the _Sagas_. Of these there are vast quantities\nstill in a high state of preservation, not less than two thousand\nof them being in the collection of the Royal Society of Northern\nAntiquaries. They are written upon skins, in dialects of the\nScandinavian languages. The greater portion, however, are in the\nIcelandic text; others are in the Faroe, Orkney, and Norwegian\ndialects. One of the most noble and praiseworthy undertakings of the\npresent day, is that of the society alluded to, which contemplates\nthe examination, elucidation, and immediate publication, of these\nvaluable manuscripts. They have already advanced to a considerable\nextent in the accomplishment of their object. The first and most\nimportant collection of the Saga manuscripts, was that made by\nArne Magnusen, a learned Icelander, who died in 1730. He collected\none thousand five hundred and fifty-four of them, and by his will\nbequeathed a large sum for their publication. This fund led Professor\nRafn, in connection with Brynjulfon, Egilson, and Gudmunsson, of\nIceland, to found a society for the publication of the old Norse\nmanuscripts, which society is the one referred to, having the King of\nDenmark for its patron and founder, and embracing among its members\nmost of the learned men of the north of Europe. In addition to the\nbequest of Arne Magnusen, a large fund has been formed, contributed\nby the king and other noble and public-spirited individuals of\nDenmark, Sweden, Norway, Germany, Great Britain, and Iceland, for the\nfurther prosecution and investigation of old northern Archaeology,\nand Scandinavian antiquities generally. 'The ancient literature of\nthe North,' to quote the language of a letter from the society,\n'in point of extent, has not without reason been compared to the\nliterary remains of Greece and Latium, and which is indisputably of\ndecided importance to the antiquarians, historians, lawyers, and\nphilologists of Europe and America.' It is gratifying to observe,\nthat this enterprise has already begun to excite an interest, not\nonly within the limited territory of Denmark, or of Scandinavia,\nwhere the resources for so extensive an undertaking are too scanty,\nbut also in several countries beyond the limits of northern Europe,\nwhose scholars share with us in the sentiment, that such literary\nundertakings ought not to be confined within political boundaries,\nbut, on account of their extensive tendency, have also a claim to\nactive participation from other countries; since without it they\ncannot meet with the requisite development, nor become of that\nutility to literature and science for which they are intended, and of\nwhich they are susceptible. In order more fully to carry into effect\nthe plans of this society, the c\u00f6operation of several of the most\neminent antiquarians and literary men of Great Britain and the United\nStates has been solicited, to which they will, no doubt, readily\naccede.\n\nThe Saga literature, which was cultivated to so great an extent in\nthat distant and isolated spot, while all Europe was in a state of\ndarkness, had a great influence in civilizing and promoting the\ncultivation of letters throughout the north of Europe. The Icelanders\nwere a maritime people, inheriting their love of commerce and\nadventure from the hardy Scandinavians who planted their colony.\nTheir continued intercourse with the coast of Norway led them to seek\nadventures elsewhere. The Faroe Islands, the Orkneys, Great Britain,\nand Ireland, were visited, and a continued trade kept up between\nthem. The two former were Scandinavian colonies, and spoke a dialect\nof the ancient language.\n\nWith the introduction of Christianity into the North, the later\nLatins, Gothic characters of the Anglo-Saxons, came into general use;\nand to this we owe the transcripts, made chiefly in Ireland, of the\nsagas and poetry of the pagan times of the North, and also of the\nnorthern history during the middle ages. These sagas are divided\ninto four classes, the mythic, mythico-historical, historical, and\nromantic.\n\nThe volumes already published, are the following: Foramanna S\u00f6gur,\neleven volumes; Oldnordiske Sag\u00e6r, eleven volumes; Scripita Historica\nIslandorum, six volumes. These contain historical sagas, recording\nevents which transpired on the continent; a history of the Norwegian\nkings from Olaf Fryggvuson to Magnus, Lagab\u00e6ta, embracing a long\nperiod of years, and terminating in the year 1274; the history\nof the Danish kings, from Harold Bluetooth to Canute VI., or the\nperiod between the middle of the tenth and the commencement of the\nthirteenth centuries, with critical notes and commentaries on the\nnarrations and sagas of several northern writers.\n\n_Iselendinga S\u00f6gur_, two volumes, contains the historical sagas,\nrecording events which have transpired in Iceland; giving also a\nparticular account of the first colonization of the island, in\nIcelandic.\n\n_Fa\u00ebreyinga Saga_, or the History of the Inhabitants of the Faroe\nIslands; in Icelandic, the Faroe-dialect, and Danish. _Fornaldar\nS\u00f6gur Nordrlanda_, three volumes; _Nordiske Fortids Sag\u00e6r_, three\nvolumes. The latter six volumes comprise all the _mytho-historical\nsagas_, recording events in the North, assignable to the period\nanterior to the colonization of Iceland, or the era of authentic\nhistory; in Icelandic and Danish.\n\n_Krakumal sive Epicedium Ragnaris Lodbroci_, or Ode on the Heroic\nDeeds and Death of the Danish King, Ragnar Lodbrok, in England; in\nIcelandic, Danish, Latin, and French.\n\nThese publications will give some idea of the extent, variety, and\ninterest, of the manuscripts in the possession of this society, and\nof the light which, in all probability, many of them will throw upon\nthe hitherto unsettled points of English, Scottish, and Irish history.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] MALTE BRUN's Geography, vol. VI., p. 77.\n\n[2] MR. DUPONCEAU's Report to the Hist. and Lit. Comm. of the\nAmerican Phil. Soc., p. 11.\n\n[3] Gibbon's Roman Empire, vol. I., p. 387.\n\n[4] Researches into the Origin and Affinity of the Principal\nLanguages of Europe, and Asia, p. 142.\n\n[5] PROCOPIUS in Bell. Van., lib. I., c. 2.\n\n[6] ADELUNG's, Mithridates, vol. I., p. 277.\n\n[7] WHEATON'S Hist. of the Northmen, p. 51, _et seq._\n\n\n\n\nANACREONTIC.\n\n\n    I.\n\n    WILT thou then leave me, ere the hurrying hours\n      Have yet gone by, when sleepless souls should meet?\n    Wilt thou then leave me, when in these still bowers,\n      Time lingers, wrapt in joys so wildly sweet?\n    Oh, break not thus away, with trembling spirit,\n      Nor deem a converse so delightful, wrong;\n    Ah me! the hours of joy we now inherit,\n      Have never yet been known to linger long.\n\n    II.\n\n    Haste not away so soon--a while remaining,\n      Some newer bliss, unknown, shall touch the heart;\n    Ah me! thy own unto my bosom straining,\n      If like me thou didst love, we should not part.\n    Thou still wouldst pause, and with a fond affection,\n      Re-clasp the hands, unite the lips that burn,\n    And when in fear thou break'st the sweet connection,\n      Return and linger, linger and return.\n\n                                            G. B. SINGLETON.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMERICAN WILD ROSE.\n\n    A recent English writer says: 'The rose is a flower entirely\n    unknown to the new world.'\n\n\n    FAIR flower! the opening of whose breast\n    Of fragrance, on the soft south-west,\n    Speaks sweet to me, in mem'ries dear--\n    All that calls up affection's tear;\n    I love thy heart-leaf'd single cup,\n      Soft blushing with the hue of morn;\n    I kiss each essenced dew-drop up,\n      That trembles on thy thorn:\n    For thou upon my path hast grown\n    Since childhood--womanhood, I own.\n    First on a Pennsylvanian bank,\n      Where fair my native creek flow'd by,\n    The breathings of thine heart I drank,\n      And gazed into thy golden eye.\n\n    Where'er I wander, still dost thou\n    Ever upon my pathway bow;\n    The field, the cliff--my children's tomb,\n    To garland with spontaneous bloom.\n    Where'er a mossy rock hath place,\n    Thou wavest there in modest grace;\n    Guarding beneath thy blushing vest,\n    Midst tufted grass, the partridge-nest.\n    Where'er o'er mountain path I toil,\n    Thou spring'st to bless the grav'ly soil;\n    Where straggling fence-row gives thee room,\n    Thou fling'st a garland, and perfume;\n    And oft thy dying odors play,\n    Mingled in swathe of fragrant hay.\n    Though thou dost love the woodland shade,\n    Still for the sun-beam wert thou made.\n    Stealing from copse to open sky--\n    Greeting from far the traveller's eye:\n    Thou wert not 'born to blush unseen,'\n    Sweet wilding rose; the meadow's queen!\n\n    I love thy leaf's indented green;\n      The tinge of red upon thy stalk;\n    Thy pointed buds, so neatly furl'd:\n    O, who hath said this western world\n      Was to thy smile unknown!\n    Come, let him take one morning walk,\n      When May has well nigh flown;\n    In dell or dingle, chiefly where\n    A thicket meets the open air;\n    Or where a gurgling streamlet takes\n    Its sparkling leap through rocky brakes;\n    O'er fence-row, to the tassel'd corn,\n    The smiling rose nods from her thorn:\n    O! ever, rose! smile thus to me,\n    Memento of my childhood's glee.\n    In warmer Greece, thou may'st repay,\n    With richer glow, the softer day;\n    At eve, as from the bul-bul's throat,\n    Love's fabled breathings o'er thee float;\n    Or England's gardens may enhance,\n      By florist's art, thy trebled flower;\n    But here thou'rt free; thy ev'ry glance\n      Speaks but our nation's dower.\n\n    Free as the foot of Pilgrim, set\n    On Plymouth-rock by salt sea wet;\n    Free as the soil on which he trod,\n    Free as the pray'r he breath'd to GOD;\n    Free as the untam'd Indian's eye,\n    That tracks the foe none else can spy;\n    Free as the arrow from his bow--\n    Free as the dark Missouri's flow;\n    Free as the forest's untam'd herds;\n    Free as the lake's migrating birds.\n\n    Wild rose, and sweet! still grace the soil,\n    Won by our fathers' sacred toil;\n    Still cheer the labors of the plough--\n    The harvest rose, still flourish thou!\n    Gayer may blow in Persian loom,\n    Richer may breathe in Turk's perfume:\n    But purer, sweeter, never hung\n    The rocks, the paths, the fields among;\n    I love thee, for thou dost for me\n    Garland the country of the free!\n\n                                                          W.\n\n\n\n\nEDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD.\n\n\nTHERE is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy, than, while\ngazing at a figure of melancholy age, to re-create its youth, and,\nwithout entirely obliterating the identity of form and features, to\nrestore those graces which time has snatched away. Some old people,\nespecially women, so age-worn and woful are they, seem never to\nhave been young and gay. It is easier to conceive that such gloomy\nphantoms were sent into the world as withered and decrepit as we\nbeheld them now, with sympathies only for pain and grief, to watch at\ndeath-beds, and weep at funerals. Even the sable garments of their\nwidowhood appear essential to their existence; all their attributes\ncombine to render them darksome shadows, creeping strangely amid\nthe sunshine of human life. Yet it is no unprofitable task, to take\none of these doleful creatures, and set fancy resolutely at work to\nbrighten the dim eye, and darken the silvery locks, and paint the\nashen-cheek with rose-color, and repair the shrunken and crazy form,\ntill a dewy maiden shall be seen in the old matron's elbow-chair.\nThe miracle being wrought, then let the years roll back again, each\nsadder than the last, and the whole weight of age and sorrow settle\ndown upon the youthful figure. Wrinkles and furrows, the hand-writing\nof Time, may thus be deciphered, and found to contain deep lessons\nof thought and feeling. Such profit might be derived, by a skilful\nobserver, from my much-respected friend, the Widow Ingersoll, a nurse\nof great repute, who has breathed the atmosphere of sick-chambers and\ndying-breaths, these forty years.\n\nSee! she sits cowering over her lonesome hearth, with her gown and\nupper petticoat drawn upward, gathering thriftily into her person\nthe whole warmth of the fire, which, now at nightfall, begins to\ndissipate the autumnal chill of her chamber. The blaze quivers\ncapriciously in front, alternately glimmering into the deepest chasms\nof her wrinkled visage, and then permitting a ghostly dimness to mar\nthe outlines of her venerable figure. And Nurse Ingersoll holds a\ntea-spoon in her right hand, with which to stir up the contents of a\ntumbler in her left, whence steams a vapory fragrance, abhorred of\ntemperance societies. Now she sips--now stirs--now sips again. Her\nsad old heart has need to be revived by the rich infusion of Geneva,\nwhich is mixed half-and-half with hot water, in the tumbler. All day\nlong she has been sitting by a death-pillow, and quitted it for her\nhome, only when the spirit of her patient left the clay, and went\nhomeward too. But now are her melancholy meditations cheered, and her\ntorpid blood warmed, and her shoulders lightened of at least twenty\nponderous years, by a draught from the true Fountain of Youth, in a\ncase-bottle. It is strange that men should deem that fount a fable,\nwhen its liquor fills more bottles than the congress-water! Sip it\nagain, good nurse, and see whether a second draught will not take\noff another score of years, and perhaps ten more, and show us, in\nyour high-backed chair, the blooming damsel who plighted troths with\nEdward Fane. Get you gone, Age and Widowhood! Come back, unwedded\nYouth! But, alas! the charm will not work. In spite of fancy's most\npotent spell, I can see only an old dame cowering over the fire, a\npicture of decay and desolation, while the November blast roars at\nher in the chimney, and fitful showers rush suddenly against the\nwindow.\n\nYet there was a time when Rose Grafton--such was the pretty\nmaiden-name of Nurse Ingersoll--possessed beauty that would have\ngladdened this dim and dismal chamber, as with sunshine. It won for\nher the heart of Edward Fane, who has since made so great a figure\nin the world, and is now a grand old gentleman, with powdered hair,\nand as gouty as a lord. These early lovers thought to have walked\nhand in hand through life. They had wept together for Edward's little\nsister Mary, whom Rose tended in her sickness, partly because she\nwas the sweetest child that ever lived or died, but more for love of\nhim. She was but three years old. Being such an infant, Death could\nnot embody his terrors in her little corpse; nor did Rose fear to\ntouch the dead child's brow, though chill, as she curled the silken\nhair around it, nor to take her tiny hand, and clasp a flower within\nits fingers. Afterward, when she looked through the pane of glass in\nthe coffin-lid, and beheld Mary's face, it seemed not so much like\ndeath, or life, as like a wax-work, wrought into the perfect image\nof a child asleep, and dreaming of its mother's smile. Rose thought\nher too fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and wondered that an\nangel did not snatch up little Mary's coffin, and bear the slumbering\nbabe to heaven, and bid her wake immortal. But when the sods were\nlaid on little Mary, the heart of Rose was troubled. She shuddered at\nthe fantasy, that, in grasping the child's cold fingers, her virgin\nhand had exchanged a first greeting with mortality, and could never\nlose the earthy taint. How many a greeting since! But as yet, she\nwas a fair young girl, with the dew-drops of fresh feeling in her\nbosom; and instead of Rose, which seemed too mature a name for her\nhalf-opened beauty, her lover called her Rosebud.\n\nThe rosebud was destined never to bloom for Edward Fane. His mother\nwas a rich and haughty dame, with all the aristocratic prejudices\nof colonial times. She scorned Rose Grafton's humble parentage, and\ncaused her son to break his faith, though, had she let him choose, he\nwould have prized his Rosebud above the richest diamond. The lovers\nparted, and have seldom met again. Both may have visited the same\nmansions, but not at the same time; for one was bidden to the festal\nhall, and the other to the sick-chamber; he was the guest of Pleasure\nand Prosperity, and she of Anguish. Rose, after their separation, was\nlong secluded within the dwelling of Mr. Ingersoll, whom she married\nwith the revengeful hope of breaking her false lover's heart. She\nwent to her bridegroom's arms with bitterer tears, they say, than\nyoung girls ought to shed, at the threshold of the bridal chamber.\nYet, though her husband's head was getting gray, and his heart had\nbeen chilled with an autumnal frost, Rose soon began to love him, and\nwondered at her own conjugal affection. He was all she had to love;\nthere were no children.\n\nIn a year or two, poor Mr. Ingersoll was visited with a wearisome\ninfirmity, which settled in his joints, and made him weaker than a\nchild. He crept forth about his business, and came home at dinnertime\nand eventide, not with the manly tread that gladdens a wife's heart,\nbut slowly--feebly--jotting down each dull footstep with a melancholy\ndub of his staff. We must pardon his pretty wife, if she sometimes\nblushed to own him. Her visitors, when they heard him coming, looked\nfor the appearance of some old, old man; but he dragged his nerveless\nlimbs into the parlor--and there was Mr. Ingersoll! The disease\nincreasing, he never went into the sunshine, save with a staff in\nhis right hand, and his left on his wife's shoulder, bearing heavily\ndownward, like a dead man's hand. Thus, a slender woman, still\nlooking maiden-like, she supported his tall, broad-chested frame\nalong the pathway of their little garden, and plucked the roses for\nher gray-haired husband, and spoke soothingly, as to an infant. His\nmind was palsied with his body; its utmost energy was peevishness.\nIn a few months more, she helped him up the staircase, with a pause\nat every step, and a longer one upon the landing-place, and a heavy\nglance behind, as he crossed the threshold of his chamber. He knew,\npoor man, that the precincts of those four walls would thenceforth\nbe his world--his world, his home, his tomb--at once a dwelling and\na burial-place, till he were borne to a darker and a narrower one.\nBut Rose was with him in the tomb. He leaned upon her, in his daily\npassage from the bed to the chair by the fireside, and back again\nfrom the weary chair to the joyless bed--his bed and hers--their\nmarriage-bed; till even this short journey ceased, and his head lay\nall day upon the pillow, and hers all night beside it. How long poor\nMr. Ingersoll was kept in misery! Death seemed to draw near the door,\nand often to lift the latch, and sometimes to thrust his ugly skull\ninto the chamber, nodding to Rose, and pointing at her husband, but\nstill delayed to enter. 'This bed-ridden wretch cannot escape me!'\nquoth Death. 'I will go forth, and run a race with the swift, and\nfight a battle with the strong, and come back for Ingersoll at my\nleisure!' Oh, when the deliverer came so near, in the dull anguish of\nher worn-out sympathies, did she never long to cry, 'Death, come in!'\n\nBut, no! We have no right to ascribe such a wish to our friend Rose.\nShe never failed in a wife's duty to her poor sick husband. She\nmurmured not, though a glimpse of the sunny sky was as strange to\nher as him, nor answered peevishly, though his complaining accents\nroused her from her sweetest dream, only to share his wretchedness.\nHe knew her faith, yet nourished a cankered jealousy; and when the\nslow disease had chilled all his heart, save one lukewarm spot, which\nDeath's frozen fingers were searching for, his last words were: 'What\nwould my Rose have done for her first love, if she has been so true\nand kind to a sick old man like me!' And then his poor soul crept\naway, and left the body lifeless, though hardly more so than for\nyears before, and Rose a widow, though in truth it was the wedding\nnight that widowed her. She felt glad, it must be owned, when Mr.\nIngersoll was buried, because his corpse had retained such a likeness\nto the man half alive, that she hearkened for the sad murmur of his\nvoice, bidding her shift his pillow. But all through the next winter,\nthough the grave had held him many a month, she fancied him calling\nfrom that cold bed, 'Rose! Rose! come put a blanket on my feet!'\n\nSo now the Rosebud was the Widow Ingersoll. Her troubles had come\nearly, and, tedious as they seemed, had passed before all her bloom\nwas fled. She was still fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or, with\na widow's cheerful gravity, she might have won a widower, stealing\ninto his heart in the very guise of his dead wife. But the Widow\nIngersoll had no such projects. By her watchings and continual cares,\nher heart had become knit to her first husband with a constancy which\nchanged its very nature, and made her love him for his infirmities,\nand infirmity for his sake. When the palsied old man was gone, even\nher early lover could not have supplied his place. She had dwelt in\na sick-chamber, and been the companion of a half-dead wretch, till\nshe should scarcely breathe in a free air, and felt ill at ease with\nthe healthy and the happy. She missed the fragrance of the doctor's\nstuff. She walked the chamber with a noiseless footfall. If visitors\ncame in, she spoke in soft and soothing accents, and was startled and\nshocked by their loud voices. Often, in the lonesome evening, she\nlooked timorously from the fireside to the bed, with almost a hope of\nrecognising a ghastly face upon the pillow. Then went her thoughts\nsadly to her husband's grave. If one impatient throb had wronged him\nin his lifetime--if she had secretly repined, because her buoyant\nyouth was imprisoned with his torpid age--if ever, while slumbering\nbeside him, a treacherous dream had admitted another into her\nheart--yet the sick man had been preparing a revenge, which the dead\nnow claimed. On his painful pillow, he had cast a spell around her;\nhis groans and misery had proved more captivating charms than gayety\nand youthful grace; in his semblance, Disease itself had won the\nRosebud for a bride; nor could his death dissolve the nuptials. By\nthat indissoluble bond she had gained a home in every sick-chamber,\nand nowhere else; there were her brethren and sisters; thither her\nhusband summoned her, with that voice which had seemed to issue from\nthe grave of Ingersoll. At length she recognised her destiny.\n\nWe have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the widow; now we see\nher in a separate and insulated character: she was, in all her\nattributes, Nurse Ingersoll. And Nurse Ingersoll alone, with her\nown shrivelled lips, could make known her experience in that\ncapacity. What a history might she record of the great sicknesses,\nin which she has gone hand in hand with the exterminating angel!\nShe remembers when the small-pox hoisted a red-banner on almost\nevery house along the street. She has witnessed when the typhus\nfever swept off a whole household, young and old, all but a lonely\nmother, who vainly shrieked to follow her last loved one. Where\nwould be Death's triumph, if none lived to weep! She can speak of\nstrange maladies that have broken out, as if spontaneously, but were\nfound to have been imported from foreign lands, with rich silks and\nother merchandise, the costliest portion of the cargo. And once, she\nrecollects, the people died of what was considered a new pestilence,\ntill the doctors traced it to the ancient grave of a young girl, who\nthus caused many deaths a hundred years after her own burial. Strange\nthat such black mischief should lurk in a maiden's grave! She loves\nto tell how strong men fight with fi\u00ebry fevers, utterly refusing to\ngive up their breath; and how consumptive virgins fade out of the\nworld, scarcely reluctant, as if their lovers were wooing them to a\nfar country. Tell us, thou fearful woman! tell us the death-secrets!\nFain would I search out the meaning of words, faintly gasped with\nintermingled sobs, and broken sentences, half-audibly spoken between\nearth and the judgment-seat!\n\nAn awful woman! She is the patron-saint of young physicians, and\nthe bosom friend of old ones. In the mansions where she enters, the\ninmates provide themselves black garments; the coffin-maker follows\nher; and the bell tolls as she comes away from the threshold. Death\nhimself has met her at so many a bed-side, that he puts forth his\nbony hand to greet Nurse Ingersoll. She is an awful woman! And,\noh! is it conceivable, that this handmaid of human infirmity and\naffliction--so darkly stained, so thoroughly imbued with all that\nis saddest in the doom of mortals--can ever again be bright and\ngladsome, even though bathed in the sunshine of eternity? By her long\ncommunion with wo, has she not forfeited her inheritance of immortal\njoy? Does any germ of bliss survive within her?\n\nHark! an eager knocking at Nurse Ingersoll's door. She starts from\nher drowsy reverie, sets aside the empty tumbler and tea-spoon, and\nlights a lamp at the dim embers of the fire. Rap, rap, rap! again;\nand she hurries adown the staircase, wondering which of her friends\ncan be at death's door now, since there is such an earnest messenger\nat Nurse Ingersoll's. Again the peal resounds, just as her hand is on\nthe lock. 'Be quick, Nurse Ingersoll!' cries a man on the door-step;\n'old Colonel Fane is taken with the gout in his stomach, and has sent\nfor you to watch by his death-bed. Make haste, for there is no time\nto lose!' 'Fane! Edward Fane! And has he sent for me at last? I am\nready! I will get on my cloak and begone. So,' adds the sable-gowned,\nashen-visaged, funereal old figure, 'Edward Fane remembers his\nRosebud!'\n\nOur question is answered. There is a germ of bliss within her. Her\nlong-hoarded constancy--her memory of the bliss that was--remaining\namid the gloom of her after life, like a sweet-smelling flower in a\ncoffin, is a symbol that all may be renewed. In some happier clime,\nthe Rosebud may revive again, with all the dew-drops in its bosom.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF THE SHIP.\n\n\n    'I'VE a long stout bill, like the condor bird, and a cloak of\n        canvass white,\n    And walking sticks, full two or three, that sport a banner bright;\n    I carry an anchor on my bows, and cannon in my sides,\n    And a compass true, that night and day my course unerring guides.\n\n    'My way is on the stormy deep, and the tempest as it blows,\n    But rocks my darling sons to sleep, who laugh at human woes;\n    I bear a nation's arms abroad, where nations without me\n    Could never speak in sovereign power--I'm mistress of the sea!\n\n    'When night comes on, I light a lamp, when storms, I trim a sail,\n    My hardy boys are e'er alert, with hearts that never fail;\n    I rove in might the dark blue deep--I draw a golden chain,\n    That causes man on man to smile, and rivets main to main.\n\n    'Wealth follows where my canvass flies, and power attends my roar,\n    I dance upon the bounding sea, and smile beside the shore;\n    If art and nature both be taxed, they all are found a-lee,\n    Compared, in might and glory, to a noble ship at sea.'\n\n    Here ceased the ship to speak, the while she proudly dashed her way,\n    When thus a meek and lowly man took up the broken lay:\n    'Ah! thus,' he cried, 'shall all be borne, and thus shall all be blest,\n    Who put their trust in Alohim, and in Messiah rest.'\n\n    _Michilimackinack, August, 1837._                H. R S.\n\n\n\n\nMARK!\n\nBY PATER ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA.\n\nIN TWO PARTS--PART ONE.\n\n\nA WRITER in Blackwood, in reviewing the poems of Bishop Corbet, of\nfacetious memory, insists that the church has been more distinguished\nfor wit and humor, than any other of the learned professions. This\nmay not hold true in these refined days, and especially with us,\nwhere the strength of a man's principles is apt to be measured by the\nlength of his face, and where a large portion of the community seem\nto think that\n\n    'To laugh were want of goodness, and grimace.'\n\nBut it was not so in the time of Corbet, of South, of Swift, and\nof Sterne. Even in the present day, the name of Sydney Smith is\nidentical with a grin, and evangelical old Rowland Hill himself could\nnot keep down the busy devil of fun within him. But these are only\nexceptions. The taste of the age has declared itself, rightly enough,\nperhaps, against the mixture of things sacred and jocose; and the\nclergyman who is so unfortunate as to possess a fund of wit, must\nseek some other field for its display than the desk, happy if he be\nallowed to indulge it even in private, without a brotherly hint from\nthat benevolent class of individuals, whose chief business in life is\nto attend to the foibles of their neighbors. To the student, however,\nit is a treat, to turn aside from the staid formality and correct\ndulness of the present age, to the times when it was permitted to\na man to follow the bent of his genius, however devious; when\nilliterate audiences, more filled with the spirit of faith than with\nthat of criticism, were as much edified by their preacher's jokes as\nby his homilies; and when even the good man, dreaming as little as\nShakspeare himself that his tragi-comedy would fall under the ban\nof posterity, went on, firing off alternately the heavy ordnance of\nlearned denunciation, and the lighter artillery of jest and jibe, at\nthe head of the conscience-stricken sinner.\n\nOur business, however, is not with the English worthies of this\nschool, with whose merits and defects we are sufficiently familiar,\nbut to introduce the reader to another genius of the same stamp, who\nflourished at Vienna, where he held no less a station than that of\npreacher at the emperor's court.\n\nPATER ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA, if we regard only his quaintness, his\nqueerness, his bad puns, and his jokes, lugged in, like Sancho's\nproverbs, in season and out of season, was a lineal descendant of\nthose worthy travelling friars, whom Schiller has immortalized by\nthe Capuchin's Sermon, in the introduction to Wallenstein. But in\nlearning, in fervor, in rough and rude but stirring eloquence, he is\nfar above the herd of hedge-preachers. 'Though it appear a little\nout of fashion,' there is much that is sterling in him. Few court\npreachers ever spake so freely and fearlessly, or applied the lash\nof satire so unsparingly to every rank and condition. Had he lived\nin a more refined age, when cultivation might have chastened without\ndestroying his fancy, he would have stood high among popular orators.\n\nHis name is probably new to most of our readers; for few of our\nGerman scholars ever peep into those ponderous folios in which\nearlier days delighted, or trace up the stream of German literature\nhigher than Wieland or Klopstock. To such, it would be idle to\nexpatiate on the crabbed beauties which adorn the Nibelungen-lied,\nthe Minnesingers, old Hans Sachs, or Abraham a Sancta Clara. We\ntrust, however, that in the latter they will find enough of oddity,\nat least, to render some slight acquaintance acceptable. His true\nname was ULRICH MEGERLE, and he was born in Suabia, (the Ireland of\nGermany,) in 1642. At the age of twenty, he became a bare-footed\nmonk, of the Augustine order, and in 1669, was invited to Vienna, in\nthe capacity of court preacher, an office he filled till his death,\nin 1709; preaching and writing the while with untiring zeal and\nindustry. At a future time, we may brush the learned dust off some\nother volumes of his works: at present, we will take up one of his\nchoicest bits of quaintness, the discourse called '_Mark!_' composed\nof a series of warnings to the people of Vienna, written soon after\nthe plague, which swept off seventy thousand inhabitants in six\nmonths. We have been obliged, of course, to take some few liberties\nin our version. Where one of his bad German puns proved utterly\nuntranslateable, we have endeavored to fill its place with an English\none, equally as bad, and as near the original as possible. It will be\nseen that here and there he varies the steady progress of his prose,\nand breaks into a rhyming pace, something between a canter and a\nhobble; showing that the amphibious measure adopted by the 'wondrous\nboy that wrote Alroy,' is not altogether original. Without farther\npreface, we shall proceed to our extracts. Thus, then, discourseth\nour reverend friend, in his exordium, of the signs that, as usual,\npreceded the pestilence:\n\n'Signs in the heavens were furnished by the baleful and malevolent\naspects of the planets. Signs in air are usually changeful weather,\nand heavy rains. Clouds, too, are so deemed; but in my poor judgment,\nthe plague was caused, not only by unwholesome _nebul\u00e6_, but by\nwicked _nebulones_. Signs of water are, abundance of fishes cast on\nshore, crabs, frogs, and toads; and it is certain, when sharks are\nfound plying round courts of justice, when honesty sidles off like\na crab, and when toadies are found in the high places, that God\ncommonly sends a pestilence. Signs of earth, are, when idle, noxious\nweeds and herbs infest the ground; and of a surety, when such plants\nas sanguinary, dandy-lions, mushrooms, and painted-ladies, grow\nplentifully, it is easy to see what is meant thereby!' * * *\n\n'Death began his career in Leopoldstadt, (the suburbs,) and there\ndestroyed the people for a time, but in moderation. Afterward the\npestilence crossed the Danube to the other suburbs; and it seemed at\nfirst as though Death ventured not to enter the capital, but would\ncontent himself with the suburbs, and the dark corners, and dirty\nspots thereof; so that men began wickedly to surmise, that he only\nwanted to pick out the refuse, to rummage beggars' wallets, and still\nhis hunger with coarse crumbs; and that noble palaces, and rich\nhouses, were safe from his scythe. 'Holla!' said Death, 'to let you\nknow that no fortress is too strong for me, if girt with a fosse that\ncould swallow the ocean, I will, spite of you all, conquer the city!'\nAnd he actually did in July.\n\n'In the days of the dictator, C\u00e6sar, an ox spoke; in the days of the\nprophet Balaam, an ass spoke; in the time of the Emperor Maurice, a\nmetal image spoke; in the time of Beda, the stones spoke; but at this\ntime, in Vienna, when a sick man lay here in one corner, a dying man\ngroaned there in the other; a few steps off lay one already dead,\nand the bodies choked the way of the passers-by; in Vienna, the very\nstones spake, and warned the people to repentance. 'Up, and awake, ye\nsinners! The axe is laid to the root of the tree! God's anger is at\nthe threshold; the voice of the Almighty is calling you to eternity;\nthe archangel Michael holds the balance, to weigh your life! Up! up!\nand repent, for this is the only prop to which to hold fast in the\nday of destruction! The penitent knockings of your heart, be sure,\ncan alone open the door of heaven; your hearty sighs are the only\nmusic that please the ear of God.' Thus spake all the streets and\nalleys, and the plastermen trod on, warned them to seek a plaster for\nthe wounds of their conscience.\n\n'Taverns are wont to be the abode of joy and license; for it is no\nsecret, that when the blessed Virgin came to Bethlehem with Joseph,\nshe had to take shelter in a broken stall, for there was no room\nfor her in the tavern; and it is a truth, that God seldom finds\nany room in such houses, because all things evil lodge there. For\na lamb to become a hog, an eagle a crow, and a horse an ass, is no\ngreat miracle; for do we not see daily, that men drink like hogs\nat the 'White Lamb;' that the 'Golden Eagle' makes gallows-birds,\nand the 'Red-Horse' asses? But in these days, the reverse happened;\nand the waiters were not so busy in counting up the drinks, as the\ndrinkers, who lay dead by the door the next morning. Their floors\nwere sprinkled, not with water, but with tears. Instead of shouting,\nwas sighing, and--wonderful to say!--there was more whining in them\nthan wine.'\n\nAfter discoursing in this manner concerning the plague and its\nincidents, by way of prologue, he proceeds to his practical\ndeductions, addressed to all classes: and first, he invokes mankind\ngenerally, heading the invocation,\n\n    'MARK--MAN!'\n\n''Tis not for nothing, that the word _live_, spelled backward,\nreadeth _evil_. 'Tis like a cloud, that fantastic child of the\nsummer, which is no sooner born, than the rays of the sun menace to\nmake an end of him. Just so our life, _vix orimur morimur_! Our first\nbreath is a sigh on the way to death, and the very rocking of the\ncradle warns us how tottering is our existence.' * * * 'Summer comes\nafter spring; Saturday comes after Friday; four comes after three,\nand death comes after life.\n\n    'Life and glass, they shake and they break;\n    Life and grass, how soon they pass!\n    Life and a hare, how fleet they are!\n\n'Life is certain only in uncertainty, and is like a leaf on the tree,\na foam on the sea, a wave on the strand, a house on the sand.'\n\n'Stop me not, while I sing my song before thy door. To-day red,\nto-morrow dead; to-day your grace, to-morrow, 'God be gracious;'\nto-day, a comfort to all, to-morrow, under the pall; to-day, dear,\nto-morrow, the bier; to-day hurra, to-morrow, psha!\n\n'_Omnes morimur!_ I have seen that we must all die; I have seen that\ndeath is a player, and a roguish one, for he bowls the men down and\nsetteth them not up again, and attacketh not the pawn alone, but the\nking; I have seen, that were I to gather together the limbs of a dead\nemperor, and mix them up with water, they would not be of size enough\nto stop the mouth of sneering Michal, when she opened it to laugh at\nDavid her lord.\n\n'Joshua, the hero, before he stormed the city of Jericho, made a\nvow to the Lord that none of his army should plunder aught. God\nknows, it's hard for soldiers to keep from it; and though they have\nlittle to do with schools, they know wondrous well, that in default\nof the _dativus_, they must take to the _ablativus_. Yet, spite\nof the ordinance, a soldier named Achan crooked his fingers, and\nhelped himself to the booty. And lo! when he was caught, and brought\nbefore the aforesaid hero, what answered he: '_Abstuli, abscondi in\nterr\u00e2, et fossam humo aperui_.' Such is the answer of Death, the\ngreat robber and plunderer of all things. Tell me, Death, where are\nMatthias the Emperor, and Matathias, the prophet? Where are Eleazer\nand Eliezer? Where are Leo and Leontius, Maximus and Maximinus?\n'_Abstuti et abscondi in terr\u00e2_,' says Death!'\n\nThe Pater next takes up the religious world, commencing, as usual,\n'Mark! Sir Priest!' and dilateth on the importance of the office, as\nfollows:\n\n'What is worthier than pious and spiritual men, who have turned their\nbacks on the world, knowing that world and wild are words that\ndiffer little in name, and none in fact. For what is this world, but\na garden full of thistles; a sugared poison, a gilded dung-hill; a\nsack full of holes; a silver hook, a shop full of fool's-caps; a\ndrug-store, full of nauseous purges; a flowery deceit? The apostles\nlikened the kingdom of God to a grain of mustard-seed, not to a\nsugar-plum; to sour leaven, and not to sweet-meats.'\n\nAfter reminding us that Peter, in the fulness of his zeal, smote off\nthe high priest's servant's ear, and was reproved therefor, he goes\non to give a reason for it, which we do not recollect to have met in\nany of the commentators: 'If he had been the footman of any nobleman,\nor lady, merely,' says he, 'the Lord would perhaps have winked at it,\nhad he cut off his whole head; but the servant of a high priest was\nto be respected.'[8]\n\nWe leave the divines for the present, and turn to his next 'mark,'\nwhich is addressed to the learned, whereon he expatiates with a\nfellow-feeling, and makes some displays of learning, which will\ncertainly excite astonishment, if not admiration. His introduction is\nas follows:\n\n    'MARK--LEARNED MAN!'\n\n'Tis well known, that Lot's wife was changed by God's decree into a\npillar of salt, because, contrary to the divine command, she looked\nback; but why she was changed into a pillar of salt, and not into\na thorn-bush, which is as curious and sharp as she was herself, is\nbecause when she entertained the angels who visited her husband, she\nput no salt to the meats, that she might be free of these frequent\nvisitors. Salt has ever been held the symbol of science and wisdom,\nas is shown, not only by its being the first syllable in the name\nof King Solomon, but inasmuch as Christ says to his disciples, 'Ye\nare the salt of the earth.' As meat without salt, so is man without\nknowledge. As the poet saith:\n\n    'A table without a dish,\n    A pond without a fish,\n    A soup without bread,\n    A tailor without thread,\n    A horse without a tether,\n    A cobbler without leather,\n    A ship without a sail,\n    A pitcher without ale,\n    And a man without wit,\n    Do well together fit.'\n\n'I have, with especial care, examined Holy Writ, and find that\ntherein the word husbandman occurs thirty-six times; the word field,\nthree hundred and fourteen times; the word sow, twenty times; the\nword grow, five hundred times; the word corn, fifty-seven times;\nthe word reap, fifty-two times; the word barn, twenty-one times; the\nword thresh, fifteen times; the word hay, forty-eight times; but the\nword _straw_, only once,[9] and that with no great commendation,\nwhere Rachel sat upon it to hide the golden images from her father\nLaban. Since, therefore, the word straw occurs but once, I am free to\nconclude, that it was holden for something most contemptible. And as\nworthless as straw is, so is a man of straw,[10] without learning.'\n\nAnd again:\n\n'Jesus, our infant Lord, had to lie in a manger at Bethlehem, he\nwhose abode is the starry heaven; and when his precious body shivered\nwith cold, and was warmed only by his inward love to us, he to whom\nall the hosts of heaven minister, had no attendants, save an ox and\nan ass. St. Vincent remarketh, that the ox stood at the babe's head,\nand the ass at his feet; whereby he wished to show, that asses, and\nsuch as have no knowledge, should keep in the background, and those\nonly who have wisdom, stand in the high places.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat is more lovely than knowledge? He who hath it, cuts the 'gordian\nknot' better than the Macedonian monarch, and can answer all the\npuzzling questions about which other men busy their brains in vain.\nAs thus: Why doth a man who hath eaten his fill, till his body is\nstuffed like a travelling journeyman's knapsack, weigh less than\nbefore? The philosopher knoweth the reason. Why doth he who has drank\ntoo much wine, commonly fall over forward, while he who hath drank\ntoo much beer, generally falleth over backward? The philosopher\nknoweth the reason.'\n\nAnd again he discusseth learnedly of lawyers:\n\n'In the Old Testament, there was a wondrous drink for women, which\nmany a one had to swallow, albeit she did not complain of thirst.\nFor whenever a man conjectured that his spouse was faithless,\nhe led her to the priest at the altar, who handed her a liquor\nmixed with a thousand curses, the which, were she wrongfully\naccused, harmed her not; but were she really guilty, lo! she was\nincontinently filled therewith, and swelled up like a sack of\nBohemian hops, and pined away; and thus they cunningly learned who\nwas innocent and who guilty. 'Well,' saith one, 'why happeneth\nnot the same now-a-days? 'Tis as necessary as in those times, and\nmen would crowd to buy such a drink, at whatsoever price.' To\nthis I answer, that such miracles are no longer needful; for the\nlawyers, with their _citationes_, _notationes_, _protestationes_,\n_connotationes_, _replicationes_, _contestationes_, _appellationes_,\n_acceptilationes_, _certiorationes_, _confirmationes_, and the like,\nmake guilt or innocence as clear as day.' But mark we how Death\ntreats all this choice Latinity: 'What kind of tongue,' saith Death,\n'is this, wherein the Latinists address me? By my life, I understand\nnot Latin! My father, the Devil, a substantial man, and my mother,\nSin, a notable dame as any, to save expense, gave me no learning;\ntherefore I care not a fig for your Latinists. The Almighty has\ntruly taught me somewhat, but I find my studies differ mainly from\nyours; for in my grammar, _mors_ is _generis communis_; in my syntax,\nthe verb _vivo_ has no _infinitivum_.'\n\nHe next addresses soldiers, whom he comforts with the thought that\nthey need not despair of eternal life, bad as their calling is; for,\nsaith he:\n\n'St. John, the angel of the apocalypse, tells us, in his description\nof the heavenly Jerusalem, how he saw in his trance, that this\nmetropolis of God was built four-square, and each side garnished with\nthree doors; whence we can safely conclude, as St. Dionysius hath it,\nthat from all quarters and parts of the world, there is access to\nheaven.\n\n'St. Athanasius wisely observeth of the people of Israel, that when\nthey entered on a campaign, the ark of the covenant, wherein were\nstored the laws of Moses and the ten commandments, was carried before\nthe host, that the warriors might have God's law continually before\ntheir eyes. Hear this, ye Christian soldiers! The ten commandments\nwere the avant-guard of the army of Israel; with you, God help us!\nthey too commonly are sent to the rear.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'Who's there?' 'No friend!' 'Who is no friend?' 'I,' says Death.\n'Holla there! Guard, turn out!' 'My loving friends,' replieth Death,\n'I cannot laugh in my sleeve, for I have none; but I can't help\ngrinning, at finding you think to frighten my scythe with your pikes\nand halberts. That would be a joke! How many of the Jews have I not\ndestroyed? The sum total, as Holy Writ testifieth, 854,002,067! And\nnow shall I be afraid of _you_? No, no! Order arms! Albeit your\nleader, _Mars_, and I, _Mors_, are kinsmen in name, I cannot abide\nneutral, but declare open war on you! Let him who doubts my power,\ngo to Vienna, and ask of the first sentinel he meets!' Inasmuch as\nVienna is a rampart of all Germany against the Turk, it is girt\nwith thick walls, and strong towers. The heavenly city, Jerusalem,\nis described by the chronicle as having twelve great gates; now as\nVienna hath six, it may justly be called half a heaven. It hath\nalways been the wont of the soldiery at Vienna to keep their main\nforce in the city, and a guard at St. Peter's church-yard; but this\ntime, Death, against the officers' will, changed their ordering,\nand almost all the troops were bidden to _lie at ease_ in the\nchurch-yard, while Death went the rounds, from post to post, on the\nwalls.'\n\nLet us quote the conclusion of this branch of his address:\n\n'Let the body die, then, be it in fire or in water, on earth or in\nair--what matters it! Let it die, this dung-hill, this nest of worms,\nthis lump of filth, this dying worm, this clod of earth; let it die,\nthis perishing rottenness, this tricked-out decay, this painted\nsepulchre, this congregation of diseases, this bundle of rags, this\nsix feet of nothing! Let it die!--let it perish! Let it decay,\nthis living hospital, this sport of chance, this little heap of\nearth--when, how, where it may--it matters not! But I beseech thee,\nby thy soul's salvation--I sound it in thine ears, with uplifted\nhands, let not the SOUL perish! This curious and precious handiwork\nand image of God--this priceless and unfading jewel of eternity--this\npure and peaceful sister of the spirits made blessed--oh let not\n_this_ perish by sin, for this is the only death that is terrible\nindeed!'\n\nThere are passages like the above, scattered here and there,\nwhich will show that our author was something more than a mere\npulpit-joker, and that he had within him all the elements of high\neloquence. Our conscience, indeed, reproaches us, at times, that we\nare not doing the old worthy justice, but picking out his knotty\npoints and excrescences, to amuse our contemporaries with their odd\ntwists and turns, and air of hoar antiquity, rather than laying open\nthe sound core and pith that lie beneath them. But our object--and\nwe hope it as an excusable one, in these trying times--is rather to\nbeguile the reader into a smile, than edify him by serious discourse,\na plenty whereof is to be found at every corner, without going back\nfor it to Pater Abraham a Sancta Clara.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFOR the present, we leave our 'man of mark,' reserving his homily\nto maidens, his advice to parents, touching the use of the rod; his\ncounsels to the rich, etc., for another number.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[8] Speaking of ears. That was an ingenious and kindred elucidation\nof a passage of Scripture, which was given by a Methodist clergyman,\nof whom we have somewhere read. 'In those ancient days,' said the\ndivine, 'small crimes were punished by cropping off the ears; so that\nit rarely happened, that a large concourse of people could assemble,\nwithout a considerable proportion of them, and oftentimes more, being\ndeprived of their auricular members. Hence we view, my brethren, the\npropriety of that frequent remark of our Saviour, when addressing a\nmixed multitude, 'He that _hath_ ears to hear, let him hear!'' It was\nthe same profound biblical critic, who made St Paul's similitude,\ntouching his late conversion, ('as one born out of due time,') quite\nlevel to the comprehension of his hearers, by explaining, that the\napostle 'was undoubtedly a seven-months' child!'\n\n                                         EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.\n\n[9] 'PATER ABRAHAM,' mark! You had better examine your Bible 'with\nespecial care' once more. Did not Pharaoh make the children of Israel\nturn out the regular quantity of brick, whether they had _straw_,\nor not? Our modern version, however, may not answer to the Pater's\noriginal.\n\n                                         EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.\n\n[10] Literally _strohkopf_, a straw-head, a dunce.\n\n\n\n\nNATURE.\n\nTRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF MATTHISON.\n\n\n    I.\n\n    ILLUM'D by reddening skies, stands glittering\n          On tender blade the dew;\n    And undulates the landscape of the spring\n          Upon the clear stream's blue.\n\n    II.\n\n    Fair is the rocky rill, the blossom'd tree,\n          The grove with gold that gleams;\n    Fair is the star of eve, which close we see\n          To yonder purple gleams.\n\n    III.\n\n    Fair is the meadow's green, the dale's thick bush,\n          The hill's bright robe of flowers;\n    The alder-stream, the pond's surrounding rush,\n          And lilies' snowy showers.\n\n    IV.\n\n    Oh! how the host of beings are made one\n          By Love's enduring band!\n    The glow-worm, and the fi\u00ebry flood of sun,\n          Spring from one Father's hand.\n\n    V.\n\n    Thou beckonest, Almighty, if the tree\n          Lose but a bud that's blown;\n    Thou beckonest, if in immensity\n          One sun is sunk and gone!\n\n\n\n\nFRANCIS MITFORD.\n\nNUMBER THREE.\n\n\nWE spake of BRUMMELL's opinions of Canada. 'Canada,' said he,\n'is a mere incubus on the already bloated back of England. The\nprofits derived from the trade of that colony scarcely defray the\nenormous expenses of her establishments. Nor is this the worst.\nThe question of her boundary will one day involve us in a most\nbloody and expensive war, demanded, perhaps, by national pride, but\nrepugnant to our most vital interests; a war, too, with a nation\nof brothers, with whom we ought to have but one common view; that\nof peaceably extending our laws, language, and commerce, over the\nmost distant part of the globe. Should there be a war, whether\nEngland emerges from that contest vanquished or triumphant, the\nconsequences must be equally fatal. Alienation of the present strong\nand growing friendship will result, which must tend, more or less,\nto restrict the extensive commerce between the two countries, to\nthe great injury of Great Britain; for though the United States may\neasily obtain from other countries the manufactures which she now\nobtains from us, at, in the first instance, a triflingly-enhanced\nprice, yet the grand staple article of cotton cannot be purchased\nany where so good, or on such advantageous terms, as in the United\nStates. The necessity imposed by war on that country of procuring\nmanufactured commodities elsewhere, would, no doubt, continue in a\ngreat measure, by choice, after peace. The best thing England can do\nwith Canada, is to present her (with her own consent) to the United\nStates, or to manumit her from all colonial trammels, and declare her\nindependent. Thus, by enlisting the pride of the Canadians on the\nside of a separate government, she may perhaps succeed in preventing\na junction between this colony and the United States--if indeed\nEngland can be said to have any real interest in the hindrance of\nsuch a junction. Fifty thousand men sent over to Canada, in case of\nwar with the United States, at the expense of twenty-five millions,\nwill not suffice to keep Canada from being overrun by her powerful\nneighbours; all military speculations on the subject, to the contrary\nnotwithstanding.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWHERE is the mortal who has expatriated himself, without feeling\na yearning after home? Home! magical word! bringing with it vivid\nrecollections of the sweetest scenes of childhood, and those days\nof youth, when the mind, freed from care, bounds with joy at the\nslightest favorable event! Every man, in considering his home, looks\nonly to the most pleasing events which occurred during his residence\nthere, and is apt to consider all the disagreeable circumstances of\nhis existence as receiving a still darker tinge from his stay abroad.\nMitford was no exception to the general rule. He determined to return\nto London, at all hazards.\n\nThis resolve was confirmed by another motive. He had long\nloved--ardently loved. The life of dissipation, and even of riot,\nwhich he had led, had not been able to efface the holy passion from\nhis soul. There it burned, at once a safeguard to, and a promoter of,\nother virtues. The fair Marguerite was lovely, rich, and constant in\nher attachment to him. Neither the sneers of friends, nor the ill\nreports of enemies, were able to efface his image from her mind.\nFriendship may be dissolved; fortune may desert us; but woman's love\nblossoms in eternal spring, and only blooms the more, amid the wintry\nblasts of adversity.\n\nA late correspondence apprized him that her hand and fortune awaited\nhim. This determined his movements, and he found himself in London.\nBut the necessary preparatives for a marriage, however fortunate,\nrequire money--without which the wings of Cupid are clogged; and\nthough Mitford might have relieved himself by an application to his\nlady-love, whose purse was at her own disposal, yet he could not bear\nto owe a favor before marriage.\n\nHe bethought himself of an expedient. Whenever a man wants money in\nLondon, the surest way to obtain it, is by offering to lend it, or by\noffering some great prospective advantage for the sum required. Many\na man parts with what he has, to one whom he thinks will increase his\nstore when he requires it; but no man parts with his money to one\nwhom he thinks has none.\n\nA dashing advertisement graced the pages of the 'Post' and 'Herald'\nnewspapers:\n\n    'EXTRAORDINARY FACILITY.--The advertiser, possessing great\n    influence in a certain high quarter, would feel disposed to\n    promote the interest of any gentleman of standing and talent,\n    who has a thousand pounds at his disposal. Address 'A. M.,'\n    Standish's Rooms, Regent-street.\n\n    'N. B. No indiscretion need be apprehended.'\n\nWe need scarcely say, that our hero answered to the initials of\n'A. M.' The applications were numerous. Mitford made a special\nappointment with one whom he thought likely to answer his purpose. He\nhad chambers for the occasion in Lincoln's Inn.\n\nThe applicant had recently arrived from the East Indies, and had\nsome property. The idea of obtaining a respectable post, with a\ngood salary, at once to increase his income and employ his leisure,\nattracted him. Our hero received him in a dimly-lighted apartment.\nHis back was toward the window. When you are afflicted with a\ndiffidence, over which you have no control, on important occasions,\nalways turn the dorsal vertebr\u00e6 toward the light.\n\nThe business was soon opened. The applicant was anxious to embrace\nthe ideal advantage offered.\n\n'But, my dear Sir,' said Mitford, 'it will be necessary to have\nsome security in hand, before you are inducted. Without at all\ndoubting your punctuality, you are aware that in matters of business,\nparticularity is necessary: beside, I must consult the wishes of my\nprincipal.\n\nThe stranger paused! He slowly drew forth his pocket-book, took out a\npost bill for \u00a31000, and handed it to Mitford.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHOW may not a man, by false sophistry, tame his mind to the\ncommission of a tortuous act! Honesty in man, is like virtue in\nwoman. The possibility of violating it must not for a moment enter\nthe imagination. In either case, deliberation is destruction.\n\nMitford, who would not for any consideration have omitted the payment\nof a debt of honor; who would have resisted the slightest imputation\non his character unto death; thus reasoned with himself: 'I am on the\npoint of marrying a fortune; why should I hesitate to appropriate\nthis money, for a few days, when I shall have ample means to repay\nit? To be sure, I must endorse the note; but then the certainty\nof refunding the amount takes away any moral obliquity that might\notherwise attach to the act.'\n\nThus soliliquized Mitford; and, endorsing the note, he committed\nforgery.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA SPLENDID party had assembled at Sidmouth-Terrace, to celebrate a\nbridal festival. Lights beamed far into the park, illuminating all\naround. Revelry and joy breathed throughout.\n\nMitford was there. The sanction of the church was about to seal\nthe happiness of our hero for ever, when suddenly three officers\ninterrupted the bridal ceremonies, and seizing Mitford on a warrant\nfor forgery, conducted him to prison.\n\nTo describe the distress of the bride--the confusion of the\nguests--would be impossible. We leave it to the imagination of our\nreaders.\n\nThe process of the law was rapid. The day of trial arrived. Mitford\npleaded not guilty.\n\nAll that the most able counsel could effect, was done for him. The\nwitnesses were brow-beaten; the jury harangued; but he was found\nguilty.\n\nThe judge passed sentence of death.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'LA!' said Mrs. Minikin, the haberdasher's wife, 'to-morrow is the\nday when that there gen'leman is to be hung for forgery. Let's go see\nhim.'\n\n'My dear,' said Mr. Minikin, 'you know I never likes them there sort\nof things. If it was a reg'lar mill, then I might go; but I never\nlikes to see no one tucked up.'\n\n'Oh, but, my dear,' said the gentle Mrs. Minikin, 'it is not\nentertaining, I grant, to see them there riff-raffs which is usually\nhung; but this is a gen'leman. Only consider,' said she, in her\nmost endearing manner, 'how delightful to see one of them there\n'igh-flyers hung!' And the pliant Mr. Minikin consented.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLET us now turn to the dungeon which contained this ill-fated man.\nThere, on a scanty supply of straw, a dim light glimmering through\nthe bars of his cell, rendering the interior still more desolate, by\nrevealing its wretchedness, lay Mitford--pale, emaciated, and bearing\non his countenance the conviction, that the world and himself were\nnow disjointed. Ever and anon the echoing wheels of some patrician\nchariot conveyed to his ear the mirth and gayety that reigned\nwithout. But what was all this to him? His heart was never more\nto beat at the sight of beauty; ambition could no longer convey\nelevation to his mind. A few short hours, and he must be brought\nforth to satisfy the stern severity of the law, and furnish food to\nthe gaping curiosity of thousands. And was this to be the termination\nof his career? Was it for this a mother's holy tears had blessed his\nadvent to the world?--that a father's toil had left him reposing amid\nthe luxuries of wealth? All, all was now shortly to terminate in the\nscaffold's terrors, and worse than the scaffold's terrors, in the\nscaffold's shame.\n\nWhile these thoughts passed through his mind, scalding tears coursed\ndown his cheeks, moistening the straw on which he lay; not tears\nextracted by craven fear, but holy drops of penitence.\n\nFrom this state of mind he was soon awakened by the reverend\nclergyman, whose duty it was to prepare him for his approaching awful\nchange. He whispered to him the hope of divine mercy, so unquenchable\nthat the most heinous offences failed to suppress it; that it was\ntrue he must suffer a public punishment, at once as an example, and\nan earthly atonement for his crime; but the benign Saviour of mankind\nhad passed through all the ignominy of a public execution, with a\nresigned spirit, as an offering for the sins of others; and in virtue\nof that offering, he must himself hope for forgiveness, and suffer\nwith resignation.\n\nThe holy man left Mitford more collected in mind, and resolved to\nsubmit to his inevitable fate with piety and courage.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE morning dawned. The fatal bell had struck; the scaffold had been\nerected; the gaping multitude, anxious for some horrid show to awaken\ntheir morbid sensibilities, clogged up in thousands every avenue to\nthe sacrificial altar. Those whom the doom of the law had fixed that\nmorning to be their last, stood upon the scaffold; but Mitford was\nnot there; and the great unwashed, who had that day gone to enjoy the\nluxury of seeing a gentleman hung, returned disappointed of half the\nshow.\n\nThe mystery must be solved. The betrothed of Mitford had forwarded\na petition to the king, and another to the queen, requesting a\ncommutation of punishment; but these documents had to pass through so\nmany avenues of the palace, that they never reached the royal eye.\nReceiving no answer, and almost despairing of success, she flew to\nthe Secretary of State.\n\nSir Robert Peel then filled the responsible situation of the Home\nDepartment. And here let us pause, to do justice to one of the\ngreatest men of modern times; to one who, at no distant day, is\ndestined to fill a large space in the world's eye. His father, sprung\nfrom the canaille, by the aid of the spinning-jenny, left his son in\npossession of one of the most ample fortunes, even in the wealthiest\ncountry in the world. The father, of rank tory principles, was\nfarther recommended to royal notice, by the gift of twenty thousand\npounds to carry on a war, which, however unpopular with the nation,\na profligate ministry had induced that nation to believe its honor\ninterested in prosecuting. The son was thus introduced to royal\nfavor; and it is well known, that George the Third entertained\ngreat personal partiality for him. He commenced life as a statesman,\nhaving, in the outset of his political career, been inducted into the\noffice of Under Secretary of State. His whole public life has been a\nlife of office. His experience is thus greater than that of any man\nnow living. Unfortunately, having commenced his career as an advocate\nfor tory principles, his party have always pursued his leaning\ntoward more liberal principles as a crime, while the more liberal\nparty have always looked with suspicion on his aid, and viewed him\nas an enemy in their camp. As a debater, he is unrivalled; and if\nmany surpass him in those burning and flowery sentences by which\neloquence is distinguished, none equal him as a ready and always a\nsensible debater. But in our times, it unfortunately happens, that if\na man commences his life by advocating bad principles, consistency\nforces him to adhere to them. The present world of politics, unlike\nthe divine world to come, admits of no repentance. Once take your\ncourse in evil, you must adhere to it, if you wish to preserve your\nreputation. To change for the better, is certain perdition. Thus\nbecause Sir Robert Peel advocated Catholic emancipation, which he\nhad all his previous life opposed, every contumelious epithet that\nrancor could invent, was hurled at him by his old friends; while\nthe advocates of that measure viewed his accession to their ranks,\nnot merely with distrust, as but a late convert, but with jealousy,\nas tending to rob them of some portion of the merit of carrying it\non the very point of their success. And John Bull refused, from the\nhands of Sir Robert Peel and his colleagues, a greater measure of\nreform and retrenchment than even the original advocates held forth.\nThus it is, a thief may reform, or become a useful member of society,\nif he will only amend; but a politician must look to nothing but\nconsistency.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE fair Marguerite found no difficulty in gaining access to Sir\nRobert. Her beauty, her distress, her tale at once simple and\naffecting, all conspired to move him. He laid her petition and\nher woes at the foot of the throne. Majesty was pleased to find\nextenuating circumstances in Mitford's case, and a reprieve was\ngranted to him.\n\nThe bitter draught of grief had been too much for the gentle\nMarguerite. Her faculties had been too nervously awakened. While\nher lover required her aid, reason had kept its throne. His safety\ninsured, she became a maniac, and the inmate of a mad-house.\n\nStill farther mercy awaited our hero. After some detention in prison,\nhe was liberated, on condition that he should leave the kingdom,\nnever to return.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYEARS had now elapsed. Mitford's error and his shame had alike been\nforgotten; and it was supposed he was dead. It was not until the\ntempest of a new revolution awoke regenerated France to a sense of\nthe wrongs endeavored to be inflicted on her by a Bourbon, whose\nfamily a million of foreign bayonets had seated on the throne, and\nuntil Paris taught all the capitals of Europe how easily a large\ncity could resist a well-appointed army, that a ray of light was shed\nupon his fate.\n\nThe barriers of the Rue Richelieu had been erected by the people, and\nwere furiously attacked by squadrons of infantry and cavalry. The\nParisians, led by a most intrepid young man, evidently a foreigner,\ndefended it to the very utmost. Three charges had been made, and\nsuccessfully repulsed. A fourth threatened to carry the barriers.\nSome of the pickets were overthrown; and already had a few of the\nlight cavalry penetrated within. A few stout hearts strove hand to\nhand with the military, but numbers had given way. In this emergency,\nthe gallant leader of the people, waving his tri-colored flag, sprang\nin front of the wavering multitude. His gestures, his example,\nr\u00ebanimated them. Again they pressed forward, and bearing with them\nthe tide of victory, they successfully repulsed the military;\nbut their leader had sealed his conquest with his life. He fell,\nfighting hand to hand and foot to foot with the leader of the hostile\nsoldiery, and their bodies lay close together, in the sleep of death.\n\nThe strife of the three days past, honorable interment was awarded\nthe fallen and patriotic brave. Among the latter was not forgotten\nthe youthful stranger, who had so well defended the barriers of\nthe Rue Richelieu. The papers on his person proved him to be an\nEnglishman. That Englishman was FRANCIS MITFORD.\n\n\n\n\nSERENADE.\n\nFROM THE GERMAN OF B\u00dcRGER.--BY J. J. CAMPBELL.\n\n\n    I.\n\n    WITH song and lyre let sleep now fly;\n      To song and lyre take bounden heed!\n    The wakeful minstrel, that am I,\n      Fair sweetheart! ever true at need.\n    O, open thou the clear sunshine\n    Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!\n\n    II.\n\n    Through night and gloom I hither tramp,\n      At hour when spirits are in view;\n    Long since, there glimmers not a lamp\n      The hush'd-up cottage-window through:\n    Long since has rested, sweet and blest,\n    What love and fond desire let rest.\n\n    III.\n\n    On his wife's bosom cradled keeps\n      His weary head, the husband dear;\n    While to his favorite hen close creeps,\n      Upon the roost, good chanticleer;\n    And sparrow on the eaves is eyed,\n    Couching with true-love by his side.\n\n    IV.\n\n    Oh! when will these dull times be sped,\n      Until I too creep close to thee;\n    Until in sweet repose my head\n      Upon thy bosom nestled be?\n    When lead'st thou me unto the side\n    O, priest! of my sweet little bride?\n\n    V.\n\n    How would I then so heartily,\n      So dear, so very dear, thee hold!\n    How would I, oh! how would then we\n      Each other in our arms enfold!\n    Yet patience! time, too, slippeth on--\n    Be thou but true, my darling one!\n\n    VI.\n\n    And now, dear soul! good-night once more;\n      God keep thee with his shelt'ring might!\n    What God keeps, that is well watch'd o'er,\n      And kept from danger and affright.\n    Adieu!--now close the sunny shine\n    Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!\n\n\n\n\nMOHEGAN LANGUAGE AND GEOGRAPHICAL NAMES.\n\n\nTO THE EDITORS OF THE KNICKERBOCKER:\n\n                         _Michilimackinack, August 2, 1837._\n\nIN making some inquiries recently of a party of the Mohegan\ntribe--the remnant of whom have made their way to this quarter within\na few years--I find that they have preserved their traditionary\nhistory for the last two centuries, or more, with a degree of\naccuracy which is not common to the native tribes in this region.\nIt is very well known, from published data, that this ancient tribe\noccupied Long-Island and the contiguous main land, on the discovery\nof the country, whence in process of time they withdrew eastwardly\ninto Connecticut, and afterward went west into Massachusetts. They\nappear, from the first, to have had the means of instruction, which\nhave been continued up to the present time, with perhaps less\ninterruption than among most of the other tribes. This may account in\npart for the better preservation of their traditions. Many of them\nbeing able to read, could refer to some things in printed documents.\nOthers appear to have retained with tenacity that traditionary lore\nwhich the aged among the tribes generally employ the leisure of their\nsuperannuated days in handing down to the young.\n\nDuring the long residence of this tribe at Stockbridge, (Mass.,) they\nwere commonly Stockbridges, and after the revolutionary war, when\nthey transferred their residence to Oneida, in western New-York, they\nnaturally retained this name, and finally bore it with them to their\npresent location in Wisconsin territory. I disclaim any intention\nto sketch their history; and wish no farther to allude to it, than\nappears to be necessary to bring forward a few facts in the character\nof their language, and particularly their names for the places of\ntheir former residence, on the lower parts of the Hudson. And as this\nis a matter of which but little is generally known, it has appeared\nto me of sufficient local interest, to justify the liberty I take in\naddressing these remarks to you.\n\nThe Mohegan is readily recognised as a type of the Algonquin or (as\nMr. Gallatin has recently denominated it,) the 'Lenapee-Algonkin'\nfamily, and bears a strong resemblance, both in sound and syntax,\nto the dialects of some of the existing lake tribes. This affinity\nis very striking in its grammatical structure, and its primitive\nwords. Derivatives, with all our tribes, are subject to interchange\ntheir consonants, or drop them entirely, which creates a necessity of\nbeing constantly on the alert to detect these exchanges. Moreover,\nthe accent is uniformly moved, or doubled, often creating primary\nand secondary accents in the same phrase, which, in an unwritten\nlanguage, is alone sufficient to account for numerous mutations. But\nwhat, more than any other principle, affects the _sound_ of Indian\nwords, in their concrete and derivative states, is the large stock\nof (so to say) floating particles, which come into these words in\nthe shape of prefixes and suffixes. These are, in their offices,\nalmost as numerous as the purposes of person, tense, number, quality,\nposition, etc., may require. But while their respective office\nremains precisely the same, in almost any given number of dialects\nin a mother language, it is found that the several tribes pique\nthemselves in giving these auxiliary particles a sound peculiar to\nthemselves, by which something like _nationality_ is kept up. Thus\nin two dialects indicating the least change in the primitives or\nderivatives, to be found among all the tribes, namely, the Chippewa\nand Ottowa, these particles, which, in the animate class for plural,\nare denoted by UG, and in the local inflections by ONG, and ING, in\nthe one dialect, are respectively changed to UK, ONK, and INK, in the\nother.\n\nSimilar to this process, seems to have been the result of change\nbetween the ancient Algonquin and the Mohegan, the latter, like the\nOttowa, constantly substituting K for G, and P for B, etc., but in\nother respects, it exhibits numerous gutturals, and some aspirates,\nwhich are but rarely found in the liquid flow of the Algic. It also\nembraces the (perhaps) Gothic sound of TH, which is wholly unknown\n(the Shawnee excepted) to the modern lake dialects.\n\nGeographical terms, with the Indians, are found generally to unite\nsome natural quality in the features or productions of the country\nwith an indication of the locality; so that their names are not, as\nwith us, simple nominatives, but (as in all other cases in these\npeculiar languages) the quality, action, etc., transfers itself to\nthe object, and is expressed in a consolidated phrase. This is one\nof the most constant and distinguishing traits of these languages.\nTheir nouns and adjectives, therefore, as well as their verbs, are\ntransitives. Even their prepositions take a transitive character, and\nlink themselves, as with 'hooks of steel,' to the objects to which\nthey are applied. Thus their name for the island from which this\nletter is dated, is Place of the Gigantic Fa\u00ebries, or, by another\ninterpretation, Place of the Great Turtle. Detroit is, (literally\ntranslated,) Round-ward, or Rounds-by Place, denoting the sinuosities\nof the river in its approach. Sault St. Marie, 'At the Shallow Water\nwith Rocks.' In another class of derivative words, the union of the\nsubstantive and adjective is without a local inflection, as in their\nname for Lake Superior, which is simply called, The Sea Waters;\nMississippi, The Great River; Michigan, The Great Lake, etc.\n\nThis principle is found most fully to pervade the Mohegan. I\nrequested one of the chiefs of the party above referred to, to\npronounce their name for Long-Island. He replied, PAUM-NUK-KAH-HUK,\nsignifying, Place of the Long Land. The name of the coast opposite to\nthis island, at the mouth of the Hudson, or rather, across the Sound,\nhe pronounced MON-AH'-TON-UK. Dropping the local inflection UK,\nmeaning place, or land, we have the elements of Manhattan, the latter\nof which preserves the original quite as well as the generality\nof Indian names transmitted by English enunciation. Philologists\nwill perceive, farther, that the aspirate H would be very naturally\nprefixed to the second syllable, while the sound of O, being the\nsound of O in the French word _ton_, might be expressed, nearly as\nwell, by some of the modified sounds of A.\n\nJudged by similar means of analysis, Sing-Sing is a corruption\nof OSIN-SINK, _i. e._, Place of Stones, or Rocks; Neversink from\nNAWAISINK, a phrase descriptive of highlands equi-distant between\ntwo waters, as Raritan Bay and the Atlantic. Minisink is, literally,\nPlace of the Island. Tappan Sea _appears_ to be a derivative from a\nband of the Mohegans, who dwelt there, called TAPONSEES, or rather\nfrom the name of their village. After getting through the Highlands,\nnames of Mohawk derivation occur. Poughkeepsie, Warwarsing, and\nCoxsackie, are, however, clearly of Mohegan origin. So far as I\nrecollect, the ancient name of Albany, SKE-NEK-TA-DA, is the first\nterm of the Iroquois type of languages, in ascending the Hudson,\nof which any notice is preserved. In proceeding east, west, or\nsouth-west from that point, geographical names of this character\nuniversally prevail. But it is to be remarked, that but few sonorous\nnames occur, until reaching the districts of country formerly\npossessed by the Oneidas, Onondagas, and other western branches of\nthis confederacy.\n\n        I am, gentlemen, very respectfully,\n\n                    Your Obedient Servant,\n\n                                       HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT.\n\n\n\n\nA FAREWELL.\n\n    FARE thee well!--the word is spoken,\n      That makes the past a dream to me;\n    The long delicious spell is broken--\n      Yet fare thee well, since thou art free!\n\n    Yes! thou art free; but oh, how shatter'd\n      This faithful heart thou couldst not know,\n    Nor see each crush'd affection scatter'd,\n      And yet with chilling coldness go!\n\n    Perchance unto this bosom's yearning,\n      Thou'dst answer with some kindred sigh,\n    Or seek to quell its secret burning,\n      With one glance from thy pitying eye.\n\n    Yet were it so, how would it cherish\n      That tender look, 'a death in life;'\n    Oh! better far at once to perish,\n      Than linger through hope's fever'd strife!\n\n    Then fare thee well!--mid others ranging,\n      Thou carest not to look on me;\n    Nor heedest the true love, unchanging,\n      That like a beacon, shines for thee.\n\n    Yet when the meteor has departed,\n      That lur'd thee to the world's caress,\n    When languid, drooping, broken-hearted,\n      Thou sinkest back in weariness;\n\n    Then come to one, who, though forsaken,\n      Still loved thee on, through weal and wo;\n    Nor would one memory awaken,\n      That o'er thy path a shade could throw.\n\n    Yes, come! and like the star of even,\n      My love shall cheer thine earthly way,\n    And in the blessed light of heaven,\n      Shine on, an ever-constant ray!\n\n                                                    M. E. L.\n\n\n\n\nWILSON CONWORTH.\n\nNUMBER SIX.\n\n\n'WEAK and irresolute is man.' I record a fault of human nature, as\nwell as my own. I resolved and re-resolved, and am the same. Do I\nnot blush while recording this weakness? Alas! I am dead to feeling,\nas it regards my fellows. I have no communion with the world, now. I\npass by, unnoticed and unknown. Still, I have a love for mankind; and\nI make these confessions, hoping they may prove of use to others. I\ndaily see others in the same predicament as myself, or, if not so far\nadvanced, yet pursuing a course which will inevitably lead them where\nI now am. Yes! where I am; and what is that state? Solitariness,\napathy, disgust, fretfulness, heart-ache; the absence of all the\ngentle sympathies of life; the death of all domestic affection; the\nfamiliarity of the vulgar and low-bred; the sneer of the foolish\nprosperous man; the contempt of the small thriving gleaner; the\nneglect of the busy, and the pity of the good. Oh! yes! one comfort\nyet remains; the prayers of the pious and truly religious.\n\nBut to my story. As hope began to fade from the heart of my dear\nAlice; as she saw I was beyond the influence of her prayers and\nentreaties; as she began to be acquainted with the real state of my\nhabits; as she began to see, that not even my love for her availed\nany thing she began to despair. She had involved herself too deeply\nto retract. Her feelings had acquired the habit of loving me; and\nindeed, though an idle young man, I do not think it strange that such\ndevotion and tenderness as I sometimes really felt and bestowed upon\nher, should have awakened some return.\n\nI was well-bred, had a good person, could sing passably well,\nby myself, write good poetry, and was passionate and hot in my\nevidences of affection. I was an enthusiast, and women like decided\ntastes. They feel an assurance, a confidence in your good, quiet,\nsmooth-faced, unexcitable, sensible man, if he be young, especially;\nbut they love life and animation, even though it lead to slight\nerrors. Women know the difficulty of restraining the feelings within\nthe bounds of propriety; they are most open to impressions; the\nreal creatures of feeling, they love feeling in others. They have\nmany struggles with what they wish, and what they ought to do. They\nestimate in men the ardor of the temptation, as an offset to the\nfault. Hence they are forgiving.\n\nWomen are obliged to keep a constant guard over themselves. They know\ntheir own weakness, and self-protection arms them to the task. Many\na high-souled woman knows this. When you do find a well-disciplined\ncharacter in the female form, what a noble one it is! The labor of\nthe undertaking, the education of self-control, has made her great.\nShe is a whole host. Look at her influence in society; see the\nmajesty of her deportment, the easy assurance of her countenance. How\ncommon men quail before her! What respect and attention she exacts\nfrom the titled profligate, and the talented vicious! She is all\nthat is exalted on earth. There is no beauty to compare with such\nbeauty; no wealth with such charms. She is the nicest workmanship of\nGod; and in her dwells a soul that scatters blessings around her.\n'The heart of her husband delighteth in her, and he has no need of\nspoil.'\n\nReader, if you are a father, and have seen the son of your hopes,\nthe inheritor of your name, the bearer of your form and features,\ngradually falling a victim to low vices; if you are a mother, and can\ntrace, in those features now bloated with excess, and in that eye\nnow dimmed with sensuality, the semblance to the babe that drew its\nearliest food from your pure bosom, and remember that eye upturned\nto your face as the innocent lay cradled in your arms; if you are\na sister, and mourn the ruin of your bed-fellow; or a brother, and\nseen your playmate in prison, you may form some notion of what the\nemotions of a fond heart are, when it beholds its stay gone, its\nprospects blighted, and its love thrown away upon an unworthy object.\nNo! not altogether unworthy, but with just enough of good to keep\nalive the love, while it mocks all efforts to draw consolation, to\nanswer the chord in her own bosom.\n\nLove wishes its object to be perfect. None can or must compare\nwith its choice. How fondly does woman cheat herself, if she\ncan, into the belief that her choice is fortunate beyond human\nfortune! I weep--even I, who have not wept for years for my own\nmisfortunes--I weep, as I recall the memory of the tears she shed\nover my irrevocable ruin. She did know my character, at last, and she\npredicted, even in spite of her love, all that has happened.\n\nShall I record that these tears were not a source of pain to me then?\nThey satisfied my vanity. I always reserved reformation to myself,\nand thought she was mistaken; and these scalding tears, as they\ncoursed down her cheeks, told me that I was beloved. Not even the\nmisery of the object of my affection could prevent a triumph that I\nhad over her--_her_, the sought-for by many--that I was preferred\namong a multitude. Is this nature? Was I hard-hearted? Would not any\none feel the same? Let the reader examine his own heart, and answer.\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nAT this time, and in this very village, there lived a gentleman, in\nthe truest sense of the term, by the name of Edward Lang. He was a\nman of high family, of aristocratic notions, and thought literature\nthe chief object worthy of pursuit. At the time I saw him, he bore\nthe ills of poverty, the burden of a broken heart, and disappointed\nhopes. He possessed a well-stored mind, unwearied benevolence, and\na Tremaine-like refinement. He had, in the early part of his life,\nencumbered a large fortune with debts of extravagance, idleness,\nand folly; and at a subsequent period, lost the remainder in\nscheming; for he thought that his pr\u00ebeminence in literature gave him\npr\u00ebeminence in every thing.\n\nEvery body applauded his plans; they were upon a large scale; they\nredounded to the good of the place, and ruined him.\n\nBred a lawyer, the unfairness of country practice, the low and\ndegraded crowd it brought him in contact with, caused him to throw up\nhis profession. He took to farming; but he only tried experiments, to\nthe advantage of other people, and his own loss. He got up all sorts\nof useful societies, which cost him his time, and paid him nothing.\nHe bought all the new works for other people to read; subscribed\nliberally to reading-rooms and schools. He fatted cattle for the\nagricultural society, at six times their worth in corn and care.\nEvery body in the village improved their own stock by his; but then\nall this took money from his pocket.\n\nHe did not know the state of his affairs, because he hated\nsettlements. He could not bring himself down to the drudgery of life,\nbut did his farming scientifically, in his study, and left the work\nto hired hands. He failed, and nobody pitied him. He began to be\ncalled a 'poor good-for-nothing fellow,' whose chimeras had brought\nhim down. All his neighbors sued him, and he suffered all who owed\nhim to go undunned. He gave up all for lost; sat himself down in\nwretchedness, disgusted with the world, and tired of himself.\n\nI was quite intimate with this gentleman. Being much my senior,\nfor he was about fifty, and a bachelor, he took it upon himself to\ngive me a word of advice. He had been in love himself, and that\ndesperately; though unfortunate in his love affairs, as well as all\nothers. The father of the lady objected to him, on the score of his\nbeing unfit to make money. He possessed hordes of wealth, himself,\nand could have made two hearts happy. But no; this would not do.\nHis ideas of excellence consisted in the faculty of making money\nand keeping it. 'As for literature and refinement, he did not care\nfor them. _He_ was not a literary man,' he said, 'and yet he was\nrich, and respected; a president of a bank; had been an unsuccessful\ncandidate for congress, which was _some_ honor, and had it in\nhis power to fill any office in the town he would accept. No; he\npreferred a man of business for a son-in-law.'\n\nHe found one; a coarse, rough, unlettered country-merchant, whose\nideas were bounded by the length and breadth of his counter; whose\nwhole soul was given to traffic. A sloven, except on Sundays and\ncourting-days, and then only clean on the outside. This fair,\ndelicate, daughter of wealth, possessed of a mind and education much\nbeyond her family's comprehension, was wedded to this '_respectable_'\nman. Her heart was broken by this savage act of parental authority.\nShe died during the first year of her wedlock, and Edward Lang was\nfor two years deranged, and woke from this sleep of reason, to find\nhimself without hope, without motive, without sympathy.\n\nHe took to his books; he shut out the world, and dwelt upon the\nbeautiful and good in theory; lived in a love for the generous, the\nexalted, and happy scenes of his imagination. When forced abroad by\nhis friends, he seemed lost and unhappy; he was disturbed from this\nresting which an unfortunate mind derives from picturing for others\nwhat he knows can never be for him.\n\nBy the world at large he was said to nourish false views of things,\nbecause he had a higher standard than the world generally live by.\nBy these means he unfitted himself for society, and was voted dull,\neccentric, and love-sick. Time, however, softened his regrets, and\nhe came out in the scheming life I have referred to, in which, by\nacting by principle and science, even in the work of agriculture, he\nlost his all.\n\nWhen I was introduced to him, he was living with an old aunt, upon\nhis paternal estate. Though poor, they had about them those marks of\nrefinement, which well-educated people will contrive to weave out of\ncommon materials. Whether on the farm, in the garden, at his table,\nin church, or in the street, no one could see Mr. Lang, and not say\nwith certainty that he was a gentleman. The aunt belonged to the old\nschool of ladies, rather prim and stiff; and yet her benevolent face,\nher self-possession, and quiet dignity, gave her great influence in\nsociety. Her reading and good sense, her piety and patience, were\nproverbial. Every body called her 'madam,' and treated her with\nmarked respect. I was on the most familiar terms at their house; for\nI believe they felt that I appreciated them. It was the sympathy of\npeople educated in the same way.\n\nThis gentleman was of great service to me. From the examination of\nhis own feelings, he had learned much of the nature of passion; from\nsevere suffering, he had become acquainted with misfortune. I used to\nconfide to him all my sorrows, and I told him my struggles. He saw my\nremorse, and pitied my irresolution.\n\nAlice, too, had confidence in him. They often rode together; and\nhis age and purity of life, and the nice delicacy of his feelings,\ninduced her to open her heart to him. He felt flattered, as well he\nmight, by the trust this noble girl reposed in him. But, beside, he\nhad read so much of love, thought so much of it, and suffered so much\nfor it, that he engaged in the contemplation of our affairs with\nthe _go\u00fbt_ of an epicure over a favorite dish. He lived over again\nhours of past endearment of his own. He felt young and ardent, as he\nlistened to the recital of conversations and difficulties which I,\nwith the greenness of a boy, always told him.\n\nThings had arrived at a pass dangerous for both of us; and as yet her\nparents knew nothing. One of our conversations happened to be heard\nby the lady's mamma, and papa was informed of all. He was surprised,\nbut affected to treat the matter quite coldly; told me I was too\nyoung, too unsettled, to think of matrimony, and very politely\nforbade me his house; 'as,' he said, 'the sooner we forgot each other\nthe better.'\n\nI ought to confess, here, that my habits had got to be quite\nirregular. I attended horse-races, tavern-suppers, balls, and\nsometimes drinking-parties, when the society was by no means the most\nselect; and to drown the mortification, and get to the level of my\ncompanions, I ran into excesses that shattered my nerves, and made me\nunfit, for days, for any calm reflection.\n\nI have always felt the consequences of this mode of life. Even\nthe best minds will become tainted by contact with vulgarity and\ncoarseness. The purest taste will get degraded, in a measure, by\nconstant intercourse with low persons, such as young men who have\nnothing to do usually meet about taverns, stage-houses, and strolling\ntheatres. We even acquire habits of speaking and pronunciation, and\nof cant terms, which are beneath a gentleman.\n\nWhen low-bred men engage in pleasure, 'plenty of stuff to drink' is\ndeemed the first essential. We are getting rid, to be sure, of the\ncharacter of 'a nation of drunkards;' but when I was a boy, liquors\nwere set out upon all occasions; at weddings, at funerals, dinners,\ncalls, paying money, or dunning-visits. People in the country, of\nrespectability, used to drink at eleven o'clock in the forenoon,\nand at four in the afternoon. That was genteel. The class who drank\nbefore breakfast then, now drink only at eleven; and those who drank\nonly at eleven, drink not at all.\n\nIt was the custom, too, to drink before meals for an appetite; for\nappetite was considered a mark of health, however produced. Among\nvery good sort of people, this was a common notion, that a man could\nwork in proportion to the food he took into his stomach; so workmen\nwere swilled with drams for an appetite.\n\nIt is certainly true, that temperance societies cannot hope for any\npermanent results in their exertions, unless there is a corresponding\nmovement in other societies. Education societies, peace societies,\ntemperance societies, and religious societies, they all have a common\nobject and common cause, to ameliorate the state of man. They point\nto a common centre. People will not become temperate, and remain\nirreligious, and quarrelsome, and ignorant. I have often thought it\nwould be well to turn all our efforts to educating mankind; and I\nbelieve all other objects would be protected by the course of events.\nBut it is very questionable whether any benefit can result from\ntaking down names to pledges not to drink spirits, in places where\nschools are not supported, nor the house of God attended.\n\nIn this village, every body drank at times, at parties and balls;\nand to be a little boosy, was by no means disreputable. Judges,\nmembers of congress, lawyers, doctors, mingled in these frolics, for\npopularity's sake; and the people at large thought, of course, they\nmight go, upon the strength of such examples, to any extent.\n\nIf I had, by retirement, escaped the contamination of what are called\n'glossed vices' in the city, in the country I contracted habits of a\ngrosser nature. I do not mean to be understood as being a drunkard;\nbut I had frequent 'scrapes;' my selection of associates was less\nnice; my delicacy less; my sense of honor less accurately defined. I\nlost, in refinement of feeling, immeasurably.\n\nTaking all these things into view, it is no wonder that my intended\nfather-in-law looked upon me with suspicious eyes. He was a man\nwho had seen the ruin of many a likely young farmer and mechanic,\nfrom the same beginnings; and he was by no means pleased with my\nprospects. So I was forbidden to think of his daughter. She was sent\nout of town, I could not tell where, and I immediately left the\nvillage of N---- for a wider sphere of dissipation.\n\nI returned to the city, coarse in my manners, rough in my\nappearance--thanks to the country tailor!--with large whiskers,\nand a swaggering bar-room air. I found, upon comparing myself with\ncity appearances, that I was at least ten years behind the age. I\nblushed, looked ashamed, and avoided former acquaintances, who would\ngreet me with, 'Well, Conworth, where the devil have you been?' or,\n'Where the devil did you get those whiskers?' Mind, reader, I had\nbeen sentimental for a year, and when I was with gentlemen, was as\nstiff as country gentlemen usually are. Think, then, how my feelings\nmust have been shocked at such familiarity, when I was looking as\ngrave as an owl, dressed up in my long-tailed coat, large pantaloons,\nnicely polished thick boots, and long-napped, broad-brimmed hat, with\nwhiskers covering the sides of my face, and my complexion the color\nof a coal-heaver.\n\nTailors and time work wonders; and in a short time my country friends\nwould hardly have known me. I soon settled down into courses of\ndissolute life. I had no restraints. I imagined myself a martyr to\nlove, and was, indeed, unhappy; persuaded myself that I had no hope,\nand particularly when about half drunk, I sighed like a furnace.\n\nI spent one year, one precious year, of my youth in this manner. I\nwas desperate; lived away from home, and only visited my friends when\nI was in want of money.\n\nSometimes, when my stomach was deranged, and my brain flighty, I\nmeditated self-destruction. I was only at ease when rioting in\nexcitement. I kept all sorts of company, and indulged in all sorts\nof vices. I cannot imagine a more dissolute young man than I was in\nconduct, who keeps himself this side of penal crime; though it is\nworthy of remark, that I never recollect having indulged in any vice,\nunless under artificial stimulus.\n\nI believe my father thought himself a little in the wrong, by\nsuffering such desertion as I met with from all my friends. He pitied\nme, and in the most affectionate manner persuaded me to return to his\nhouse. A word of kindness was to me like manna in the wilderness.\nI eagerly acceded to his proposal. He paid me every attention, and\nactually left his business, and travelled with me for two months, and\nendeavoured to bring my mind back to pleasant reflections; for I was\nindeed almost a maniac. This was the balm in Gilead to my sick mind.\nI came to myself, and with my father's permission I went to spend the\nremainder of my clerkship at the celebrated law-school at L----.\n\nI have always had the strongest inducements to do well. After all my\nerrors, before I left home, the friends of our family vied in showing\nme kindness. I was in a constant round of the most refined society.\nTo be sure, I had the _\u00e9clat_ of having been disappointed in love\nwith the finest girl in the country; and any thing about love is\ninteresting; and to be crazy or drunk for love, is not so bad as to\nbe so for any other cause.\n\nI was grateful for these favors and attentions; and when I left\nhome for the law lectures, I really believe all my friends were\nfirmly persuaded that I was an instance of wonderful reformation. So\ncredulous and forgiving are our friends for the sake of what they\nknow we can and ought to be!\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nI WISH my reader could sympathize with me, upon coming thus far in my\nhistory. I am aware that I have written nothing of much importance,\nso far as incident may be looked for. But, to my view, life is rather\na succession of feelings and sentiments, than of actions. It fills\nme with inexpressible satisfaction, to find that I have mastered my\nadversaries, idleness and irresolution, in this instance, and have\ncome to this point. It is the longest and most arduous task I have\never performed, for it is a work of continued exertion. I have never\nflagged from it; and the idea that some good inferences may be drawn\nfrom these pages, by the young among my own countrymen, so that my\nlife may not pass away without one useful act, one deed of positive\ngood, has supported me.\n\nLet every idler, if he wishes to enjoy one happy hour, set about\ndoing something, no matter what. Let him undertake to commit a\nchapter in the Bible to memory, or copy some piece of writing, or to\nmake any intellectual exertion; but let it be definite; not take a\nwalk, or a journey, or any thing that requires movement of the body,\nbut still, continued, uninterrupted study and attention. Idlers are\nthe veriest busy-bodies we know, and always flying about in some\nshape or other. They are idle with the appearance of industry, and\ndeceive every body but themselves. While the world looks on, and\nwonders at their diligence, they are passing hours, days, years,\nof the most insupportable care, the care of finding something to\ndo. I know something of the tedium of this life, and confess, that\nthe hours spent in these records have been the happiest of my life,\nbecause I have had an end, an object, constantly in view.\n\nMy debts all paid once more, my character again r\u00ebinstated, my purse\nwell supplied, my wardrobe in the newest fashion, and abundant as I\ncould pack, behold the rustic of a year's standing, the lover, whose\nheart was broken, getting into the stage for L----, the place of the\ncelebrated law-school; while Thomas, dressed in the self-same suit\nin which I had arrived some year before, is packing the trunks on\nbehind. Alas! the association of that event and those pantaloons!\nReader, they did put me in mind of the romantic hills and valley of\nN----, and then of Alice Clair; though to get to these affecting\nthoughts, I had to pass through the tailor's shop where they were\nmade. There is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and so\nbackward from the ridiculous to the sublime.\n\nBut in the height of my satisfaction in being permitted to take\na new start in the world, under such favorable auspices, my\nlove-disappointment did not weigh very heavily upon my heart. I had\nalready, as I thought, performed all my promises of being a good\nstudent, etc., for I wished to, and I took the will for the deed.\nI wished it so much, that not a doubt or misgiving disturbed the\nserenity of my mind. I esteemed it a settled matter, that I was, in\nthe first place, to make myself remarkable as a student; and then,\nwithout any trouble, to walk directly to the top of the profession. I\nwas a sanguine----fool!\n\nThis confidence inspired my father with golden hopes; and when we\nparted, he told me he was the happiest man in the city. 'Now, my\nson,' said he, 'you are old enough (I was twenty) to begin to form a\ncharacter; all your wild oats are sown; the past is forgotten; you\nhave your destiny in your own hands. Write to me often; tell me all\nyour wishes; and (here the devil jogged his elbow) draw upon me, if\nyou want more money. God bless you, my dear boy!' The tears started\nin his eyes; mine were wet, too. As I got into the stage, (mark the\nbaseness of my heart!) I dwelt mostly upon the words, 'Draw upon me,\nif you want more money.' My eyes ceased their weeping. I addressed\nsome gay make-acquaintance remarks to a fellow passenger, and as we\nrattled over the bridge in the velocipede line of coaches, forgot\nevery thing but the beauty of the morning, and only wondered how long\nit would be before breakfast.\n\nSo contemptible is the _spirit_ of youth, in its blind passion for\npleasure. All the higher, nobler feelings sink into insignificance,\ncompared with its own selfish enjoyments. Pleasure, love of pleasure,\ntramples upon the holy influences of home; it steels the heart\nto filial affection; it saps the juices of youth; and leaves the\nyoung body prematurely cold, and lifeless, and insensible, to the\nnatural action of all those relations and sentiments, that reason is\nintended to draw its moral food from. The mother 'who watched o'er\nour childhood' is forgotten; the father disregarded, and the sister's\nface is crimsoned with shame for us, and we ourselves are lost. And\nfor what? For an hour's amusement; a short-lived enjoyment; an empty\nsound of revelry, and unmeaning mirth.\n\nWhat inconsistency! Hardly had I got a step from my father's door;\nhardly had my fingers lost the affectionate pressure of his hand,\nwhen the evil genius stepped in, to scatter the impressions which a\nmoment before seemed so fixed.\n\nSince the time of my mother's death, I never had passed the door of\nthe chamber where she died, without thinking of the evening when\nI visited her corpse, alone--a pure boy, free from all vice, all\ncontamination--and then drawing the comparison between the present\nand the past. Such reflections always gave me pain, and summoned up\nall the resolution I was master of. I am convinced, that, if I had\nhad a mother until my mind had acquired strength and firmness, I\nshould have been a better and a happier man.\n\nA father's love acts upon us later in life, but a mother leads us\nup to God. She bends and moulds our tender minds to her purposes so\ngently, that we are hardly aware of the pressure; but the father\nadmires, and praises, and waters the more vigorous branches of our\ngrowth.\n\nOur reading, our studies, sermons, nature, observation, tend to give\nto the mother a poetical interest in our hearts, in after years,\nwhen she is dead. She is the nucleus about which gather some of the\nmost beautiful associations of our manhood. When we ourselves have\nchildren, we find out what is the nature of parental affection, and\nwe look back with regret that we did not know and estimate it better,\nso that the homage of our love might have been more devoted, for what\nis so worthy of being repaid.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RED MAN.\n\n\n    I LOVE the Indian. Ere the white man came,\n    And taught him vice, and infamy, and shame,\n    His soul was noble. In the sun he saw\n    His God, and worshipped him with trembling awe.\n    Though rude his life, his bosom never beat\n    With polished vices, nor with dark deceit.\n\n\n\n\nA MOTHER'S GRIEF.\n\nA SKETCH FROM LIFE.--BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.\n\n\n    I.\n\n    TO mark, the sufferings of the babe\n      That cannot speak its wo;\n    To see the infant tears gush forth,\n      Yet know not why they flow;\n    To meet the meek, uplifted eye,\n      That fain would ask relief,\n    Yet can but tell of agony--\n      This is a mother's grief.\n\n    II.\n\n    Through dreary days and darker nights,\n      To trace the march of death;\n    To hear the faint and frequent sigh,\n      The quick and shortened breath;\n    To watch the last dread strife draw near,\n      And pray that struggle brief,\n    Though all be ended with the close--\n      This is a mother's grief.\n\n    III.\n\n    To see, in one short hour, decayed\n      The hope of future years;\n    To feel how vain a father's prayers,\n      How vain a mother's tears:\n    To think the cold grave now must close\n      O'er what was once the chief\n    Of all the treasured joys of earth--\n      This is a mother's grief.\n\n    IV.\n\n    Yet when the first wild throb is past\n      Of anguish and despair,\n    To lift the eye of faith to heaven,\n      And think 'My child is there!'\n    This best can dry the gushing tear,\n      This yields the heart relief,\n    Until the Christian's pious hope\n      O'ercomes a mother's grief.\n\n\n\n\nEYES AND LIPS.\n\nFROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A WESTERN BACHELOR.\n\n\nAN ingenious friend, who has a saturnine cast of complexion,\nmaintains with great zeal, that dark eyes are indicative of a higher\norder of intellect than those of other colors. This doctrine meets\nwith great favor from every one whose eyes are black, while those\nthat are blue, hazel, or gray, kindle with indignation at such\nmonstrous absurdity. Our friend borrows a very happy illustration\nfrom nature, and says, that as the wildest and most vivid flashes of\nlightning burst from the blackest clouds, so do the most brilliant\nemanations of mind glare from the darkest eyes. Whether there be any\ntruth in this doctrine, or not, it must be admitted, that our friend\nhas the authority of the poets on his side. From immemorial time,\nthey have been sonnetizing dark and black eyes, to the almost utter\nneglect of all others. Your novelists never in painting a heroine,\nsay she has gray eyes; but all their poetical fictions see with those\nthat are large, languishing, lustrous, and dark.\n\nThe vividness of an eye's expression is not dependent on its color.\nThe eye is most expressive, whose owner has the most thought and\nfeeling. The eye expresses the language of the mind and heart; and\nwhether light or dark, wherever there is strong emotion, it manifests\nit. A man is a better reader of the meaning of a woman's eye, than he\nis of one of his own gender; and a lady discovers more indications in\nthe eyes of the opposite sex, than can the most scrutinizing man.\n\nThe eye is the most poetical of features; and ample testimony has\nbeen borne, in all time, to its superiority in this particular.\nThere is much poetry in the smile of one we love; but there is more\nin the gleaming kindness of an eye from which the concentrated\nrays of feeling, thought, and sentiment, are looking forth. Did\nyou never look into the tranquil depths of an eye, and see the\nshadows of thoughts winging their flight onward? Did you never read\nwhole chapters about the sympathy of souls in them? If not, your\nobservation has not been acute, nor your love very devout.\n\nThe sublime science of astrology, which once commanded the faith of\nthe learned, has been laughed at by the wisdom or scepticism of more\nmodern times. The doctrines and the devotion of those old readers of\nthe stars have been discarded; and to the human eye the only relict\nof astrology now on earth has been confided. Lovers are the sole\ninheritors of the romantic doctrines bequeathed by elder astrologers\nto posterity. They do not cast devout looks toward the bespangled\nfirmament, at night; but to them, the brow of a beloved being is a\nheaven, and the eye is the star that unfolds to them the shadows of\ntheir coming destinies. Their ancestors read the decrees of fate in\nthe glittering watchers of the night-season, and they foresee the\nmysteries of the future in the expressions which shift and play upon\nthe eye. If the eye of his mistress sparkles at his approach, it is\nthe precursor of after joy. If the murky shadow of a frown rests upon\nit, it is the foreshadowing of the woe to come. To the lover, the\neye of his mistress is ever eloquent, of hope or fear, of triumph or\ndefeat. It is the polar star of his hope, the cynosure of his faith;\nand the complexion of the future changes, as her eye wanes into\nshadow, or waxes into the light of day.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA WHOLESOME lip is a thing to be loved. People are too much in\nthe habit of regarding lips as mere appendages to the 'human face\ndivine'--ornaments, like ear-rings, to set off its beauty. This is\nto detract from their true use and excellence. They serve other\npurposes, and are indices of character.\n\nA wholesome lip is of the complexion of a morello cherry. It pouts\nlike a rosebud, and might lead a bee astray, as the grapes of Zeuxis\ndid the birds. When kissing was in fashion, gallants of taste showed\na flattering preference for lips of this kind. There was a flavor\nabout them--ambrosia, on which young Love fed and grew fat. The\ndisciple of Socrates was feminine in the matter of lips, for bees\nhovered over them; and the judgment of a bee, in this respect, is\nscarcely inferior to that of a bachelor under thirty.\n\nIn general, people are disposed to think their noses of more\nimportance than their lips, and many saucy noses seem to be of the\nsame way of thinking; since we see them turning up with an expression\nof high disdain, as if the lips were so inferior as to merit scorn.\nNo 'genteel,' well-behaved nose, is guilty of such dastardly\neffrontery. Such an one, it is true, may at times flap its nostrils,\nand crow lustily over its neighbors, as if it were 'cock of the\nwalk;' but there is a soft insinuation about an eloquent lip, that\ncuts the comb of the braggart, and tames the monarch down to a mere\nrepublican.\n\nOur maiden aunt Sally wore a lip, which, like her matrimonial\nchances, was rather shrivelled. It was a mere streak along the\nhorizon; an indistinct margin along an ocean of mouth; a strip to\ntell you where her teeth were. My aunt died husbandless. If she had\nwedded, her bridal kiss would have been interesting. She saluted\nmy cheek once, when, like Fanny, I was 'younger than I am now, and\nprettier--of course!' I thought the sensation like a gentle bite.\nInstead of soft, spongy flesh, her lips seemed like scraps of flesh,\niron-bound. Sometimes she puckered them up like the orifice of her\nreticule; and this was an infallible precursor of a coming storm.\nXantippe had a thin, bluish, unwaving lip. Beware of such!\n\nMy nurse was a grizzly-headed negro woman; and her gift of underlip\nwas stupendous. It poured down, a real cataract of lip. It was\nwithout model, although not without shadow. She was deficient in\nchin, and her lip circled over her lower jaw-bone, in shape and size\nresembling a half-grown grey-hound's ear. At a distance, you might\nhave mistaken it for an extra allowance of tongue, which her mouth\ncould not contain. It was awful! That is, to think of kissing such\na thing! When the old woman bustled about, it shivered like a sheep\nin shearing-time; and when she jumped, it flapped over her under-jaw\nlike the wing of a squat pigeon.\n\nAmong the ladies, there are two orders of lips--the nectarine and\nthe vinegarish. The former swell out like the heave of a deep sigh;\nthe latter are sharp, and make you smack your mouth when you look on\nthem. The first denotes amiability, the second acidity. Everlasting\nspring lives in the blossoms of a nectarine lip, and eternal winter\ndwells upon the vinegarish, along which no rill of blood ever strays.\n\nThe lips of one's sweet-heart are a volume of poetry. Smiles fling\na ray like the flush of morning upon them, and they are glorious\nin their brightness. They are an oracle, and from them comes the\nvoice of destiny. They are a shrine, and around them the breath of\ninspiration ever lingers. It would be vain to talk of kissing any\nthing so sacred, when the mere thought overwhelms one in unspeakable\nbliss!\n\n                                                    T. H. S.\n\n\n\n\nAN ALBUM FRAGMENT.\n\n\n    WHAT is life, but a vision! The forms which have spread\n      Their enchantment around us, and gladdened our day,\n    Like the vanishing vapors of morning have fled,\n      Or like eve's sun-gilt clouds, they are passing away.\n    And when Youth's cherished hopes shall have faded and gone,\n      And this turbulent dream of existence is o'er--\n    When life's sparkling current hath ceased to flow on,\n      And the place which now knows me will know me no more--\n    Then bright on this page be engraven my name,\n      And long may it live, when my being is past;\n    Let others contend for a loftier fame,\n      No nobler, no dearer, no _other_, I ask.\n    Here perchance shouldst thou see it, forgotten, unknown,\n      Oh! hallow that name with the dew of a tear!\n    Far sweeter the tribute, than tale-telling stone,\n      Which Pride, or Ambition, or Folly might rear.\n\n                                                    J. H. B.\n\n\n\n\nSONNETS: BY 'QUINCE.'\n\n\n    ABSENCE.\n\n    EARTH owns no smiles in absence of the sun;\n      Dark mourns the night when chambered is her queen;\n    The sweet flowers wither when Sol's spring is run;\n      Nor fairies dance but in chaste Luna's sheen.\n    Nothing but mourns from that it loves apart:\n      The lone bird sorrows from its sever'd mate;\n    And pines and withers the fond human heart,\n      When those it worshipped leave it desolate.\n    Thus in earth, night, flower, bird, creation's lord,\n      The sweetest, dearest bond, is sympathy;\n    Which sever'd, snaps the close-entwining chord\n      That all things binds in some fond unity.\n    Life-killing Absence, 'neath thy curse I pine,\n    Affection's Upas tree--that name be thine!\n\n\n    AGE.\n\n    AGE is the winter season of man's life,\n      The last dim flickering of the taper's ray;\n    'Tis the last act that closes earthly strife;\n      The latest character that he may play.\n    Yet here, i' the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,\n      With rev'rend hair, white as the drifted snow,\n    We madly mock our fate--play the buffoon,\n      And self-deceiving to the dark grave go.\n    The withered leaf clings latest to the tree,\n      Hope vainly builds itself on dark despair;\n    The shipwreck'd mariner buffets with the sea,\n      And vainly strives for life, though death be there.\n    So age, with palsied hand, to life doth cling\n    Most fondly, as from age life taketh wing.\n\n\n    AMBITION.\n\n    THE waxen wing that strove t' empierce the sky,\n      The daring hand that fired the Ephesian dome,\n    The Spirit's strife with God for mastery,\n      Which made the burning depths of hell its home,\n    Were fell Ambition's. In that one word lies\n      All that is greatly good or greatly ill;\n    'Tis best of friends--'tis worst of enemies--\n      Honey and poison it doth both distil.\n    With vice enleagued, it sinks our spirit's down,\n      Till lust and murder gorge their fierce desire;\n    But virtue weaves for it a deathless crown,\n      Which teaches noble natures to aspire.\n    Honor and fame soar on its wing\u00e9d breath,\n    Hurl'd in its downward flight lie sin and death.\n\n\n    AUTHORS.\n\n    AUTHORS are beings only half of earth--\n      They own a world apart from other men:\n    A glorious realm! giv'n by their fancy birth,\n      Subjects, a sceptre, and a diadem;\n    A fairy land of thought, in which sweet bliss\n      Would run to ecstasy in wild delight,\n    But that stern Nature drags them back to this,\n      With call imperious, which they may not slight:\n    And then they traffic with their thoughts to live,\n      And coin their laboring brains for daily bread:\n    Getting scant dross for the rich ore they give,\n      While often with the gift their life is shed:\n    And thus they die, leaving behind a name,\n    At once their country's glory and her shame.\n\n\n\n\nA FEW THOUGHTS ON FUNERALS.\n\n            ----''Tis too horrible!\n    The weariest and most loath\u00e9d worldly life\n    That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment\n    Can lay on nature, is a paradise\n    To what we fear of death!'\n\n                                                 SHAKSPEARE.\n\n\nIN my morning walk in the country, the other day, a common poor-house\nhearse passed me. It was a long box, painted black, covered with a\nscant piece of dark cloth of some kind, hardly large enough to allow\nthe tassels to dangle down its sides, in imitation of more gorgeous\ndrapery. The little door at the hind-end of it looked as if it might\nopen into the infernal regions. This dismal box, mounted nakedly\non four frail wheels, was drawn along by a pale, lean horse, and\nthe driver sat severe in his shirt-sleeves and tattered hat, like\nsome desperate blackguard driving a night-cart. As he passed the\ncottages on the road-side, I observed anxious faces following its\ncourse; and particularly that of one poor woman, with an infant in\nher arms, whose poverty-stricken cheek was blanched still whiter,\nfor the moment, as she contemplated the probable picture of her own\nhumble obsequies. I imagined her as thinking of the time when she\nshould leave her unprotected little ones to the chance charities of\na heartless world--heartless to her--and herself be carried in this\nsame vehicle to a stoneless grave.\n\nI felt indignant at this unnecessary harrowing up of her feelings,\nand my own were not pleasantly affected; and then, and since, I have\nthought much upon the subject of funerals.\n\nWhat moral purpose is answered in thus thrusting the thought of\ntheir dissolution upon the poor and miserable, amid their labors\nand wants? Is not life hard enough for them to bear, burthened with\nhunger and no food, with ignorant vice--habitual and early inculcated\nvice--which, in their view, is almost virtue, and certainly, is\nsecond nature? Must they turn horror-struck from the neglect, even to\nthe remains of the poor beings who, like themselves, are not freed by\ndeath from the selfish contempt of their fellows? Why must the bell\nsend forth those tones that seem to the sick and weak nerves of the\nfeeble like a summons from the grave? Why this sickening array in\nmusty black, this dressing up a banquet for the worm, with terrific\nceremonies? Death is less awful to all, on account of the departure\nfrom life, than because of the black badges, the dark and gloomy\nretinue, that are associated in our minds with the event of it. When\nwe think of dying, it is of being put in a coffin, the white shroud\nsetting off, in loathsome contrast, the yellow palor of the face, and\nthe indescribable expression of the human features without a soul;\nand then comes the black carriage, and that decaying pall, which has\nserved so many like occasions, and which will itself, though with\nthe sexton it looks as if it had a terrestrial immortality, finally\nperish, and be cast aside to rot, but with no ostentatious funeral.\nThe motion, too, of this procession is slow; and our torture is felt\nas lingering and fated. At last, we rest in the dark earth--we are\nlonely and out of hearing--pinioned for ever! It would seem that\nhuman ingenuity had contrived a tissue of horrors to close the\ntroubles of a human life.\n\nDeath is serious business, to be sure, and our passage through its\nshadows is a fearful journey. Yet it is an entrance to immortality.\nThe entrance to magnificent temples, and brilliant theatres, is\nthrough dark portals--necessarily dark to be firm; and nothing human\ncan add to the solemnity of death; but we may, by our sympathetic\nattempts at the terrible-sublime, change what is solemn and salutary\ninto a source of disgust and aversion.\n\nWe come into a world of care, and want, and affliction, and our\nunconscious ears are struck with sounds of rejoicing. We enter upon\nan immortality of bliss, and around the self-same body there are\nwailing and lamentation.\n\nI was perplexing myself for a solution of this strange inconsistency\nin our customs, when chancing to meet a philosophic friend, he\nrelieved my perplexity, by saying: 'Oh, people are afraid of going\nto hell, and that their friends are gone there, and so they make all\nthis sad array. They usher their relations into eternity--for the\nsoul in our associations ever accompanies the body--as criminals are\nled to execution. Their awful fate thus finds an awful language.'\n\nIf these be the true reasons of the gloomy ceremonies of death,\nit is devoutly to be hoped that the fears of this result may in\nsome cases be unfounded. We do not wish to controvert the idea of\nrewards and punishments hereafter, for they belong to the nature of\nthe soul, whether in this world or in the next; but it seems rather\nextra-judicial, a plain case of supererogation, to bestow upon _all_\nthe marks of divine justice before hand.\n\nIn case of executions in human justice, if they take place _in\nterrorem_, to awe the multitude into obedience, it is very well to\ndress the hangman in the probable habiliments of the devil, and to\nride the culprit through the streets as a show, upon a pine coffin.\nThere should be as little romance, as few flowers in his way, as\npossible. It is gross inconsistency, certainly, to introduce any\nsoftening circumstances into public executions, as well as mistaken\nmercy to the passions of men. In saying this, we suppose it is not\npretended that the execution of human beings is authorized upon any\nother ground than support of the law. To execute privately, or with\nas little terror as possible, is to enact over again the trick of\nNero to ensnare his subjects: for surely, the penalty is part of the\nlaw, and the execution of it should be as open as the condemnation,\nor the people are robbed of these horrid privileges of assisting\ntheir virtue.\n\nBut to return to our subject. We dislike our funerals, because they\nseem to be one of the remains of the many attempts to subject the\npeople to the control of the priests. And now, we blush to write\nit, we fear the influence of the clergy in some churches is mainly\ndependent upon a certain idea people have, that their future destiny\nis somewhat in such hands. It is a poor compliment to our religious\nnature, to suppose we are most fit to give our hearts to God, when\nunder an abject fear of death; that\n\n    'When thoughts of the last bitter hour\n    Come like a blight over our spirits,\n    And the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,\n    And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,\n    Make us to shudder, and grow sick at heart,'\n\nwe are best prepared to pay that voluntary homage, to feel that free\ndevotion, which can alone be pleasing to our Creator.\n\nFuneral occasions have been hailed as special seasons for operating\nupon the nervousness of people. Every poor body is dragged about, and\nexposed to the public gaze, in the church or meetinghouse, upon the\nsame principle that a recruiting sergeant drums his gaily-attired\nsoldiers about a town. Public men, the property of the people,\nshould be buried publicly, for all are supposed to sympathize in\nthe loss; all feel a personal interest in the ceremony. But it is\notherwise with private individuals. Then it is death we see, and not\na departed friend. But a still stronger objection lies against this\ndisplay of corpses, and these _very_ public burials, and it is, that\nthe poor are encouraged to indulge in mourning apparel, which they\noften can ill afford. The salutary terror upon the wicked is more\nthan counteracted by the want and criminal shifts induced by this\nunnecessary extravagance.\n\nTalk with any man who is not a slave to custom, upon the subject of\nburning the dead, and he will, with few exceptions, express a liking\nof it for his own body. If we retain the portraits of our friends\nas sacred treasures, nay, if a lock of hair, even, be held as a\nprecious memento, why not retain their very ashes embalmed in fire?\nWho that has beheld the play of Virginius--we are glad to connect a\nfine feeling with the stage--and seen the urn of Virginia, has not\nfelt a thrill of pleasure that so much is left to the fond father to\nhug to his bosom? (How Cooper played Virginius!) Who has not felt a\nwish, then, to have the ashes of some departed friend, to embrace in\nlike manner in his arms? Suppose a father, a brother, a husband, a\nlover, to return, after long absence; death has cut down his darling\nchild, his saint-like sister, his wife; perhaps, what is hardest to\nbear, because never thought of as possible, his only love; perhaps\npestilence has swept away all of these. He is pointed to their\ngraves, or to the common tomb of his kindred. A slight mound of earth\nis all that is left him to associate with the loved object; or what\nis worse, he goes to the tomb, and there is no charm in his sorrow\nto heal itself, for it has lost all individuality: he looks upon an\narray of coffins, and they all look alike; he cannot separate his\nown sacred sorrow from the intrusive presence of that of others. But\nplace in his hands the ashes of those he loved; let him be alone with\nthe embalmed dead. He will kiss the cold urn; imagination will place\nthe cold corse in his arms, and he will take his last embrace, and\nserenity will begin to dawn upon his mind. As he replaces the urn in\nits sacred deposit, he will feel, 'She is not dead, but sleepeth!'\n\nThe headless trunk of the great Pompey was not left to decay upon the\nsea-shore. How it rejoices us to learn, after following his fortunes\nto his unhappy death, when he is cast upon the sand, neglected and\nuncoffined, that his faithful slave gathered a small pile of wood,\nand burned his body, carefully collecting the ashes. As soon as the\ntask is done, Pompey is great again; and we close his history with\nsatisfaction, for he is buried with affection. Far better is such a\nfate, than the freezing ceremony of a modern funeral.\n\n                                                    J. N. B.\n\n\n\n\nYESTERDAY.\n\n\n    I.\n\n    AND where are now thy sunny hours,\n      Fond man, which shone but yesterday?\n    Perchance thy path was rich with flowers,\n      That glittered in thy joyous way;\n    Perchance the Day's pure eye of light\n      Was one interminable smile,\n    And visions eloquent and bright\n      Stirred thy wrapt soul with bliss the while.\n\n    II.\n\n    And where are they? The sweeping tide\n      Of onward and resistless time\n    Is strewn with wrecks of baffled pride--\n      Conceptions high, and hopes sublime!\n    Dreams, that have shed upon the earth\n      The gladdening hues of paradise;\n    Their charm is flown, hush'd is their mirth,\n      And all their kindling exstasies.\n\n    III.\n\n    It may be that the heart was sad,\n      And wrapt in sorrow, yesterday;\n    Perchance the scenes that once could glad\n      Thy spirit, passed like spring away;\n    That on the waste of years was seen\n      Nought that might cheer the gloomy breast--\n    No sunny spot of vernal green,\n      On which the thoughtful eye could rest.\n\n    IV.\n\n    What recks it now, that then a cloud\n      Was dimly brooding o'er thy head;\n    That to the tempest thou hast bowed,\n      When joy's ephemeral beams had fled?\n    That day hath gone--its care is o'er--\n      Its shadows all have passed away;\n    Time's wave hath murmur'd by that shore,\n      And round thee now is but to-day.\n\n    V.\n\n    Then what is yesterday?--a breath,\n      A whisper of the summer breeze;\n    A thing of silent birth and death,\n      Colored by man's fond sympathies.\n    It had its buds--they all are gone;\n      Its fears--but they are now no more:\n    Its hopes--but they were quickly flown--\n      Its pure delights--and they are o'er!\n\n    VI.\n\n    Look ye not back, save but to glean\n      From the deep memories of the past--\n    From the illusions of each scene,\n      The thought that time is flying fast:\n    That VANITY on things of earth\n      Is by a pointed diamond writ;\n    Its hours of wild and transient mirth\n      Are midnight skies by meteors lit.\n\n    VII.\n\n    Oh, what is yesterday?--a ray\n      Which burst on being's troubled wave;\n    Which passed like a swift thought away\n      Unto eternity's wide grave!\n    A star whose light hath left the sky--\n      But for a little moment given;\n    Scarce gleaming on the gladdened eye,\n      Ere it hath left the vault of heaven!\n\n    VIII.\n\n    TO-DAY!--how in its little span\n      The interests of an endless state,\n    Beyond the feverish life of man,\n      Are crowded with their awful weight!\n    Prayers may ascend--the soul may pour\n      Its trembling supplications here,\n    That when time's fitful hour is o'er,\n      Its hopes of heaven may blossom there.\n\n    _Philadelphia._                                   W.G.C.\n\n\n\n\nEDITING AND OTHER MATTERS.\n\nA CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED VOLUME.\n\n\nTHE 'LITERARY GAZETTE' created a great sensation. Frank was\ncongratulated by his friends on the excellence of his hebdomadal.\nHis editorial brethren bestowed liberal commendation; and he was\nbespattered with praise, where he expected to be flattered by\ncriticism. To be sure, there were some croakers, who thought it a\nlittle too light, and some blithe hearts thought it a little too\nheavy; but generally, great satisfaction was expressed with its\ncontents. Subscribers flocked in, and every thing went on swimmingly.\n\nBut however lightly Frank's bark danced at first, he soon found that\nthere were clouds, storms, and rough waters, to be encountered, as\nwell as sunshine and soft winds. An author whom he reviewed with\ndeserved severity, was sure to regard what was said as an emanation\nof jealousy. Rejected fi'penny rhymists reported him unfriendly to\nthe 'infantile efforts of genius.' Bilious moralists condemned him\nfor what their evil-seeking imaginations tortured into profligacy.\nIn this way, his judgment and goodness of heart were underrated;\nand although he won more smiles than frowns, yet he sighed when\nhe thought of the goodness of his motives, and the abominable\nconstructions which were frequently put upon them.\n\nIn addition to these grievances, the drudgery of preparing matter for\nhis paper soon became sickening. At times, heavy demands were made\non his exhausted brain; and then the ungentle efforts to lash his\nmind into a fury; to spread the wings of an imagination borne down\nby lassitude; to wake up reluctant thought; were most unpleasant.\nAnd yet he knew it must be done, and that his readers would judge\nhim by his weakness rather than his strength. This knowledge, with\nhis desire to please, placed him often in a dilemma which nothing\nbut kindred experience can appreciate. When he was in the mood,\ncomposition was an agreeable occupation; but when draft after draft\nhad been made upon his labors, a sense of fatigue would come over\nhim, and he knew that the stream of thought yet in motion under such\ncloudy auspices, would reflect but little brilliancy on the vision\nof his readers. The misery of editorship is, that one dull article\nwill receive more reprobation than a score of successful ones can\nremove. Men are prone to judge of things by the worst lights. The\nvirtue which one practices, will seldom be considered expiatory of\nhis vices; the day is judged of by the minute of cloud, rather than\nthe hour of sunshine; and a line of dulness will condemn a page of\nvivacity. We look at the specks on the sun, the mole on the cheek\nof beauty, and the blemish on the statue otherwise perfect in its\nsymmetry.\n\nOften, while revelling in visions of happiness, Frank would be\nrecalled to his earthly duties, by the entrance of the boy from the\nprinting-office, y'clept, _par excellence_, the devil. Every editor\nis aware of the felicity which these intrusions into his sanctum\nafford. Fixed in his arm-chair, with a horizontal line of leg before\nhim, while his fancy is with his sweet-heart, or his wife and little\nones, as the case may be, he feels quite comfortable. At the next\ninstant, all his glistening thoughts and fairy fancies are 'knocked\ninto _pi_,' by the entrance of the imp of the printing-office, with a\nface streaked with ink, round-aboutless and vestless, and having on a\npair of inexpressibles hitched up on one side by a twine string, who\nshrieks out, in a merciless tone, 'I'm come for copy, Sir!' Cowper\nsaid that the bray of an ass was the only unmusical sound in nature;\nbut the poet had never experienced the discord occasioned to an\neditor's mind, by an inopportune demand for 'copy,' or he would have\nmake one more exception.\n\nOften did Frank hold with the dirty-faced urchin such a dialogue as\nthe following:\n\n    _Devil._ 'They want more copy, Sir.'\n\n    _Frank._ 'What's become of that I sent before?'\n\n    _Devil._ 'It's used up, Sir.'\n\n    _Frank._ 'Isn't it enough?'\n\n    _Devil._ 'Not by a jug-full, Sir.'\n\n    _Frank._ 'How much more is wanting?'\n\n    _Devil._ 'Three columns, Sir.'\n\n    _Frank._ 'When will it be wanted?'\n\n    _Devil._ 'Why, I've been here twice before this morning, and I\n    couldn't get in. The foreman's mad as h--ll, and says how as that\n    the paper can't be got out in time.'\n\n    _Frank._ 'Well, be off. I'll have some copy ready in an hour.'\n\nDevil goes off, with a sunken aspect, muttering, as he goes, 'I gets\nmore kicks than coppers. The foreman kicks me for not getting copy,\nand the editor kicks me for coming for it. Deuce take 'em both! As to\nthe paper, she may be late, for me; and as to the press, I wish she\nwas blow'd to the mischief!'\n\nThe 'devil' talks upon the common principle, when he speaks of the\npaper and the printing-press as belonging to the feminine gender.\nYour statesman, speaking of the country's prosperity, says, '_Her_\ncommerce, _her_ manufactures, and _her_ arts, are flourishing,\nand will soon advance _her_ high in the respect of nations.' The\nbackwoods-men say of Cincinnati, '_She_ is the western _queen_.' A\nKentuckian will pet his rifle, and say, '_She's_ leetle the slickest\nbore in these parts, and her voice is sweet as Nannie's, and that's\nsaying a heap for _her_.' Some go so far as to sex learned bodies,\nand to say of congress, 'The constitution does not confer such powers\non her, and beyond those delegated she cannot rightfully act;'\nthus flinging a petticoat over this venerable body of gray-haired\nbachelors, husbands, and orators.\n\nThe fact is, it is quite difficult to understand the reason why the\nneuter gender is not applied to all things neither male nor female.\nEvery vessel that skims the billow, in common nomenclature, belongs\nto the feminine gender. There is not a steam-boat that ploughs the\nriver, however hoarsely it may bark, or however it may fling volumes\nof smoke above, like streamers, that belongs to the masculine gender.\nEvery ricketty yawl or skiff that is battered to pieces by the tides,\nbelongs to the lovely and ever-to-be-beloved sex. If a pleasure-boat,\nwith its white sail kissing the wave which its prow proudly spurns,\nwins a compliment, it is sure to be uttered after this wise: 'See how\nfinely she sails!--and\n\n    '_She_ walks the water like a thing of life.'\n\nIs not the male sex somewhat scandalously neglected in this\nmatter? Why should not a noble ship, daring and adventurous--a\nmerchant-_man_, perhaps an India-_man_--belong to the masculine\ngender? If _it_ be female, why not be grammatically consistent, and\ntalk of merchant-_woman_, and India-_woman_? If it be necessary that\ninanimate structures be sexed, why not do it with some reference to\ntheir qualities? Let a ship be called _she_, by all means; for a lady\nis beautiful, and a ship bearing steadily away over the waters, is\nbeautiful to look upon, too; and a lady, though not freighted down\nwith bales and packages by the ton, yet is she burthened with those\narticles in the dry-goods line which are worn by _the ton_. Streamers\nwave from the flag-staff of the one, and ribbons flutter gaily from\nthe main-top of the other. Therefore, let a ship and a woman be of\nthe same sex. But let there be some limits to the license. We take\nit, there is nothing that floats, which looks less like our own dear\nsweet-heart, than an old worm-eaten canoe, scooped out of a dead\ntrunk; and yet, when a paddle is applied to the ugly thing, you look\nat it and say, '_She_ moves!'\n\nWe admit and feel the romance and propriety of sexing 'the poetry of\nheaven.' Blessings be yet again on benighted Egypt, for she taught\nus to speak of Osiris and Isis, instead of the sun and moon! Blessed\nfor ever be the spirit of him who first conceived the idea of sexing\nthe starry hosts, from the Cynosure to Sirius! How much more poetical\nis night in consequence--especially such as Moore speaks of in the\nEpicurean:\n\n                       ----'Sweet nights,\n    When Isis, the pure star of lovers, lights\n    Her bridal crescent o'er the holy stream!'\n\nAll who have been in love, feel that the soft influence which comes\ndown from the face of Isis is feminine in its witchery. She is\nfriendly to love affairs, although Miss Diana, when in Greece,\nwould have nothing to do with the masculine deities; and although\nshe banished Calisto, and transformed Acteon, yet did these same\nGreeks scandalize the virgin, by reporting that she forgot her\nfastidiousness when she was smitten by the charms of an Endymion on\nthe Carian Mount. To return. We are glad that the poets of the olden\ntime sexed the stars pretty much as their fancies thought proper, and\nthat we Christians still perpetuate these beautiful fictions of their\nmythologies; for there is a charm in the classical association which\nnow comes upon the mind, when viewing the heavens, that we should\nregret to part with, however heathenish and anti-utilitarian it may\nbe.\n\nThe owners of bright eyes have astronomy enough to recognise\nVenus, the beautiful star of evening; and yet they perversely and\nanti-mythologically call her _it_, when they should know that _she_\nis all that is now left of that beautiful being of the cestus,\nwho, like a wreath of foam, was born of a billow near Cythera. Let\nus be consistent, and call Venus _she_, even as we call the moon\nshe, and her lord and master, 'the eye of the universe,' he. It\nis proper to speak of Saturn, and _his_ rings, of Mars, and _his_\nbelligerent front; and we should, to be consistent, _she_ Pallas,\nJuno, and Vesta, every one of them. Let us also call this great\nheap of dirt and water which we tread on, and sail over, and speak\nof, as our _mother_ earth, feminine. Our wretchedly-abused planet\nis spoken of as belonging to no sex in particular, now-a-days,\nalthough she was once called Terra and Tit\u00e6a; and then she was a\nbeauty, and a charming one, too, as we should judge from some of her\nheart-stealing, bright-eyed daughters.\n\nPoetry demands that we still continue to sex the stars. Let us regard\nJupiter as a great big lubberly fellow, making love to the shy and\nbashful Vesta, and waking up jealousy in the bosom of his elder\nsweet-heart, Juno. Let us have Mars getting up assignations with the\nall-loving Venus, as of old; and Saturn and Pallas felicitating each\nother in the manner becoming two heads, the one so full of justice,\nand the other of wisdom, as are theirs. How delectable it would be,\nto fancy Madame Earth flirting with the long-yeared Herschel, to the\nutter astonishment of her neighbor Mercury, who would either have to\nlive an old bachelor, or look up a mistress in some of the systems\nwhich revolve in the far-off regions of space!\n\nOur imagination has run riot long enough through the heavens; and\nwe therefore return back to our starting-place, the earth. We were\nspeaking of the incongruity of the sexual designations now in vogue.\nWhy is it, that once introduced, the system of sexing things was\nnot carried out farther? Why not give sex to a tree, a carriage, a\nwind-mill, and our pantaloons, as well as to a yacht, a watch, and\nevery scrabbling village in the land? We love to think upon the\nMississippi as the 'Father of Waters,' and the Ohio as '_La belle\nRiviere_;' for to the masculine strength and stature of the one, we\noffer our admiration, and to the feminine beauty and grace of the\nother, we have yielded up our heart.\n\nWe were speaking, before we got on this mad-cap digression, of the\nmiseries in which the editorial fraternity in general, and Frank\nThornton in particular, were sometimes plunged, by ill-timed demands\nfor that bane of the craft called 'copy.' At such times, Frank would\ndisenchant himself of his fond visions, pick up his pen, arrange\nhis paper, and--think, or try to think, of a subject. He would look\nover the newspapers for topics; whip up his brain for a suggestion,\nor look out at the window, and seeing his friend James Summers,\nwho prided himself on being a man of the world, he would conclude\nto write an article on men of the world in general, much after the\nmanner of the fragment below.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'FIELDING says, that in order to understand men, it is necessary\nthat one should be born with a genius for that purpose.' Your men\nof the world think so too; hence, they are the favorites of nature,\nand as such, are superior to ordinary mortals, and have a right, in\nconsequence, to look down on inferiority. We are not going to upset\nFielding, Bulwer, _et id omne genus_; we only say, that we detest the\nboast and swagger which your men of the world take upon themselves as\na natural right, peculiar to those who come into the world with an\nextra eye to read that volume of mysteries, the human heart, locked\nup, like the ark of old, from the vision of the vulgar.\n\n'Your man of the world is the most bustling of bodies, and looks\nlike Atlas with the globe incumbent on his shoulders. His lips form\nan oracle of human wisdom, and it is rank profanity to question\naught that emanates from so holy a source. His contempt for inferior\nunderstandings is most supreme; and his humor, like a foaming\ncataract, flows and boils with sublime rage, if impertinence dare\nquestion his profundity, or contest his right to monopolize the\ngleams of knowledge which light up the human mind. He is the greatest\nand most orthodox of bigots, and takes good care that the stultified\nhead of heresy be scathed by the lightnings of his indignation. He\nuses old saws with a wink; and if he chooses to bless you with a\nsquint, you are unpardonable, if you do not cheer him with a smile.\nHe is a stickler for antiquity, and hates smooth chins and black\nheads, for their greenness and folly. He is the repository of all the\nfragments of wisdom that are left of shipwrecked ages, which have\nfloated down on the stream of time. He gathers together the bits\nand ends of sayings which go to make up the traditionary lore of a\ncountry; and this unbooked knowledge renders him sager than a man of\nmuch reading. In fine, your man of the world is a very great man, and\nis to be respected, whether he discourses of the evangelists at a\nhorse-race, or flourishes political eloquence, and that Helicon which\ninspires it, a beer-mug, in the unquiet recesses of some venerable\nale-house.\n\n'This may be called an 'outline in pencil' of a man of the world,\nwhen the shadows of fifty years or so are upon him; when he has\nexhausted the fountains of his wild blood, and turned out sage and\nphilosopher. A man must run a long and labyrinthine gauntlet, under\nthe scourge of the vices, before he can aspire to the character.\nOf course, it is right that such an one should usurp the throne\nof wisdom, as his shoulders have been legitimately invested with\nthe purple of sin. The right to rule can only be predicated on a\nyouth of prostitution, a manhood of degradation, and an old age of\nimpenitence.\n\n'Perhaps you may have seen a man of the world, under the shadow\nof a tavern sign-post, discoursing wisdom to the simple-hearted\nvillagers. He has the infallible marks of a truly great man legible\nin his face; bloated veins, and an indented excrescence surmounting\nhis nose, and flaming like a fi\u00ebry beacon with the condensed heat of\nunnumbered barrels of all 'proofs.' His libations to Bacchus have\ngiven a remarkable clarification to the emanations of his intellect,\nas is discoverable in the vividness with which his wisdom glares\non the understandings of all who hear him. A flippant attorney\nis, perhaps, at his side; and the worthy twain discuss national\npolicies, while the unsophisticated lookers-on stand mute, admiring\nthe prodigious display of genius. The village magistrate imbibes\nideas which astonish his natural stock of well-behaved ones, that\nnever strayed beyond the hill-top in the distance, or flew off on\na wild goose-chase after the phantoms of knowledge. The man of the\nworld lays down his positions, and fortifies them with the maxims\nhe learned from his predecessor, who sleeps in the church-yard. The\npettifogger capitulates to his invincible adversary, and acknowledges\nin him one whose dogmas it were irreverent to doubt.\n\n'Your man of the world never goes to church. His own experience\nfurnishes principles for the government of men, vastly superior to\nall that Christianity ever dreamed of. He has an intuitive perception\ninto the minds of children, and can predict, to a nicety, the amount\nof power their intellectual machinery will be able, in time to come,\nto generate. He believes that scarcely an honest man, beside himself,\nlives; and as to women, they are not a whit better than they ought to\nbe. Lastly, your man of the world is the chief light of the world,\nand when he dies, the heavens will be hung in gloom, and the edifice\nof society will fall into dilapidation; as he, while living, was its\nchief prop and support.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nON the afternoon of the day on which the above article appeared, Mr.\nJames Summers, who sat for the portrait of the 'Man of the World,'\nordered his paper to be stopped, as he could not 'conscientiously\npatronize one devoted to Billingsgate interests, and edited by a\nperson who had evidently received a diploma for his proficiencies,\nfrom the college of Saint Giles!'\n\nThis is a specimen of one class of miseries to which editors are\nsubject. They rack their weary brains for subjects; and when they\ndissect them properly, it frequently happens that some subscriber,\nwho fancies himself aggrieved, says, with poor Dennis the critic,\n'That means _me_!'--and forthwith sends in a peremptory order to have\n'his paper discontinued.' And thus the editor not only loses some\none's friendship, but, what is of more importance, his subscription.\n\nSubscribers! one word to you. Support your editor through his\ndifficulties; and whatever else you neglect, be sure you do not\nforget to pay for your intellectual provant; that is, if you would\npass decently through this world, and reach heaven at last!\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEA-ROVER.\n\n    'O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,\n    Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,\n    Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,\n    Survey our empire, and behold our home!'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    I HAVE no ties to bind me\n      To any spot on earth;\n    I leave no love behind me,\n      No warm familiar hearth;\n    But I roam with the changeful wind\n      Upon the changeful sea,\n    Mid isles that shed their fragrance forth\n      Like the blessed Araby;\n    And in the deep and cloudless night,\n      We watch each dewy star,\n    And our fancies rove through that shadowy light,\n      Where the gentle spirits are:\n\n    Nor while upon the deep\n      We wander far and free,\n    Are we mariners without\n      Our own wild minstrelsy;\n    And the night-breeze seems to catch the song,\n      And bear it on its wing:\n    And the laughing waves seem to echo far\n      The voice of our carolling:\n\n    And then we see the unwelcome shark\n      Gliding beneath our lee;\n    Gently he looketh up, but we\n      Trust not his love of harmony;\n    Strange playful fish are gambolling\n      Around our white-winged bark,\n    All harmless, gladsome things are they,\n      Except that soft-eyed shark.\n\n    When the foam, torn from the billow,\n      Flies furious and fast,\n    And the good mast, like a sapling,\n      Bends to the mighty blast,\n    With steady heart and ready arm,\n      Fearless, unmoved, we stand--\n    (Our bright bow flashing through the sea,)\n      My own, my gallant band!\n\n    O! who would be a man\n      Fettered, instead of free!\n    A sluggard at his hearth,\n      With a bantling on his knee!\n    While there are seas to pass,\n      While there are winds to blow,\n    O! who would be content\n      With tales of long ago!\n    While there is knowledge waiting,\n      As fruit upon a tree,\n    Which we for others gather,\n      Over the mystic sea!\n\n    I like not traveller's stories,\n      Told at the blazing hearth,\n    Of wild and wondrous wandering\n      On ocean and on earth;\n    When the wine foams in the goblet\n      With its glorious ruby light,\n    Imagination sparkles\n      Proportionately bright.\n    I loathe to see the simple eye\n      In wonder opened wide,\n    At hair-breadth 'scapes from shot and steel,\n      From rock and tempest tide.\n\n    As each adventure wilder grows\n      Of the traveller's bold career,\n    The listeners gather closer round,\n      And cross themselves for fear;\n    And many an anxious glance is cast\n      Around the shadowy room,\n    As if some horrid spectacle\n      Lay lurking in the gloom.\n\n    But I love, in my own good bark,\n      And with my gallant crew,\n    To wander free where fancy leads\n      Over the waters blue:\n    To speak with new-found people,\n      Of the world a fresh-turned page;\n    O! grateful bounds my spirit,\n      That I live in a gallant age!\n\n    O! if the tame ones of the earth\n      Could taste the deep delight,\n    Of feeling free upon the main,\n      Whose sway is the bold man's right,\n    The sea would swarm with rovers,\n      Whose zeal would never sleep,\n    While anxiously they gathered\n      The treasures of the deep!\n\n    _Montreal, August, 1837._                A. A. MACNICOL.\n\n\n\n\nRANDOM PASSAGES\n\nFROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE,\nSWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY.\n\nNUMBER FOUR.\n\n\nPARIS, AUGUST, 1836.--After due deliberation respecting the various\nroutes, viz.: first, by Southampton to Havre, and up the Seine;\nsecond, by Brighton and Dieppe; third, by steam-boat direct to\nCalais, or Boulogne; fourth, (the older and most frequented,) by\nDover and Calais, or Boulogne; I chose the latter; and in order to\nbe in Paris before Saturday evening, (to-day is Wednesday,) took my\noutside seat in the night coach to Dover. It was a fine evening, and\nas we rode out of London through 'the main artery of the right hand\nof the world,' Charing-Cross, down Whitehall and Parliament-street,\nover Westminster bridge, and through the villages of Deptford and\nGreenwich, I had the finest sunset view of the great metropolis,\nwhich I had yet seen. A glorious full-moon rose soon after we took\nleave of the more dazzling luminary, and of course the ride in\nsuch an evening was most agreeable. We passed through Gravesend, a\nbustling and noted town on the Thames, and our course lay for some\ndistance along the margin of the river. At eleven, we stopped for\nsupper at Rochester. The night which looked so promising, was not to\nbe very delightful; a change came over the face of it, in the shape\nof a cold, thick fog; moreover, that useless and annoying animal,\ny'clept 'the guard,' kept us awake by a hideous bellowing with a long\ntin-horn; and altogether, I was abundantly satisfied with my first\nexperiment in riding all night. Day-light came at last, just as we\nwere entering the ancient and honorable town of Canterbury, as weary\npilgrims as ever went there in the days of worthy old Chaucer. The\ncathedral is entirely surrounded by ordinary dwelling-houses, and the\nmassive entrance was at this hour of course closed. We could only\nget a glimpse of its fine towers. At six A. M., we were set down at\nthe 'Ship Hotel,' at Dover, and only had to pay five shillings more\nthan the regular fare, beside three shillings to the guard, etc., for\nkeeping us awake, and two shillings more for porters, ladders, etc.,\nto the boat, a pigmy affair, y'clept the Britannia, on board of which\nwe _descended_, after a poor breakfast at the hotel; and in a few\nminutes we were rapidly receding from the 'white cliffs of England.'\nThe hills along this coast appear to be entirely of chalk, and from a\nshort distance, the shore looks as if partly covered with snow. The\ncastle and heights tower above the town, and the latter give it the\nappearance of our Brooklyn. The morning was brilliant and cloudless,\nand the sea scarcely ruffled. So we glided over this far-famed and\nmuch-dreaded channel as gently as we should cross from New-York to\nJersey City, only taking somewhat longer time to do it. Before we\nhad lost sight of Dover, the coast of 'La Belle France' was very\ndistinct; indeed the two coasts may always be seen from each other,\nin clear weather. We had three or four baskets of carrier-pigeons on\nboard, which were liberated at intervals, to announce our progress.\nThey are used to communicate important intelligence, and never fail\nof arriving at their destination in about ten minutes.\n\nThe distance from Boulogne to Dover is forty miles. After a voyage\nof three-and-a-half hours, we made the bustling town of Boulogne,\nwhich is prettily situated on the open sea-coast, at the head of a\nsmall bay. On an eminence near the town, is a conspicuous monument,\ncommenced by Napoleon to commemorate his (intended) conquest of\nEngland,(!) and completed by Louis XVIII., to commemorate Napoleon's\ndownfall!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWE sailed up between two long and excellent wood piers, filled with\nexpecting friends, porters, police, soldiers, custom-house officers,\netc., and stepping for the first time on the soil of Europe, at least\nof the continent, I was escorted by a companion through the eager\ncrowd, amid the clamorous calls of the commissioners, 'Hotel du Nord?\nHotel D'Angleterre? Hotel D'Orleans? Portmanteau, Monsieur?' and all\nin a strange tongue. What a jabbering! At a little bureau on the quay\nour passports were received, and we were permitted to proceed without\nany personal examination, the commissioner of our hotel (D'Orleans,)\ntaking charge of our luggage, which he 'passed' in an hour, without\ngiving us a word of trouble; but we soon found we were not to escape\nvexations, for the seats in the diligences, had been engaged for\nfour days to come! This is especially provoking, in such a place as\nBoulogne. But repining avails not.\n\nThis is the second of 'Le Trois Jours,' and the tri-colored flags\nare displayed from every house in town, giving the streets a gay and\nlively face. This is a remarkably clean and orderly place, and in\nthis respect forms a strong contrast to its rival, Calais. It is a\nfamous sea-bathing place, and during the summer, English residents\nand visitors form one third of the whole population. Indeed, the town\nis very _\u00e0 la Anglaise_--more so, they say, than any other in France.\nBut still there is enough to remind a novice that he is really in\nanother country, in the old world. The military on the docks and in\nevery street; the poor women, bare-footed and bare-headed, performing\nthe labor of beasts of burthen, being in fact the public porters,\nand thankful for the chance of carrying your luggage for a few sous;\nthe incessant jabbering in a strange tongue, (strange, alas! to me,)\n'for even the children here,' as one sagely remarked, 'talk very good\nFrench;' the streets without side-walks, and the picturesque figures\nin them; the immense clumsy diligences, arriving and setting off in\ncautious pace; the street harpists and music-grinders, (of which we\nhave abundant specimens,) etc. The hotels form about one-fourth of\nall the buildings of the town, and are all crowded. Mine host has a\nsummer pavilion on the banks of the sea, commanding an extensive view\nof the English coast, etc., and very similar to that at Rockaway,\n(L. I.,) and to this we are sent in a barouche to dine at the _table\nd'h\u00f4te_, in a large airy hall, which accommodates one hundred or\nmore. The company, being mostly English, seemed rather awkward in\nthis novel mode of dining; and there was no general conversation at\nthe table. My neighbour stared with astonishment when he found I was\nnot English, and still more so that I was an American, 'the first\nhe had ever seen;' and he looked as tickled as if he had seen an\nourang-outang. The shore before the pavilion is covered with little\nbathing-cars, which are drawn into the water by horses, and there\nis a handsome assembly-hall near by, for the bathers. After dinner,\nwalked up to the 'barriers,' or ramparts, which surround an elevated\npart of the city, and serve both for fortification and a public\npromenade. The view from them is very fine.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFRIDAY.--A rainy day, and the review and ceremonies in the church\nare given up. Strangers at the hotels have been invited by the\nmayor to a grand ball at the 'Salle du Spectacle,' or theatre, this\nevening. A band of music at the pavilion at dinner. Went to the\ntheatre; great crowd, nine-tenths spectators; much like our Masonic\nHall balls, except that there is no room to dance. The \u00e9lite of the\ntown displayed their best, but the majority were English. It was to\nbe _tr\u00e8s selecte_, and has been the town-talk for a week; yet my\ncompanion said, with great surprise, that of one of the prettiest of\nthe dancers he had bought his gloves. Made an appointment to meet him\nat Amiens cathedral, at five A. M.\n\nSATURDAY.--A most vexatious mistake of my own has lost me my seat\nagain, and I must endure idleness and ennui, in this purgatory,\ntwenty-four hours longer. Horrors! What _shall_ I do? Wandered into a\nmuseum, and killed an hour. Bought 'Diary of Desennuy\u00e9e.' Miserable\ntrash! Changed it for Mrs. Trollope's 'Paris and the Parisians;'\nprecious little better. The longest day I have known this two years.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAUGUST 31ST.--Found myself actually mounted on the _rotonde_ of a\nFrench diligence, and proceeding, at the pace of six or seven miles\nan hour, toward Paris. Splendid morning; and the roads are thoroughly\nsprinkled by the late rain. The diligence has been recently much\nmodified, _\u00e0 l'Anglaise_, and I perceived but little difference in\nthe mode or rate of travelling. This one has two outside rear seats,\nor the _rotonde_; the _banquette_, over the conducteur's seat in\nfront; and the interior, divided into three apartments. The front\nis called the _coup\u00e9_, and is the highest price. The conducteur is\na respectable personage, who overlooks the whole team, delivers the\npassports, etc., and the fee to him, and the postilion, is always\nregular, and paid in advance. (The fees to waiters at hotels in\nFrance are always charged in the bills; so there is one annoyance\nwell rid of.)\n\nThe road to Paris, by Montreuil, Abbeville, and Beauvais, is\nflat, stale, and unprofitable. There is little to be seen but\nwheat-fields and pastures, and here and there a bit of a hut, with\nthe philanthropic announcement, 'Loge au pied et un cheval;' which\nis equivalent, I presume, to the similar English establishments'\nsign, 'Entertainment for man and horse.' Montreuil is an antique\nand strongly-fortified town, entirely surrounded by a high wall,\nand several out-posts. Here we stopped to dine. Abbeville, the\nnext, is the largest town on the route, and quite _continental_ in\nits appearance. It was a f\u00eate-day, and the whole population were\namusing themselves in the streets, some with a dancing monkey, others\nlistening to a buffoon, or improvisatrice. Then we passed through\nAiraines, Granvilliers, and Marseilles to Beauvais, famous for its\nsiege in 1472 by the Duke of Burgundy, which was raised by the heroic\nJean Hanchette, whose memory is still honored by an annual festival.\nHere we took a good breakfast, for which our night ride had created\nan excellent appetite. Passing then through the small villages of\nPuiseux, Blaumont, Sur-Oise and Marseilles, we came to Saint Dennis,\nthe burial-place of the kings of France, and from thence proceeded\nthrough a broad, straight, dusty avenue, to the capital, without\nhaving any general view; and were set down at the bureaux of the\nMessageries Royal, where our luggage was slightly examined, and I\nwas then escorted, by a young companion, to the Hotel De Lille et\nd'Albion, opposite the Palais Royal. Dined at the table d'h\u00f4te,\nwith a company of thirty, all English. Got a cab and rode over one\nof the bridges to find my quandam yankee doctor. Find it necessary\nto be in earnest now about learning French. My ignorance is rather\nawkward, but still it is not impossible to make myself understood;\nand 'necessity is the mother of invention.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAUGUST 2ND.--Hired a guide, or interpreter, to show me the\nlocalities, and assist me in my business. In the city in general,\nI am disappointed. The narrow, filthy streets, with gutters in the\ncentre, and without side-walks, and the antique and irregular\nbuildings, do not realize my notions of gay, elegant Paris. But the\nextent and magnificence of the _public_ buildings, palaces, gardens,\nparks, boulevards, etc., are enough to atone for the dirty streets.\nThe general view of the city, from one of the centre bridges, (the\natmosphere being wonderfully clear and transparent,) is grand and\nimposing in the extreme. The luxurious and superb architecture of the\nLouvre, Tuilleries, Luxembourg, and Palais Royal, and the _immense\nextent_, as well as the great beauty and elegance, of the gardens\nand parks, connected with these places, must astonish even the most\nsanguine.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAUGUST 4TH.--Took lodgings with Dr. ---- in Rue D'Enfer, opposite the\ngarden of the Luxembourg, for three objects, namely: to have a guide\nto the city; to learn French from him and the talkative landlady,\nand for economy's sake, for I pay but seven and a half francs a week\nfor a snug room with attendance, in a good situation, and can have\nbreakfast (such as it is) for fifteen sous.[11]\n\n6TH. Having disposed of most of my business, I commenced\n'_lionizing_.' First, I walked over Pont des Arts, through the Louvre\nand the Tuilleries, to the Garden of the Tuilleries, which, I need\nnot say, is laid out on a scale of great extent and magnificence,\nand is profusely adorned with fine statues, and groups in bronze and\nmarble. The number and variety of the noble walks in this garden are\ntruly astonishing. And it is not less so, that the finest statuary\nshould be so liberally exposed to the public, without the least\nguard or protection, and yet none of it is ever injured. Passed\nthrough Place de la Concorde, (late Place Louis XVI.;) and the Champs\nElys\u00e9es, where they were removing the lamps, etc., used in the late\nf\u00eate of the three days; and walked up the broad and noble avenue to\nthe Arc de Triomphe, which was completed a few days since, and is one\nof the most conspicuous, and most admired ornaments of the capital. I\nwill send you a printed description, which will save me a great many\nwords. Suffice it to say, that the most extravagant epithets will not\ngive you too high an idea of it. It is of white marble, adorned with\nexquisite bas-reliefs, and is so immense in extent and height, that\nfrom the Pont Neuf, about three miles distant, it is conspicuous far\nabove the tall trees of the Champs Elys\u00e9es, and all the surrounding\nobjects.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRETURNED to the Louvre, and spent the forenoon in its celebrated\nMus\u00e9e and Gallery of Paintings. This gallery is one thousand three\nhundred and thirty feet long, and would reach from Broadway to\nWooster-street! The ceiling is oval, and is elegantly gilded and\nadorned. The perspective of the gallery is much like that of Thames\nTunnel, and the farther end appears to be only three or four feet\nhigh. As to the paintings, I have marked in the catalogue those\nwhich particularly struck me, and no farther description would be\nworth while. The gallery of ancient sculpture is of course intensely\ninteresting, and contains one of the finest collections in the world.\n(See Madame Starke.) Walked up to the Boulevards, which, with Rue\nRivoli, Rue Castiglione, and perhaps two or three others, are the\nonly streets which do credit to the city. The Boulevards are quite\nmodern; and when the trees are matured, and the building finished,\nthey will be much more beautiful than now. The Boulevard des Italiens\nis the handsomest. In the Boulevard Conti, is the superb church of\n_St. Madeline_, the interior of which is not yet completed. It is\nlike the _Bourse_, or Exchange, on the model of a Grecian temple,\nand is built of white marble, surrounded with exquisite Corinthian\npillars, and ornamented with bas-reliefs. In the Place Vendome,\nnearby, is the celebrated column (on the model of Trajan's,) erected\nby Napoleon to commemorate his victories. What a gigantic mind was\nNapoleon's! It is displayed as much in the monuments, edifices, and\npublic works, which he planned and executed, as in his ambitious\nprojects for the conquest of Europe. This column is made of cannon\ntaken in his battles, and you must see it, in order to understand the\ndifficulty as well as grandeur of such a project.\n\nReturned to my room before dark; for recent examples have shown, that\nit is not quite safe to be out alone, late in the evening, in the\nstreets of Paris. Several persons have been attacked and robbed, and\none or two killed, in this neighborhood, within a few days.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSUNDAY.--Went to St. Sulpice, which is ranked as the second church\nin Paris, next to Notre Dame. It is Roman Catholic of course, for\nthere are but four or five Protestant churches in all Paris! The\nfront of St. Sulpice is very grand and imposing, but the rest is not\nparticularly so. The interior is spacious and lofty, but far less\nelaborately finished and decorated than the cathedrals of England.\nThere are large niches around the walls, enclosed with a railing,\nand adorned with fine paintings, an altar etc., which seemed to be\nprivate or family chapels. Several companies of children, apparently\nbelonging to schools, were led into the church by priests in black\ncloth robes. These priests were reading the service in various parts\nof the church, and in the niches, to groups of ten or twenty; but the\nprincipal one was before the grand altar, which was richly adorned,\nand contrived for effect, which I cannot describe.\n\n7TH.--Went to Versailles, where there was to be a grand review, etc.\nThe Doctor, a medical student, a New-Orleans gentleman, and myself,\ntook a hack together, and started off about eleven o'clock. All the\nworld had gone or were going; the vehicles of all sorts, from the\nsuperb barouche of the nobility, to the go-cart of the market folks,\nwere innumerable. Rode along the Quai des Tuilleries and the Champs\nElys\u00e9es. Passed Saint Cloud, the favorite residence of Napoleon, and\nthe scene of the bloodless revolution which gave him the government\nof France. Near the palace, is a column for telegraphs, by which\nNapoleon communicated with Paris. A certain light was a signal that\nhe would see nobody. Neither lord nor lady must approach.\n\nARRIVED at Versailles at one. Review just over! The palace here\nis immensity personified. It can hardly be comprehended. From the\nmagnificent gardens, the view of it is superb. These gardens will\nmore than realize the most brilliant fairy scene of the Arabian\nNights. They extend _several miles_ in each direction; laid out with\nthe most perfect neatness and order; and this is their only fault.\nThere is too much trimming--too much exactness. If they were a little\nmore like the wild beauty of nature, they would please my eye as\nwell. Statuary, of all sorts, is liberally disposed throughout these\nvast grounds; noble avenues intersect each other at half-angles\nin the gardens and park; and in these the trees are so placed and\ntrimmed as to form a grand triumphal arch; while the squares between\nare occupied by fountains, curiously devised, or by a bed of flowers.\n\n'All the world and his wife' were there. Suddenly, there was a\npressing toward one of the grand avenues. It was to see the King\nof Naples, who is now here on a visit to his aunt, the Queen of\nthe French. The king and the French queen were in an open car,\naccompanied by two good-looking youths, about sixteen and eighteen,\n(the Dukes of Nemours and Orleans,) and the two princesses, rather\npretty, and dressed with taste and marked simplicity. An elderly\ngentleman, next to the King of Naples, was said to be his minister\nor guardian, and he looks as if he needed one. He is a mustachioed,\ndandyish-looking fellow, and stared through his quizzing glass in\na style quite amusing. The people took off their hats, as the car\npassed, but there was not a whisper of applause or enthusiasm.\n\nOn our return, just as we stopped at the park of St. Cloud, the\nFrench king's carriage came up, kept as close as a prison; and in\na few minutes, the queen and he of Naples arrived, and stopped in\nthe park to change horses; so we had a chance to scan them all very\nclosely. The queen might have been handsome once, but she certainly\nis not now. She bowed repeatedly to some one by the carriage; but not\na word was uttered, which appeared very strange.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n10TH.--My way to Galignani's reading-room, every morning, is through\nthe portico of the hall of the celebrated French Institute, over the\nPont des Arts, and through the quadrangles of the Louvre and Palais\nRoyal. What a world in miniature, (and not on a very small scale\neither,) is this Palais Royal! A palace that would _cover two or\nthree of our squares_, in the heart of the city, was converted by\nits proprietor, the late Duke of Orleans, into an immense bazaar;\nthe entrance from every part being from the interior court, which is\na long promenade of itself, adorned with rows of trees, fountains,\nand gardens. The lower floor of the palace is divided into stores,\nin the arcade fashion, in which are displayed every article, almost,\nwhich can be imagined or desired, for use or ornament. The jewellers\nare the most numerous. There are, I should think, at least three or\nfour hundred of these shops on the first floor, and they each rent\nfor four thousand francs per annum. The second floor is occupied by\ncaf\u00e9s, reading-rooms and by gambling-establishments, or 'hells,' and\nthe upper stories by characters of all sorts, male and female. In\nshort, there is a specimen of every thing, good and bad, in this\nPalais Royal; and even the bad is made so alluring and dazzling, that\naltogether, it is no very difficult matter for an unwary novice there\nto rid himself of his superfluous cash. The imposing _coup d'oeil_\nof the palace and gardens you can imagine better from the prints,\nthan from any description.\n\nNear the Bourse, is the Halle au Bl\u00e9, an immense circular building,\nthe dome of which is nearly as large as that of the Pantheon at Rome.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIN my ramble to-day, I dropped into a church which I found to be\nthat of Saint Roch, one of the most beautiful in Paris. Like Saint\nSulpice, it has numerous private altars in the enclosures around the\nwalls, which are adorned with fine paintings. Near the main altar,\nthere is a representation of the sepulchre, made with real stones,\nand roughly placed in the supposed manner of the original, and a\ngroup of statuary, as large as life, representing the entombment.\nIt is so well done, that the credulous devotees who were kneeling\nbefore it seemed to think it was reality. Near it is a representation\nof Mount Calvary and the Crucifixion, not painted, but contrived to\nproduce a most singular effect.\n\nIn the aisle of Saint Roch, I met an English lady, and her three\ndaughters, whom I had seen at Boulogne. Having travelled with\nthe lady's husband, but not having been formally introduced, I\npassed without speaking to them. The lady turned and spoke to me,\nand politely invited me to call at her hotel. I mention this, as\nproving that the English are not always so tenacious about formal\nintroductions as they have been represented.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTUESDAY, 9TH.--Walked before breakfast to the Jardin des Plants,\nwhere botanical students have the privilege of studying all the\nimmense variety of specimens which are there displayed, in a garden\nof three-fourths of a mile long. A small hill in the centre is\nsurmounted by a little bronze temple, from which there is a good\nprospect. On this hill are two or three _Cedars of Lebanon_, which\nare esteemed very rare and valuable; it is a beautiful tree, and\nquite _oriental_. Beside the plants in this establishment, there is a\nmenagerie, a museum of botany and natural history, etc.\n\nVisited the gallery of the Luxembourg, which is appropriated for\npaintings and sculpture by living artists. It was a rich treat. See\ncatalogue. The garden of the Luxembourg is a beautiful promenade, but\nnot equal to that of the Tuilleries. Nothing can exceed the gayety\nand brilliancy of the scene in these gardens at sunset, and early in\nthe evening, when the thousands are enjoying the cool refreshing air,\nor admiring the fountains and statues. In the Tuilleries, a sculpture\nin bronze has been lately put up, representing a lion crushing a\nviper or serpent. It seems to attract much attention, as being\nemblematical of a strong government putting down all insurrectionary\nvipers.\n\nVisited _Notre-Dame_. The interior architecture will not compare\nwith that of York Minster, and other English cathedrals, but it has\na lighter and more cheerful appearance. It is abundantly decorated\nwith paintings, some of which are very superior. A company of priests\nwere chanting in the choir, in the most doleful manner imaginable.\nAscended by four hundred steps to the top of the towers, from which\nthere is a fine view of Paris and the environs. The clearness of\nthe atmosphere renders the view much better than that from Saint\nPaul's. The _Palais de Justice_, where the courts, etc., are held,\nis near Notre Dame, on the Ile de Cit\u00e9. The Court of Cassation are\nnow engaged in the trial of persons lately arrested for supposed\ntreasonable plots. Poor Louis Phillipe! thine is a throne of thorns!\nThou darest not show thyself in public, lest thy life should be\nforfeited! Who does not envy thee! And yet, I have never learned that\nthe king has merited these attempts on his life. The government, in\nspite of some severe laws, has been as liberal as the character of\nthe people would justify.\n\nThe _Biblioth\u00e8que du Roi_ contains eight hundred thousand volumes,\nthe largest library in the world. I noticed a work on the topography,\netc., of France, alone, in two hundred and nine large folio volumes!\nConnected with the library, is an immense collection of prints, and\nof antique medals, cameos, gems, etc. I saw the armour of the Duke\nof Sully, Henry IV., and several of the French generals; manuscript\noriginal letters of Racine, Moli\u00e8re, Bossuet, Boileau, Voltaire,\nFenelon, Rousseau, etc.; manuscripts written in the third, fourth,\nand fifth centuries, beautifully illuminated; manuscripts in Turkish,\nArabic, Coptic, Egyptian, etc., and paintings from the ruins of\nThebes, probably done before Christ.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE papers announced a review of the troops before the Tuilleries, by\nthe king, and the King of Naples, but it was changed to the Champs\nElys\u00e9es, and the King of France was not present. He is said to be\nvery courageous himself, and it is only the urgent entreaties of\nhis family and his ministers which keep him so close. He wished to\nhave the review on the 29th, but they would not permit him. Just\nas I was leaving the Garden of the Tuilleries, the king arrived in\na coach-and-six, preceded by a courier, and escorted by a party of\ndragoons. He looked out of the carriage and bowed, and I had a good\nopportunity to see him. The face was quite _natural_, and very much\nlike the prints.\n\nThis afternoon I visited one of the most curious and interesting\nsights in Paris, the manufactory of the celebrated _Gobelin\nTapestry_, where those copies of the Cartoons of Raphael, exhibited\nin New-York, were made. The operation appears perfectly simple, and\nyet I cannot understand it. The picture to be copied is hung on\nthe wall behind the loom; the weaver sits with his back to it, and\nworks on the _back of the tapestry_. It is done entirely by hand,\nand of course it is very slow work, six years being spent on one\npiece. There are about ten or twelve rooms, some of them containing\ntwo or three looms. Several of the pieces now on the looms are very\nbeautiful, and they are, therefore, very expensive. None but kings\nand _millionaires_ can afford them. Annexed to the tapestry rooms,\nthere is a manufactory of carpets, of a most princely description,\nuniting the thickness and durability of the Turkey carpets, with the\nsoftness and elegance of the Wilton. The colors and patterns are\nreally superb. The carpets are always made in one piece. These, also,\nare such as the most wealthy only can buy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE PANTHEON, once called the Church of Saint Genevieve, is a sort\nof national monument. It is an elegant building, in the form of\na cross, supported within and without by Corinthian pillars. The\ndome is particularly lofty and beautiful. On the walls, are four\ngilt tablets, on which are inscribed the names of two hundred and\neighty-seven citizens, killed in the revolution of 1830. The crypt\nis fitted for the purpose of receiving monuments of distinguished\npersons. Our guide, with a lantern, escorted us to this subterranean\nregion, where we 'meditated among the tombs.' Suddenly he came to\na statue, and raising the lantern to the face, discovered to us\nfeatures expressing a scornful sneer, which made me start. It was a\nstatue of Voltaire. While there, another party came in, preceded by\nthe guide and lantern, and dodging every now and then from behind\nthe pillars of the crypt, it seemed like being in the regions of the\ndead. In the evening, went to see the celebrated _Taglioni_, at the\nAcad\u00e9mie Royale de Musique, being her first appearance for some time.\nThe house was as full as it could be packed, and I could hardly get\na peep; but I saw such dancing as I never beheld before. It is most\nappropriately called the 'poetry of motion.' Visited an exhibition\nof Sevres porcelain; should like to send home a set, but it rather\nexceeds my purse. _The Hotel des Invalides_, is the largest building\nin Paris, if not in the world. It is an asylum for maimed and\nsuperannuated soldiers. The chapel connected with it, and especially\nthe dome, is much admired, and is considered the finest thing of the\nkind in Paris. The old soldiers of Napoleon are here to be seen in\ntheir cocked hats and military dress; some with one arm, others minus\na leg. They are all well taken care of, and have nothing to do. Near\nthe Invalides, is the Ecole Militaire, and the Champs de Mars, where\none hundred and fifty thousand men have been paraded.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the banks of the river, facing the Place de Concord, is the\nPalace of the _Chamber of Deputies_, or Palace Bourbon. The Hall of\nSitting is in the form of an amphitheatre, the seats raised above\neach other. It is very elegant, and even gay, in its decorations.\nThe front benches are inscribed _Ministres_. The session of the\nchamber does not commence till winter. We were also shown the other\napartments of the palace. Next to this is the Palace of the Legion\nof Honor, and farther on is the Hotel des Monnaies, or Mint. This\nafternoon, at five o'clock, stepped into an omnibus, in order to be\nat P\u00e8re la Chaise at sunset. It is on an eminence near the barriers\nof the city. The street which leads to it was filled with women, who\nwere making and selling those yellow wreaths, (of which I send you a\nspecimen,) for the visitors to decorate the tombs of their friends.\nGreat numbers of these were placed on the tombs, some fresh, and\nothers faded and dried. The cemetery is on the same plan as that at\nMount Auburn, or rather Mount Auburn is on the plan of this. There\nare no less than thirty thousand tombs here, displaying every variety\nof taste and whim in the style and pattern, and filling a space of\nsome hundred acres, the walks through which form quite a labyrinth,\ninsomuch that the guides charge three francs to go through it, which\nI did not choose to pay. I found the tombs of Abelard and Hel\u00f6ise,\nMoli\u00e8re and La Fontaine (which are side by side, and very simple, and\ncovered with names of visiting scribblers,) Rousseau, La Bruy\u00e8re,\nLa Place, (the author of M\u00e9canique Celeste,) Moreau, Volney, (a\nplain pyramid,) and several other distinguished names. Many of the\nmonuments are very splendid, particularly that of General Foy, and\nothers which I cannot recollect. The inscriptions are as various as\nthe monuments. Some are very simple: '\u00e0 mon p\u00e8re;' '\u00e0 notre cher\nami;' '\u00e0 notre petite Julie,' etc. Many of the monuments are little\nchapels, with altars, candles, chairs, etc., and some even with\npaintings; having an iron door, of open work, so that you can look\nin and see the taste and superstition of the founder. It requires\na whole day, at least, to take even a passing view of all the\nmonuments. The view from the highest ground in the cemetery is very\nfine.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n12TH. I had sent a note to Prince Czartoryski, desiring to know if it\nwas his pleasure that I should call on him. This morning I received\na polite and elegantly-written note, in French, saying: 'Le Prince\nCzartoryski pr\u00e9sente ses complimens \u00e0 Mr. ----, et s'empresse de le\npr\u00e9venir qu'il aura le plaisir de l'attendre chez soi, demain \u00e0 11 h.\ndans la matin\u00e9e.' Ce 10 A\u00f6ut, 1836. 25 Faubourg du Roule.'\n\nI did not receive it till the day after that designated, but still\nI went. There did not seem to be even a porter or a servant on the\npremises. An old man escorted me up stairs, and knocking, the door\nopened where a good looking gentleman was writing. I was at a loss to\nknow whether he was the prince or not, but he seemed to expect me.\n'Monsieur ----?' 'Oui, Monsieur.' He escorted me to the next room,\nand took my card into another. In a few minutes, a noble-looking man,\nabout fifty-five, came out, and taking my hand, was 'very glad to see\nMr. ----;' 'walk in;' and so I was seated on a plain gingham-covered\nsofa, with the Prince Czartoryski. The apartments, furniture, etc.,\nare plain almost to meanness, and the prince's pantaloons themselves\nlooked as if they had been washed five or six times; a fact which\nI consider highly creditable to him. He has decidedly one of the\nfinest, noblest countenances I ever saw. It is expressive at once of\ndignity, energy, and benevolence. It indicates a contempt of every\nthing mean.\n\nI must confess I felt rather awkward in this my first t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate\nwith a prince. It was so hard to have to say 'your highness' at\nevery sentence, that I finally dropped it entirely, and answered\nyes, Sir, or no, Sir. He evidently expects this form, but does not\ninsist upon it. He inquired about the condition of his countrymen\nin the United States; if they had obtained employment; if they\nconducted themselves well; what gentlemen had interested themselves\nfor them. He had not heard of Mr. Wilder, and told his secretary to\ntake down his name. He asked if any association for the Poles existed\nin New-York, and if one could not be formed; if the Americans were\nnot rather partial to Russia, and thought she had done right. This I\nanswered very warmly, and said that, on the contrary, our country had\nwatched with astonishment the conduct of the other powers of Europe\nin not interfering in behalf of Poland. That the wrongs of Poland\nwere a favorite theme for our school-boys and school-girls.\n\nAfter a conversation of half an hour or more, I took leave, the\nprince inviting me very cordially to call on him when I returned to\nParis. The morning papers state that 'the government (of France)\nyesterday made an application to Prince Czartoryski for three hundred\nPoles to go to Spain'--for which 'party,' I did not notice.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[11] I am particular in the mention of these pecuniary facts,\nbelieving that they will be useful to American readers, who may\ncontemplate going abroad.\n\n\n\n\nLAY.\n\n\n    I.\n\n    A LAY of love!--ask the lone sea,\n      For wealth its waves have closed upon--\n    A song from stern Thermopyl\u00e6--\n      A battle-shout from Marathon!\n    Look on my brow--reveals it nought?\n      It hideth deep rememberings\n    Eternal as the records wrought\n      Within the tombs of Egypt's kings.\n             Take thou the harp! I may not sing:\n               Awake the Te\u00efan lay divine,\n             Till fire from every glowing string\n               Shall mingle with the flashing wine!\n\n    II.\n\n    The Theban lyre but to the sun\n      Gave forth at morn its answering tone;\n    So mine but echoed when the one,\n      One sun-lit glance was o'er it thrown.\n    The Memnon sounds no more!--my lyre,\n      A veil upon thy strings is flung;\n    I may not wake the chords of fire--\n      The words which burn upon my tongue.\n            Fill high the cup! I may not sing;\n              My hand the crowning buds will twine:\n            Pour, till the wreath I o'er it fling,\n              Shall mingle with the rosy wine.\n\n    III.\n\n    No lay of love!--the lava stream\n      Hath left its trace on heart and brain;\n    No more! no more! the maddening theme\n      Will wake the slumbering fires again.\n    Fling back the shroud on buried years--\n      Hail, to the ever blooming hours!\n    We'll fill Time's glass with ruby tears,\n      And twine his bald old brow with flowers.\n            Fill high! fill high! I may not sing--\n               Strike forth the Te\u00efan lay divine,\n            Till fire from every glowing string\n               Shall mingle with the flashing wine!\n\n                                                       IONE.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHIEF OF HIS TRIBE.\n\nA SKETCH OF THE LIFE AND TIMES OF JOHN THOMAS TUMBLER, JR.\n\n    'AND here let me charge you, my son, that you consider\n    nothing which bears the image of God beneath your notice, or\n    unsusceptible of valuable lessons. The beggar imploring alms\n    at your hands, the unhappy victim of vice, or the prey of evil\n    passions, may speak with a voice so loud, that during your\n    whole life, the monitory tones shall not wholly die away in\n    your ear.'\n\n                                            MAGNUS GONSALVA.\n\n\nTHE primary study of all mankind ever has been, and ever will be,\nthe end by which they may attain happiness. All our energy, all our\nreason, and all our ingenuity, are directed to the prosecution of\nthis one common object; but with what success, we leave those to\nanswer who have grown old in the game of human life. Our existence is\ncommenced and continued in its pursuit. We toil in its chase, from\nbirth until death, with the most assiduous and unceasing application.\nBut do we obtain it, at last? Go ask the worn-out debauchee, or the\nchartered libertine. Go ask the rich man in his castle, or the poor\nman in his hut. Ask the faded beauty, or the blooming girl. Ask the\nmonarch, the mendicant, the world, if they have yet enjoyed one\nhour of real happiness--one hour, unalloyed by the remembrance of\nthe past, or the fears of the future. It is, in truth, a shadow as\nintangible as our own; an _ignis fatuus_ of our being. But ah! we\ncannot discover this until too late. When death is about to drop the\ncurtain upon the closing scene of the drama of life, we may become\nsensible of our error; until that moment, we are in chase of a gilded\nphantom, that often drags us through paths of guilt and sin, and\nrepaying us nothing in the end.\n\nReal happiness is far from being an attribute of existence. It is,\nin fact, a moral impossibility that they should c\u00f6exist; and Reason\nnever deceives herself so much, as when she deems it is within the\npale of our enjoyment. Do we not know, by actual realization, that\nthe jewel for which we have labored for years, loses its value with\npossession, and becomes scarce worth the purchasing? And though we\nmay cast it aside, recognising in some other object the El Dorado of\nour hopes, does not that too, when obtained, like the fruit upon the\nshores of the Dead Sea, resolve to ashes in our grasp?\n\nWe may be partially contented, but never perfectly happy; and oh! if\nman but knew this, how much of sorrow and remorse would it not spare\nhim, when the hand of Age is heavy upon him! How much alleviation\nwould it not bring to the bed of sickness--how much of hope to the\ndeparting spirit!\n\nYet, although it is written in the book of destiny, that the\nprincipal aim of our lives shall be for ever perverted, it is not\nto be supposed that this disappointment will render us miserable.\nThe evils of existence act differently upon mankind; and where you\nwill find one who is made unhappy by the operation of some untoward\ncircumstance, you will find a second whose equanimity would scarcely\nbe disturbed by a much more aggravated misfortune.\n\nAmong those so happily constituted as to confront adversity with\nindifference, may be numbered the hero of this sketch; an individual\nwhose age was probably three-and-twenty, and whose name was\nuniversally admitted to be John Thomas Tumbler, Jr., his sire bearing\nthe like Christian appellatives.\n\nMr. Tumbler, Jr., was an individual whom those in a more elevated\nsphere would term a 'loafer.' Now why one body of the human family\nshould classify another by so impolite a distinction, may be, to the\nuninitiated in the ways of the world, a matter of surprise. To us,\nhowever, it is perfectly explicable, since it serves to carry out\none of the immutable principles of our nature, which is ----. But no\nmatter; we will not animadvert; for as well might the wave that foams\nat the foot of Gibraltar, essay to destroy the mountain rock, as we\nto change, by censure or deprecation, that gigantic and inveterate\nevil.\n\nJohn Thomas Tumbler, Jr. was not rich; on the contrary, he was very\npoor, and, indeed, but little versed in the knowledge of the coin\nof his country. But John Thomas had that opulence of feeling which\nsupplies the place of wealth, and which wealth itself cannot at all\ntimes supply; that internal independence, which buoys up the spirit,\nand defies adversity. In his youth, he had been industrious, and\nno boy was more persevering and successful in researches for old\ncopper, nails, bits of lead, and such little valuables; but as he\nverged into manhood, his ideas expanded, and those pursuits were\nabandoned, as vocations too insignificant for one who bore the image\nof the universal Creator. In fact, Mr. Tumbler, Jr. considered it\nundignified to labor at all, and so determined to lead a life of ease\nand relaxation.\n\nWhen first our gentleman came to this resolve, he was tolerably well\nattired. His coat, though thread-bare, and somewhat greasy in the\nvicinity of the elbows, looked, nevertheless, partially genteel; and\nthough many parts of it were preserved in a state of adhesion by\ndivers pins, it was still without that symptom of poverty, a patch.\nHis breast, at this interesting period of his life, was defended from\nthe inclemencies of the weather, by a double-breasted velvet vest,\nwhich had been manufactured some twenty years before for the comfort\nof some corpulent citizen, and which now hung about Mr. Tumbler with\nthe graceful foldings of a Roman toga. Of his pantaloons and hat, we\nshall say little, save that they were somewhat venerable; and of his\nshirt, we can have _nothing_ to say, he having long since repudiated\nthat garment, as an article of dress totally superfluous.\n\nIt was customary with Mr. Tumbler, Jr., in those halcyon days, to\ndrop (or rather, as he expressed it, 'happen') in the coffee-houses,\nat about eleven o'clock, every day, that being the hour when the\nlunch was set out for customers. At such times, Mr. Tumbler was\nfrequently known to make some very odd mistakes, such, for example,\nas drinking the liquor of some other individual, who might have been\nso negligent as to put his glass down for a moment, while he helped\nhimself to a mouthful of the eatables. But these little errors are\nincident to an absent-minded man, and might have been passed over\nunnoticed, had not Mr. Tumbler, on a later occasion, been discovered\nin the act of abstracting a handkerchief from the coat-pocket of a\ngentleman who was standing at the bar; for which offence he was very\nunceremoniously ejected from the premises, with an invitation from\nthe keeper to call, in future, 'once in a great while.'\n\nMr. Tumbler was, happily for his circumstances, not a particular man.\nHe dwelt any where and every where, and might justly be termed a\n'promiscuous' lodger. He had, it is true, a particular stall in the\nmarket-house, which he sometimes occupied at night; but Mr. Tumbler\nhad serious objections to sleeping there. 'The flies' he said, 'made\nit inconwenient in the morning, and the benches was werry often left\ndirty, by the negligence of the butchers:' beside, he was 'roused\nout, o' market mornings, at early day-light, vich was uncommon\nuncomfortable!'\n\nHe was a constant attendant upon horse-races, and the like\ngatherings. He usually repaired thither with a small capital of two\nor three dollars, and a 'sweat-cloth,' 'merely,' as he said, 'to\noccupy his mind, and turn an honest penny or two.' He was, moreover,\nan accomplished thimble-player, and would bet 'twenty-five, fifty, or\nseventy-five cents, that no gentlemen could tell where the ball was!'\nAt a certain cock-fight, Mr. Tumbler was exceedingly vociferous in\nhis encouragement of a certain white bantam, engaged in the combat.\n\n'Go it my darling!' exclaimed he, looking exultingly upon his\nfavorite. 'That's the way to tell it, my bully! Give it to him, my\nlittle whitey!'\n\n'Hurra for dat red cock!' said a colored gentleman, looking sideways\nat Mr. Tumbler, in a species of defiance.\n\n'Hurra for the white cock!' again ejaculated Mr. Tumbler.\n\n'Hurra for de red cock!' responded his sable adversary.\n\n'A dollar on the white cock!' exclaimed our hero.\n\n'Done! I take dat bet!' answered the colored gentleman.\n\nThe stakes were accordingly produced, and deposited in the hands of\na gentleman of rather inelegant appearance, in a rough bell-crowned\nhat, who by-the-by was one of Mr. Tumbler's particular friends.\n\n'Hurra for the white cock!' again shouted Mr. Tumbler.\n\n'Hurra for de red cock!' again shouted the colored gentleman.\n\nPresently the red cock gave his white adversary a thrust with\nhis gaff, which put out one of his eyes, and nearly closed the\nengagement. As soon as Mr. Tumbler perceived this, he thrust the\nspectators aside, and going close up to the ring, he sung out: 'Hurra\nfor the red cock, as I said before.' 'What you hurra for _dat_ cock\nfor!' exclaimed Sambo; hurra for your _own_ cock, 'f you please!'\n\n'Hurra for the red cock, as I said before!' exclaimed Mr. Tumbler,\nunheeding the remark of his opponent--'Hurra for the red cock!'\n\nAt length the white cock was fairly defeated, and Mr. Tumbler turned\nto the holder of the stakes, and demanded the money, which was given\nhim, in spite of the remonstrances of the 'gen'leman o' color,' who\nclaimed to have won the bet. The conduct of Mr. Tumbler in this\naffair appeared certainly not very honorable; but it would be unjust\nto censure him, without knowing whether or not he was in error as\nto the cock he bet upon. At all events, the subsequent coldness\nand self-possession which he maintained, under a strain of abuse\nshowered upon him by the colored gentleman, was commendable in the\nextreme. He listened to it all as mildly as if it had been a glowing\neulogium upon the excellence of his character; and when the enraged\nEthiopian had finished, he turned leisurely upon his heel, and\nwalked away. This was perhaps one of the most striking illustrations\nof Mr. Tumbler's mental superiority. It was indeed a feature of real\ngreatness; for he who conquers his passion, as Mr. Tumbler evidently\ndid, does more than he who commands armies; at least so said, I\nbelieve, the sage Socrates; an authority which none of us moderns\nhave presumed to dispute.\n\nThere are many inclinations of our youth which are even strengthened\nwith our years; and a slight tendency to a particular object in\nour boyhood, often becomes with us a passion in after life. Mr.\nTumbler had, at a very early age, evinced a particular affection for\nsaccharine substances, which affection had grown with his growth,\nuntil it became a leading disposition of his character. And even\nso late as the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and\nthirty-seven, John Thomas Tumbler, Jr. might be often seen in the\ninterior of a sugar hogshead, assiduously scooping out with his\nthumb-nail, and appropriating to the gratification of his palate,\nsuch small quantities of the article as had been left by the\nimprovident grocer in the crevices of the staves. But, on the other\nhand, there are predilections far more dangerous, which we sometimes\nsuddenly conceive, and of which we become totally unable to divest\nourselves. Among these evils, the greatest is undoubtedly the love of\nstimulus. Mr. Tumbler at length became fond of his toddy; and from\nthat moment we may date his decline. There were, however, palliations\nto be admitted for Mr. Tumbler--excuses which many who plunge into\nthe vortex of dissipation sadly lack. His was a monotonous life,\nvoid alike of excitement, object, and interest. It was, then, a\nmatter of course, that he should seek artificial means to supply a\nnatural deficiency. In fact, this was almost necessary to existence.\nBut alas! the gratification of this propensity brought on his ruin;\nand in the small space of six months, so complete a revolution was\neffected in the appearance of our hero, that he could scarcely be\nrecognised as the same individual who was wont to frequent the\nmarket-house but a very short time before.\n\nOne day he was leaning against a post, reflecting upon the expedient\nhe should next devise to obtain a 'horn,' when his forlorn appearance\nattracted the attention of a gentleman, who stopped a moment to\nobserve more completely his wretchedness. John Thomas perceived this,\nand thought it a moment and an opportunity not to be disregarded.\nSo, crossing the street, he addressed the stranger, informing him,\nin moving accents, that he was 'a poor miserable cre'tur, 'at hadn't\nhad nothing to eat for upwards of some time, and 'at hadn't seen\na bed, for God knows when!' The stranger, in consideration of his\ndistressing situation, gave him a small piece of money; and the\nmendicant, after satisfying himself of its value, very politely\ninvited his benefactor to go and take a drink with him!\n\nIt may not be amiss here, to describe the habiliments of John Thomas,\nin contrast with the appearance they presented some months before.\nThe article which adorned his head, would not, at first sight, have\nbeen taken for a hat. The crown and body were not as closely allied\nas they had once been. The former now hung back, attached only by a\nslight ligament to the latter. Interesting pieces of rim were here\nand there observable; and its original color had long since been\nchanged to a greasy brown. His coat, the donation of some charitable\nFalstaff, might have been altered to have fitted better, infinitely\nbetter. The body hung down some three or four inches below the hips,\nwhile the skirt, as he promenaded, almost swept the ground. The\nsleeves were rolled up at the elbows, much to the prejudice of the\nappearance of the lining; and the collar behind formed an admirable\nbarricade for the preservation of the latter part of Mr. Tumbler's\nhead. In truth, that gentleman himself was once heard to remark, that\n'it was wastly conwenient as a pillow.' Of his vest we have already\nspoken; and it needs but to add, that time had somewhat impaired\nit, and that although but one button graced its ample front, it was\nstill a garment not to be deemed entirely valueless. His pantaloons\ncould not have been derived from the same source as the coat, for\nthey fitted him with a tightness which absolutely jeopardized them\nat every movement, and gave to his person, as he moved along, the\nappearance of a huge penguin. His boots were likewise very venerable,\nand but for the sake of appearances, as John Thomas himself very\ntruly observed, he might as well be entirely bare-footed. The sole\nof one of them, however, though but partially attached to the upper,\nwas perfect of itself; although the big toe protruded from the\nbreach with an obstinacy truly mortifying to the sensibility of the\nwearer, who would sit upon a fire-plug, and contemplate it with that\nhumiliation which we are all apt to feel on similar occasions. The\nsole of the other boot had 'long since vanished,' as Count Rhodolpho\nsings in 'La Somnambula;' and the upper, which was immensely\ncapacious, would sometimes slew so far round, as to disclose to\nobservation the whole of his right foot. This was a matter of more\nvexation to him than the imperfection of its fellow; for he was often\nobliged to confine its sides with pieces of twine, in order to keep\nit in its proper place; an occupation extremely irksome, and but ill\nadapted to his easy propensities.\n\nMr. Tumbler was not only a lover of music, but was likewise a\nprofessor of the divine art. During the delightful summer evenings,\nhe would sit for hours on some cellar-door, producing strains from\na jews-harp, whose melody floated enchantingly upon the air, adding\nstill more to the witchery of the time, and causing a secret wish\nto arise, that it might be evening all the year round. There is a\nsympathy in music not to be withstood; and when a particular chord\nis struck, if it find a unison in human feeling, the sternest heart\nmust melt at its thrill. Upon a particular moonlight night, our hero\nestablished himself upon a door-sill, and taking out his instrument,\ncommenced the beautiful and pathetic ballad of 'Lord Lovell and\nLady Nancy.' For a while he played on with no more interest than a\nperformer usually exhibits in the execution of a piece. At length,\nhowever, he began to revert to the sorrows of the Lady Nancy, and the\ntears were seen stealing, one by one, down his countenance. Thought\nbegat thought, and sympathy begat sympathy, until Mr. Tumbler,\noverpowered by his feelings, took the jews-harp from his mouth, and\ncommenced sobbing like a child. For a full half hour he continued\nto weep, and might have kept on for an hour longer, had not a\nhard-hearted servant girl emptied a bucket of ancient soap-suds upon\nhim, from the third-story window. This libation at once cooled his\nsorrows. Shaking the unpleasing liquid from his garments, he crossed\nover to the market-house, in order to seek that repose which always\nwaits upon innocence and self-approbation.\n\nWe come now to one of the darkest passages of our hero's life; an\nevent which we chronicle with a tear; and which nothing but an\nimperative sense of duty, as faithful biographers, would compel us\nto narrate. There breathes not the man, no matter where you may seek\nhim, whose career has been, in every instance, one of purity, who can\nlook back upon his past life, without remembering _some_ action that\nbrings a feeling of remorse, and who can declare upon his honor that\nhe has done nothing but what has been perfectly justifiable in the\neyes of God and his fellow-men. Why then should it be expected that\nMr. Tumbler should prove an exception to all mankind? It is not to\nbe--it ought not to be.\n\nMr. Tumbler was one day passing along the street, when his attention\nwas arrested by a stone jug, which he observed beside an awning-post.\nHe stopped, looked a moment at the vessel, and then at the pavers\nwho were working in the street, and to whom the jug evidently\nbelonged. Mr. Tumbler then reflected a moment, turned about to\nsatisfy himself that no one observed him, picked up the jug, shook\nit, reconnoitred again, hesitated an instant, and placing it under\nhis coat, leisurely walked on. Unfortunately, however, for his\nsuccess, the jug was missed. He was seen, suspected, pursued, caught,\nand taken by the collar before his honor the mayor. That dispenser\nof justice was induced to believe that he was an old offender; and\naccordingly ordered his pockets to be examined. But however Mr.\nTumbler might have erred, in regard to the abstraction of the jug, he\nwas nevertheless innocent of other crimes of the kind; and nothing\nrewarded the search, save an onion, and the fragment of a Bologna\nsausage. He was, however, in consequence of the affair on hand,\nimprisoned in the city gaol for the space of thirty days; which\nconfinement, we have been informed, he bore with the resignation of\na Christian, and the fortitude of a hero. At length he was released;\nbut he came out an altered man. His spirits had been broken down by\nthe disgrace he had suffered, and he now plunged deeper than ever\ninto dissipation, seeking in its excitement to drive away the memory\nof the past. Happy, indeed, would it have been, had his sensibilities\nbeen less refined; but, like the flower which shrinks from the touch,\nhe avoided all intercourse with his fellow-men, wrapping himself\nup in the gloom of his own thoughts, neglecting his jews-harp,\nneglecting himself, and neglected by the world.\n\nNot a great while after our hero's release from incarceration, he\nmight have been observed strolling leisurely along the wharf, with\nthe manner of one who has no definite object of pursuit, and who\nis willing to amuse himself with whatever the time and place might\npresent. As his eye rolled onward, he espied a cask, upon the head of\nwhich was written, in large black letters, the word '_Cogniac_.' But\nhe little thought that fatal word was to him what the hand-writing\nupon the wall had been to the mighty Belshazzar. He little thought\nthat the simple word 'Cogniac' was applied to him, at that moment,\nin as terrible a warning as was the 'Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin!'\nwhich foretold to the Chaldean king the destruction of his life and\nempire.\n\nHe regarded the cask for a moment, and then throwing his right leg\nover, he mounted it. Seating himself firmly, he looked briefly about\nhim. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he very deliberately drew a\nlarge gimlet from his pocket, and commenced boring a hole in one\nof the staves, gazing over the river the while, as if attracted by\nsome interesting object on the opposite shore. When the perforation\nwas complete, he returned the instrument to his pocket, and took an\nadditional survey of the premises. Seeing that he was not watched by\nany one, he produced the end of a tin tube--manufactured expressly\nfor such occasions--from beneath his vest, and inserting it in the\nhole, applied his mouth to the other extremity of the conductor,\nwhich protruded from the upper part of the garment, and in this\nmanner commenced extracting the contents of the cask. For the space\nof an hour, he remained in one position, not even stirring a limb. At\nlength the curiosity of a passer-by was excited by his appearance;\nand going up to the cask, he was surprised to find a man, as he\nthought, asleep. The stranger shook him for a moment, as if to awaken\nhim; and when he relaxed his grasp, our hero tumbled to the ground.\nAstonished that the fall did not rouse him, the stranger stooped\ndown to examine his features. They were fixed and rigid. He took\nhis hand; it was cold as marble. He felt for his pulse; but it had\nceased for ever. To make use of a novel phrase, 'the vital spark was\nextinguished.' Mr. Tumbler had gone to a land of 'pure spirits;' a\nplace which he often said he longed to visit; since the spirits he\nwas in the habit of imbibing here were generally any thing but pure.\n\nThus died, in the prime of life, John Thomas Tumbler, Jr., a man\nwhom nature had endowed with many excellent qualities, which were,\nhowever, all perverted by one vicious and unconquerable propensity.\nUnder more favorable circumstances, he might have proved an ornament\nto society. Avoided, on all occasions, by the respectable of his\nspecies; treated with broad indifference, if not contumely; a subject\nof jest and ridicule for every body; how can we suppose he could\nburst these shackles, and soar to distinction? Emulation withered\nbeneath the persecution which attended him through life, and which,\nwe blush to say, did not cease with his death; for the papers, in\nnoticing his demise, merely remarked, with cruel brevity: 'A loafer\nwas found dead upon the wharf this morning.'\n\n\n\n\nDEATH-BED REMORSE.\n\n\n      HOW awful is that hour, when conscience stings\n      The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears,\n      Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings,\n      In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years,\n      And screaming like a vulture in his ears,\n      Tells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame;\n      How wild the fury of his soul careers!\n      His swart eye flashes with intensest flame,\n    And like the torture's rack, the wrestling of his frame!\n\n                                             J. G. PERCIVAL.\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n    MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. By J. G. LOCKHART.\n    Part Second. pp. 198. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.\n\nIN a notice of the first part of these Memoirs, we expressed an\nintention of renewing our broken intercourse with them, as they\nshould appear, at intervals. The publication of two additional parts\ngives us ample scope for selection; and indeed this is all that a\nreviewer, not inclined to iterate, or 'bestow his tediousness' upon\nthe reader, will be disposed to do. The pages before us are crowded\nwith incidents, and with characteristic sketches of the personal and\nliterary every-day life of their subject; and these, in themselves\nabundantly attractive, are rendered still more so, as we have already\nelsewhere remarked, by the pleasant style of the biographer, who will\nwin enduring fame by this contribution to a literature which he had\nbefore not a little enriched.\n\nBefore entering upon our extracts, we cannot avoid remarking, that\nthroughout the minuter history of the illustrious poet and novelist\nhere presented, we are enabled to see the great secret of a literary\ncareer, unparalleled since the era of Shakspeare, if he who wrote\nfor all mankind may be said to have had, or to have, an era. He\nstands forth, in these volumes, a shining example to all authors\nwho would win a permanent hold upon the public regard. He _studied_\nhumanity, and the works of nature. He did not content himself with\nportraying the invisible and non-existent, and with _conceiving_\nscenes and personages which have no counterparts in nature or in\ncommon life. He held rapt intercourse with the mountains, rivers,\nand vales of Scotland; and he sought the teachings of those natural\ninstructors, the green fields. His ear was ever open to the 'silent\nvoice of Nature, speaking in forms and colors.' The humblest peasant\nwas a picture, and his qualities a study; and the lightest shade of\ncharacter, in high or low, was not beneath his scrutiny. To this\ncareful perception of nature, in all its forms and phases, he added\na course of reading more various and extended, we cannot doubt, than\nany contemporary on the globe. But, unlike the many who lard their\nlean books with the fat of other authors, he read only to digest,\nand to _fuse_ his mind; hence, his resources were never exhausted,\neven when he was a gray soldier in the literary field, wherein he had\nborne arms so nobly and so long. How numerous the chaotic fictions,\nhow many the trumpery novels, how large the amount of still-born\npoetry, now sunk into waste paper and oblivion, which might have been\nsaved to the world, had their producers but followed the example\nof the author of Waverley! How much worse than useless labor might\nhave been saved to the thousands who, unable to inform have striven\nto please, and have borne their ponderous loads into the literary\nmart, and expanded them on the stalls of their hapless publishers!\nWe cannot but hope that, primarily, the publication of these Memoirs\nwill be widely beneficial to novelists and poets, and secondarily,\nto the reading public; that they will improve the taste of those\nauthors who are content to indulge in superficialities merely; to\namuse the imagination, and convey infection to love-sick damsels,\nwithout satisfying the judgment, or touching the heart. So mote it be!\n\nWe commence our extracts with a brief history of the Lay of the Last\nMinstrel, a poem 'which has now kept its place for nearly a third of\na century:'\n\n    \"It is curious to trace the small beginnings and gradual\n    development of his design. The lovely Countess of Dalkeith\n    bears a wild rude legend of Border _diablerie_, and sportively\n    asks him to make it the subject of a ballad. He had been\n    already laboring in the elucidation of the 'quaint Inglis'\n    ascribed to an ancient seer and bard of the same district,\n    and perhaps completed his own sequel, intending the whole to\n    be included in the third volume of the Minstrelsy. He assents\n    to Lady Dalkeith's request, and casts about for some new\n    variety of diction and rhyme, which might be adopted without\n    impropriety in a closing strain for the same collection. Sir\n    John Stoddart's casual recitation, a year or two before, of\n    Coleridge's unpublished Christabel, had fixed the music of\n    that noble fragment in his memory; and it occurs to him, that\n    by throwing the story of Gilpin Horner into somewhat of a\n    similar cadence, he might produce such an echo of the later\n    metrical romance, as would serve to connect his _Conclusion_\n    of the primitive Sir Tristrem with his imitations of the\n    common popular ballad in the Grey Brother and Eve of St. John.\n    A single scene of feudal festivity in the hall of Branksome,\n    disturbed by some pranks of a nondescript goblin, was probably\n    all that he contemplated; but his accidental confinement in\n    the midst of a volunteer camp gave him leisure to meditate his\n    theme to the sound of the bugle; and suddenly there flashes\n    on him the idea of extending his simple outline, so as to\n    embrace a vivid panorama of that old Border life of war and\n    tumult, and all earnest passions, with which his researches\n    on the 'Minstrelsy' had by degrees fed his imagination, until\n    every the minutest feature had been taken home and realized\n    with unconscious intenseness of sympathy; so that he had won\n    for himself in the past another world, hardly less complete\n    or familiar than the present. Erskine or Cranstoun suggests\n    that he would do well to divide the poem into cantos, and\n    prefix to each of them a motto explanatory of the action,\n    after the fashion of Spenser in the Fa\u00ebry Queen. He pauses for\n    a moment--and the happiest conception of the frame-work of\n    a picturesque narrative that ever occurred to any poet--one\n    that Homer might have envied--the creation of the ancient\n    harper, starts to life. By such steps did the 'Lay of the Last\n    Minstrel' grow out of the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.'\n\n    \"A word more of its felicitous machinery. It was at Bowhill\n    that the Countess of Dalkeith requested a ballad on Gilpin\n    Horner. The ruined castle of Newark closely adjoins that seat,\n    and is now indeed included within its _pleasance_. Newark had\n    been the chosen residence of the first Duchess of Buccleuch,\n    and he accordingly shadows out his own beautiful friend in the\n    person of her lord's ancestress, the last of the original stock\n    of that great house; himself the favored inmate of Bowhill,\n    introduced certainly to the familiarity of its circle in\n    consequence of his devotion to the poetry of a by-past age, in\n    that of an aged minstrel, 'the last of all the race,' seeking\n    shelter at the gate of Newark, in days when many an adherent of\n    the fallen cause of Stewart--his own bearded ancestor, _who had\n    fought at Killiekrankie_, among the rest--owed their safety to\n    her who\n\n        'In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,\n        Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.'\"\n\nThe profits, to Scott, from the several editions of this poem were\n\u00a3769. The sales are given as follows:\n\n    \"The first edition of the Lay was a magnificent quarto, 750\n    copies; but this was soon exhausted, and there followed an\n    octavo impression of 1500; in 1806, two more, one of 2000\n    copies, another of 2550; in 1807, a fifth edition of 2000,\n    and a sixth of 3000; in 1803, 3550; in 1809, 3000--a small\n    edition in quarto (the ballads and lyrical pieces being\n    then annexed to it,) and another octavo edition of 3250; in\n    1811, 3000; in 1812, 3000; in 1816, 3000; in 1823, 1000. A\n    fourteenth impression of 2000 foolscap appeared in 1825; and\n    besides all this, before the end of 1836, 11,000 copies had\n    gone forth in the collected editions of his poetical works.\n    Thus, nearly forty-four thousand copies had been disposed of\n    in this country, and by the legitimate trade alone, before he\n    superintended the edition of 1830, to which his biographical\n    introductions were prefixed. In the history of British Poetry,\n    nothing had ever equalled the demand for the Lay of the Last\n    Minstrel.\"\n\nSubsequently to a very interesting account of Scott's partnership\nwith Ballantine, and of his entering actively upon numerous literary\nprojects--including his editions of the British poets, Ancient\nEnglish Chronicles, Dryden, commencement of Waverley, etc.,--we find\nthe following account of his personal habits of industry:\n\n    \"He rose by five o'clock, lit his own fire, when the\n    season required one, and shaved and dressed with great\n    deliberation--for he was a very martinet as to all but the\n    mere coxcomberies of the toilet, not abhorring effeminate\n    dandyism itself so cordially as the slightest approach to\n    personal slovenliness, or even those 'bed-gown and slipper\n    tricks,' as he called them, in which literary men are so apt\n    to indulge. Arrayed in his shooting-jacket, or whatever dress\n    he meant to use till dinner time, he was seated at his desk by\n    six o'clock, all his papers arranged before him in the most\n    accurate order, and his books of reference marshalled around\n    him on the floor, while at least one favorite dog lay watching\n    his eye, just beyond the line of circumvallation. Thus, by the\n    time the family assembled for breakfast between nine and ten,\n    he had done enough (in his own language) '_to break the neck\n    of the day's work_.' After breakfast, a couple of hours more\n    were given to his solitary tasks, and by noon he was, as he\n    used to say, 'his own man.' When the weather was bad, he would\n    labor incessantly all the morning; but the general rule was to\n    be out and on horseback by one o'clock at the latest; while,\n    if any more distant excursion had been proposed over night, he\n    was ready to start on it by ten; his occasional rainy days of\n    unintermitted study forming, as he said, a fund in his favor,\n    out of which he was entitled to draw for accommodation whenever\n    the sun shone with special brightness.\n\n    \"It was another rule, that every letter he received should\n    be answered that same day. Nothing else could have enabled\n    him to keep abreast with the flood of communications that\n    in the sequel put his good nature to the severest test; but\n    already the demands on him in this way also were numerous; and\n    he included attention to them among the necessary business\n    which must be despatched before he had a right to close\n    his writing-box, or, as he phrased it, 'to say _out damned\n    spot_, and be a gentleman.' In turning over his enormous\n    mass of correspondence, I have almost invariably found some\n    indication that, when a letter had remained more than a day or\n    two unanswered, it had been so because he found occasion for\n    inquiry or deliberate consideration.\"\n\nIn illustration of the correctness of the remarks which introduce\nthese extracts, we give the following passage from a letter of an\nearly friend of Scott to his biographer. It is unnecessary to say,\nthat it is kindred with numerous others which might be selected:\n\n    \"One of our earliest expeditions was to visit the wild scenery\n    of the mountainous tract above Moffat, including the cascade of\n    the 'Gray Mare's Tail,' and the dark tarn called 'Loch Skene.'\n    In our ascent to the lake, we got completely bewildered in the\n    thick fog which generally envelopes the rugged features of\n    that lonely region; and, as we were groping through the maze\n    of bogs, the ground gave way, and down went horse and horsemen\n    pell-mell into a slough of peaty mud and black water, out of\n    which, entangled as we were with our plaids and floundering\n    nags, it was no easy matter to get extricated. Indeed, unless\n    we had prudently left our gallant steeds at a farm-house below,\n    and borrowed hill ponies for the occasion, the result might\n    have been worse than laughable. As it was, we rose like the\n    spirits of the bog, covered _cap-\u00e0-pie_ with slime, to free\n    themselves from which, our wily ponies took to rolling about\n    on the heather, and we had nothing for it but following their\n    example. At length, as we approached the gloomy loch, a huge\n    eagle heaved himself from the margin and rose right over us,\n    screaming his scorn of the intruders; and altogether it would\n    be impossible to picture any thing more desolately savage\n    than the scene which opened, as if raised by enchantment on\n    purpose to gratify the poet's eye; thick folds of fog rolling\n    incessantly over the face of the inky waters, but rent asunder\n    now in one direction, and then in another--so as to afford us\n    a glimpse of some projecting rock or naked point of land, or\n    island, bearing a few scraggy stumps of pine--and then closing\n    again in universal darkness upon the cheerless waste. Much of\n    the scenery of Old Mortality was drawn from that day's ride.\n\n    \"It was also in the course of this excursion that we\n    encountered that amusing personage introduced into Guy\n    Mannering as 'Tod Gabbie,' though the appellation by which he\n    was known in the neighborhood was 'Tod Willie.' He was one of\n    these itinerants who gain a subsistence among the moorland\n    farmers by relieving them of foxes, pole-cats, and the like\n    depredators--a half-witted, stuttering, and most original\n    creature.\"\n\nThe subjoined extract will serve to show the great humility with\nwhich Scott bore his literary honors, at a time when he was\nbeleaguered by the importunities of fashionable admirers. His\nbearing, says Mr. Lockhart, when first exposed to such influences,\nwas exactly what it was to the end. The Border Minstrel is writing\nfrom London, whither he had proceeded upon business connected with an\nimportant prospective situation as Clerk of the Edinburgh Sessions,\na lucrative and desirable station:\n\n    \"It will give you pleasure to learn that, notwithstanding\n    some little rubs, I have been able to carry through the\n    transaction which your lordship sanctioned by your influence\n    and approbation, and that in a way very pleasing to my own\n    feelings. Lord Spencer, upon the nature of the transaction\n    being explained in an audience with which he favored me, was\n    pleased to direct the commission to be issued, as an act\n    of justice, regretting, he said, it had not been from the\n    beginning his own deed. This was doing the thing handsomely,\n    and like an English nobleman. I have been very much f\u00eated and\n    caressed here, almost indeed to suffocation, but have been made\n    amends by meeting some old friends. One of the kindest was Lord\n    Somerville, who volunteered introducing me to Lord Spencer,\n    as much, I am convinced, from respect to your lordship's\n    protection and wishes, as from a desire to serve me personally.\n    He seemed very anxious to do any thing in his power which might\n    evince a wish to be of use to your proteg\u00e9. Lord Minto was also\n    infinitely kind and active, and his influence with Lord Spencer\n    would, I am convinced, have been stretched to the utmost in\n    my favor, had not Lord Spencer's own view of the subject been\n    perfectly sufficient.\n\n    \"After all, a little literary reputation is of some use here.\n    I suppose Solomon, when he compared a good name to a pot of\n    ointment, meant that it oiled the hinges of the hall-doors into\n    which the possessors of that inestimable treasure wished to\n    penetrate. What a _good_ name was in Jerusalem, a _known_ name\n    seems to be in London. If you are celebrated for writing verses\n    or for slicing cucumbers, for being two feet taller or two feet\n    less than any other biped, for acting plays when you should be\n    whipped at school, or for attending schools and institutions\n    when you should be preparing for your grave, your notoriety\n    becomes a talisman--'an Open Sesame' before which every thing\n    gives way--till you are voted a bore, and discarded for a new\n    plaything. As this is a consummation of notoriety which I am by\n    no means ambitious of experiencing, I hope I shall be very soon\n    able to shape my course northward, to enjoy my good fortune at\n    my leisure.\"\n\nElsewhere, a friend thus describes his bearing, in the presence of\nhis London entertainers:\n\n    \"'Scott,' his friend says, 'more correctly than any other\n    man I ever knew, appreciated the value of that apparently\n    enthusiastic _engouement_ which the world of London shows to\n    the fashionable wonder of the year. During the sojourn of 1809,\n    the homage paid him would have turned the head of any less\n    gifted man of eminence. It neither altered his opinions, nor\n    produced the affectation of despising it; on the contrary, he\n    received it, cultivated it, and repaid it in his own coin. 'All\n    this is very flattering,' he would say, 'and very civil; and if\n    people are amused with hearing me tell a parcel of old stories,\n    or recite a pack of ballads to lovely young girls and gaping\n    matrons, they are easily pleased, and a man would be very\n    ill-natured who would not give pleasure so cheaply conferred.'\n    If he dined with us, and found any new faces, 'Well, do you\n    want me to play lion to-day?' was his usual question; 'I will\n    roar, if you like it, to your heart's content.' He would,\n    indeed, in such cases, put forth all his inimitable powers\n    of entertainment; and day after day surprised me by their\n    unexpected extent and variety. Then, as the party dwindled, and\n    we were left alone, he laughed at himself, quoted, 'Yet know\n    that I one Snug the joiner am--no lion fierce,' etc.,--and was\n    at once himself again.\n\n    \"He often lamented the injurious effects for literature and\n    genius resulting from the influence of London celebrity on\n    weaker minds, especially in the excitement of ambition for this\n    subordinate and ephemeral _reputation du salon_. 'It may be a\n    pleasant gale to sail with,' he said, 'but it never yet led to\n    a port that I should like to anchor in.'\"\n\nIn relation to the delightful introductory epistles to Marmion, we\nfind the following:\n\n    \"He frequently wandered far from home, attended only by\n    his dog, and would return late in the evening, having let\n    hours after hours slip away among the soft and melancholy\n    wildernesses where Yarrow creeps from her fountains. The lines,\n\n        'Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,\n        By lone Saint Mary's silent lake,' &c.\n\n    paint a scene not less impressive than what Byron found amidst\n    the gigantic pines of the forest of Ravenna; and how completely\n    does he set himself before us in the moment of his gentler and\n    more solemn inspiration, by the closing couplet,\n\n        'Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,\n        So stilly is the solitude.'\n\n    But when the theme was of a more stirring order, he enjoyed\n    pursuing it over brake and fell, at the full speed of his\n    _Lieutenant_. I well remember his saying, as I rode with him\n    across the hills from Ashestiel to Newark one day in his\n    declining years: 'Oh, man, I had many a grand gallop among\n    these braes when I was thinking of Marmion, but a trotting\n    canny pony must serve me now.' His friend, Mr. Skene, however,\n    informs me, that many of the more energetic descriptions, and\n    particularly that of the battle of Flodden, were struck out\n    while he was in quarters again with his cavalry, in the autumn\n    of 1807. 'In the intervals of drilling,' he says, 'Scott used\n    to delight in walking his powerful black steed up and down\n    by himself upon the Portobello sands, within the beating of\n    the surge; and now and then you would see him plunge in his\n    spurs and go off as if at the charge, with the spray dashing\n    about him.' As we rode back to Musselburgh, he often came and\n    placed himself beside me to repeat the verses that he had been\n    composing during these pauses of our exercise.\"\n\nWe should be glad to follow the biographer through his account of\nthe production of 'Marmion,' and to present some of the numerous\ncriticisms which were received from the various personal friends\nof the author. Our space, however, will not permit. The popularity\nof the poem may be estimated from the fact, that more than fifty\nthousand copies of the work were subsequently sold in Great Britain\nalone.\n\nScott's personal appearance, at this period, is thus described by\nMiss Seward:\n\n    \"'On Friday last,' she says, 'the poetically great Walter Scott\n    came 'like a sun-beam to my dwelling.' This proudest boast of\n    the Caledonian muse is tall, and rather robust than slender,\n    but lame in the same manner as Mr. Hayley, and in a greater\n    measure. Neither the contour of his face, nor yet his features,\n    are elegant; his complexion healthy, and somewhat fair, without\n    bloom. We find the singularity of brown hair and eye-lashes,\n    with flaxen eyebrows, and a countenance open, ingenuous, and\n    benevolent. When seriously conversing, or earnestly attentive,\n    though his eyes are rather of a lightish gray, deep thought\n    is on their lids; he contracts his brow, and the rays of\n    genius gleam aslant from the orbs beneath them. An upper lip\n    too long prevents his mouth from being decidedly handsome;\n    but the sweetest emanations of temper and heart play about\n    it, when he talks cheerfully, or smiles; and in company, he\n    is much oftener gay than contemplative. His conversation--an\n    overflowing fountain of brilliant wit, apposite allusion, and\n    playful archness--while on serious themes it is nervous and\n    eloquent; the accent decidedly Scotch, yet by no means broad.\n    On the whole, no expectation is disappointed which his poetry\n    must excite in all who feel the power and graces of human\n    inspiration.\"\n\nWe pass the details of his extraordinary literary labors and\nsuccesses, to present two or three extracts, which serve to show\nus the _man_. A friend of the biographer's thus compares Scott and\nJeffrey, whom he met at a dinner-party in Edinburgh:\n\n    \"'There were,' he says, 'only a few people besides the two\n    lions--and assuredly I have seldom passed a more agreeable day.\n    A thousand subjects of literature, antiquities, and manners\n    were started; and much was I struck, as you may well suppose,\n    by the extent, correctness, discrimination, and accuracy of\n    Jeffrey's information; equally so with his taste, acuteness,\n    and wit in dissecting every book, author, and story that\n    came in our way. Nothing could surpass the variety of his\n    knowledge, but the easy rapidity of his manner of producing\n    it. He was then in his meridian. Scott delighted to draw him\n    out, delighted also to talk himself, and displayed, I think,\n    even a larger range of anecdote and illustration; remembering\n    every thing, whether true or false, that was characteristic\n    or impressive; every thing that was good, or lovely, or\n    lively. It struck me that there was this great difference:\n    Jeffrey, for the most part, entertained us, when books were\n    under discussion, with the detection of faults, blunders,\n    absurdities, or plagiarisms. Scott took up the matter where\n    he left it, recalled some compensating beauty or excellence\n    for which no credit had been allowed, and by the recitation,\n    perhaps, of one fine stanza, set the poor victim on his legs\n    again.\"\n\nHere is a picture of his fine feeling of domestic attachment:\n\n    \"Mr. and Mrs. Morritt reached Edinburgh soon after this letter\n    was written. Scott showed them the lions of the town and its\n    vicinity, exactly as if he had nothing else to attend to but\n    their gratification; and Mr. Morritt recollects with particular\n    pleasure one long day spent in rambling along the Esk by Roslin\n    and Hawthornden,\n\n        'Where Johnson sat in Drummond's social shade,'\n\n    down to the old haunts of Lasswade.\"\n\n    \"'When we approached that village,' says the memorandum with\n    which Mr. Morritt favors me, 'Scott, who had laid hold of my\n    arm, turned along the road in a direction not leading to the\n    place where the carriage was to meet us. After walking some\n    minutes towards Edinburgh, I suggested that we were losing the\n    scenery of the Esk, and, besides, had Dalkeith Palace yet to\n    see. 'Yes,' said he, 'and I have been bringing you where there\n    is little enough to be seen--only that Scotch cottage' (one\n    by the road side, with a small garth); 'but, though not worth\n    looking at, I could not pass it. It was our first country-house\n    when newly married, and many a contrivance we had to make it\n    comfortable. I made a dining-table for it with my own hands.\n    Look at those two miserable willow-trees on either side the\n    gate into the enclosure: they are tied together at the top to\n    be an arch, and a cross made of two sticks over them is not\n    yet decayed. To be sure it is not much of a lion to show a\n    stranger; but I wanted to see it again myself, for I assure\n    you that after I had constructed it, _mamma_ (Mrs. Scott)\n    and I both of us thought it so fine, we turned out to see it\n    by moonlight, and walked backwards from it to the door, in\n    admiration of our own magnificence and its picturesque effect.\n    I did want to see if it was still there: so now we will look\n    after the barouche, and make the best of our way to Dalkeith.'\n    Such were the natural feelings that endeared the Author of\n    Marmion and the Lay to those who 'saw him in his happier hours\n    of social pleasure.'\"\n\nA brief paragraph or two, descriptive of Scott's feelings when he\nfirst called the now classic grounds of Abbotsford his own, must\nclose our quotations for the present:\n\n    \"As my lease of this place is out, I have bought, for about\n    4000 pounds, a property in the neighborhood, extending along\n    the banks of the river Tweed for about half a mile. It is\n    very bleak at present, having little to recommend it but the\n    vicinity of the river; but as the ground is well adapted by\n    nature to grow wood, and is considerably various in form and\n    appearance, I have no doubt that by judicious plantations it\n    may be rendered a very pleasant spot; and it is at present\n    my great amusement to plan the various lines which may be\n    necessary for that purpose. The farm comprehends about a\n    hundred acres, of which I shall keep fifty in pasture and\n    tillage, and plant all the rest, which will be a very valuable\n    little possession in a few years, as wood bears a high price\n    among us. I intend building a small cottage for my summer\n    abode, being obliged by law, as well as induced by inclination,\n    to make this country my residence for some months every year.\n    This is the greatest incident which has lately taken place in\n    our domestic concerns; and I assure you we are not a little\n    proud of being greeted as _laird_ and _lady_ of _Abbotsford_.\n    We will give a grand gala when we take possession of it, and\n    as we are very _clannish_ in this corner, all the Scots in the\n    country, from the duke to the peasant, shall dance on the green\n    to the bagpipes, and drink whiskey-punch.\" * * * \"The same week\n    he says to Joanna Baillie: 'My dreams about my cottage go on;\n    of about a hundred acres I have manfully resolved to plant from\n    sixty to seventy; as to my scale of dwelling, why, you shall\n    see my plan when I have adjusted it. My present intention is\n    to have only two spare bed-rooms, with dressing-rooms, each\n    of which will, on a pinch, have a couch-bed; but I cannot\n    relinquish my Border principle of accommodating all the cousins\n    and _duniwastles_, who will rather sleep on chairs, and on\n    the floor, and in the hay-loft, than be absent when folks are\n    gathered together; and truly I used to think Ashestiel was very\n    much like the tent of Paribanou, in the Arabian Nights, that\n    suited alike all numbers of company equally; ten people fill it\n    at any time, and I remember its lodging thirty-two without any\n    complaint.\"\n\nSpeaking of a species of his visitors at this time--'the go-about\nfolks, who generally pay their score one way or other'--he says:\n\n    \"I never heard of a stranger that utterly baffled all\n    efforts to engage him in conversation, excepting one whom an\n    acquaintance of mine met in a stage-coach. My friend, who\n    piqued himself on his talents for conversation, assailed this\n    tortoise on all hands, but in vain, and at length descended to\n    expostulation. 'I have talked to you, my friend, on all the\n    ordinary subjects--literature, farming, merchandise--gaming,\n    game-laws, horse-races--suits at law--politics, and swindling,\n    and blasphemy, and philosophy; is there any one subject that\n    you will favor me by opening upon?' The wight writhed his\n    countenance into a grin: 'Sir,' said he, 'can you say any thing\n    clever about _bend-leather_?' There, I own, I should have\n    been as much nonplussed as my acquaintance; but upon any less\n    abstruse subject, I think, in general, something may be made\n    of a stranger, worthy of his clean sheets, and beef-steak, and\n    glass of port.\"\n\nWe shall resume our notice of these admirable Memoirs, as they appear\nin the successive 'parts' of the American edition. 'Part Four' is in\ncourse of publication, and will soon be issued.\n\n\n\n\nEDITORS' TABLE.\n\n\n'SISTE 'VIATOR!'--But a little while ago, we published in these pages\na brief tribute to the memory of a gifted and distinguished female\ncontributor to the poetical department of this Magazine; and it now\nbecomes our painful duty to record the recent demise of another child\nof song, with whom our readers have not unfrequently held pleasant\ncommunion. We gather from a letter before us, from an attentive\nliterary friend, now in Massachusetts, that J. HUNTINGTON BRIGHT,\nESQ. died recently at Manchester, (Miss.,) at the early age of\nthirty-three. He was the only son of JONATHAN BRIGHT, ESQ., of Salem,\n(Mass.) Early in life he came to this city, where he resided until\nthe death of his parents, when he removed to Albany, and subsequently\nto Norfolk, (Va.,) where he married. Last autumn he sailed for\nNew-Orleans; and, soon after his arrival, was induced to ascend the\nMississippi, to take part in an important mercantile interest at\nManchester, a new town, hewn but recently from the forest. Here,\nundue exposure to the night air brought on the fever of the country;\nand in this cheerless frontier region, away from his kindred and\nfriends, after an illness of a few hours, he yielded up his gentle\nspirit. There is an irrepressible melancholy in the thought, that one\nso open to all the tender influences of affection, should breathe\nhis last far from the endearments of home, and lay his bones among\nstrangers. Yet, to adopt a stanza of a charming fragment written by\nhim for the KNICKERBOCKER:\n\n    'Yet it matters not much, when the bloom is fled,\n      And the light is gone from the lustrous eye,\n    And the sensitive heart is cold and dead,\n      Where the mouldering ashes are left to lie:\n    It matters not much, if the soaring mind,\n      Like the flower's perfume, is exhaled to heaven,\n    That its earthly shroud should be cast behind,\n      To decay, wherever a place is given.'\n\nMr. BRIGHT, under the signature of 'VIATOR,' has contributed many\ngems of pure feeling, imbued with the true spirit of poetry, to the\nfugitive literature of the day. The 'Albany Argus' gave to the world\nmany of his choicest effusions, previous to his appearance before our\nreaders. Of his later efforts, it is unnecessary to speak. They will\nrecommend themselves to every affectionate and sympathetic heart, not\nless by the graces of composition, than the spirit which pervades\nthem. When the depressing influences which have so seriously affected\nthe book-market shall cease to be operative, we hope to see a volume\nof poetry collated from the literary remains of Mr. BRIGHT; and we\ncannot doubt that it will be well received by the public at large,\nas it will certainly be most acceptable to his numerous friends and\nadmirers.\n\nWe are confident that Mr. BRIGHT was capable of even higher and more\nsustained flights than characterize any of the fine productions\nwhich he has given to the public. There was promise of _varied_\nendowments, too, of which we had scarcely deemed him possessed. Parts\nof the 'Vision of Death,' published in these pages, would have done\nno discredit to our best poets. The reader will recall its wild,\nGerman-like air, from the opening stanzas:\n\n    'The moon rode high in the Autumn sky,\n      The stars waned cold and dim,\n    While hoarsely the mighty Oregon\n      Pealed his eternal hymn;\n    And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads\n      Far over the river's brim.\n\n    'An impulse I might not defy,\n      Constrained my footsteps there;\n    When through the gloom a red eye burned\n      With a fixed and steady glare,\n    And a huge misshapen form of mist\n      Loom'd in the midnight air.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nUpon what tender filaments the fabric of existence hangs! Death, an\nunseen spectre, walked by the far-travelling poet's side; and when\nhe deemed the journey of life but just begun, '_Siste Viator!_' rang\nin his dying ear. Well did Sir Thomas Browne exclaim, 'Our life is\nindeed but short, a very dream; and while we look about, eternity is\nat hand!'\n\nMr. BRIGHT has left an amiable and accomplished wife, with two\npledges of an affectionate union. May the blessing of the widow and\nthe fatherless be theirs, in full fruition!--and may consolation in\nbereavement be found in the reflection, that, to use the beautiful\nlanguage of the dear departed,\n\n    'Though his bowed head be with Death's blossoms decked,\n    Warm in the smile of God his spirit walks erect.'\n\n\nTHE DEBUT OF MISS HILDRETH.\n\n    'And smooth success be strew'd before thy feet.'--ANTONY AND\n    CLEOPATRA.\n\nAT the close of the late summer season, at the Park Theatre, a young\nlady from Massachusetts, of about the age of eighteen years, made her\n'first appearance on any stage,' as the play-bills phrase it, in the\ncharacter of 'The Wife of Mantua.'\n\nWe learn from authentic sources, that this was by no means the\nordinary case of a stage-struck-heroine, gratifying a long-indulged\ndesire to dash upon the boards, with the fond anticipation of\nachieving immortal renown at a stroke. Nor was it necessity which\ndrove the _d\u00e9butante_ to the choice of a profession, in which every\ndepartment is so full of toil, and often of unrequited labor and\nsuffering. Of good family, and having an excellent education, she\nwas early smitten with the love of poetry, especially that of the\nbetter and the elder bards; and contracted a habit of reading aloud,\nwhich developed, gradually, the talent of expressive and forcible\nrecitation, to a degree which astonished and deeply interested her\nfriends. This talent, strengthened with her increasing knowledge of\nbooks and its exercise, led her to think of the histrionic profession\nas one congenial with her feelings, and enabling her to give such\nutterance to her appreciations of her favorite poets, as would\ngratify her own ambition, and that of her friends for her. But of the\nstage she knew literally nothing, even when this idea found a place\nin her imagination. She had seen only two or three plays performed,\nand had gleaned no lessons in the art from any fields but those of\nher own mind and fancy; and from these, we are happy to predict, she\nwill yet reap an abundant harvest of success and renown.\n\nHaving taken some lessons in 'stage business' of one of the most\naccomplished actresses on the Park boards, and recited some passages,\nas a specimen of her powers, in the presence of the manager, she was\npermitted a trial, and chose the night of Mr. Chippendale's Benefit\nfor her _d\u00e9but_. She had never seen the character she was to appear\nin performed, and never fully rehearsed the part, until the very\nday she came out: and even then, it was hastily rehearsed, and with\nreference less to the language than the positions, attitudes, etc.,\nof the different characters. Thus, and thus only prepared, she came\nbefore a crowded house, to make her first attempt.\n\nHer fine figure, expressive face, and tasteful attire, joined with\nher modest mien, and graceful, dignified carriage, struck the\naudience very favorably, and she was received with cheering applause.\nSoon, to these recommendations she added a clear, distinct and\nwell-modulated voice, the first articulations of which, though low\nand somewhat timidly tremulous, proved the signal for a repetition of\nthe plaudits of the audience. As the play proceeded, she gained more\nconfidence, though still somewhat constrained, as was quite obvious,\nby the novelty of her situation, and soon began to give abundant\nevidence of her right to claim still higher praise, in the fine\nappreciation of the character she was personating, and in the truth\nto nature which marked her readings.\n\nMiss Hildreth's performance of Marianna was of course purely an\noriginal one. She had been no play-goer, had seen no acting of any\nconsequence, and had never witnessed the representation of 'The\nWife.' Her faults were only those which the judicious advice of\nexperienced friends, added to careful study, and a close but not\nservile observation of good models, will be found fully adequate to\nremove. These are simply, ignorance of stage-business, and of the\nmagic art of by-play, a knowledge of which comes slowly, with the\ngradual growth of confidence, and that experience of the stage which\na long acquaintance with it gives, and which enables the histrion to\nthink not of the audience, but of the character he is personating. In\nher perfect understanding of the language set down for her, in the\nappropriateness of her gesticulation, attitudes, and articulation,\nwhile actually reading her own part, she evinced the possession of\nall the primary and fundamental materials of an actress of the first\norder; and she has only to work them judiciously, to convince the\nworld, ere long, that ours has not been an erroneous estimate of her\nabilities.\n\nA contemporary critic has objected to Miss Hildreth's performance\nof 'Marianna,' that she stood with her arms by her side until her\ncue was given, when, he concedes, she went through the part allotted\nto her creditably. This objection, it will be seen, refers to her\n'by-play.' We have already touched on this point; and in support of\nthe criticism, would instance the interview of 'Marianna' with St.\nPierre, when they discourse of their own native Switzerland. There\nwas none of that exquisite aside-play, (so to speak,) representing\nthe enthusiastic interest which the Swiss girl is supposed to feel\nin the eloquent descant of her countryman upon its beauties; a\nfeature which gives such a fascinating charm to the personation of\nthe character by Ellen Tree. And was this to be expected, under the\ncircumstances? The whole scene was new to the young _d\u00e9butante_. Like\nourselves, she too was a looker-on, during that beautiful apostrophe,\n(never better uttered than then, by Charles Mason,) and in short, was\ninterested, as we were, in all the progress of 'the swelling act;'\nseemingly forgetting that she was to act while he was acting, and\nlistening even as we were listening, until her cue was given; and\nthen, wherein did she fail?\n\nCertainly, not in the modest yet firm narration of her love-prompted\njourney from her mountain-home to Mantua, nor in the trial scene\nbefore the usurping duke, when, to save herself from brutal\nviolation, she awes the assembled court by threatening 'the slightest\nmotion of her little hand,' as it held the poisoned vial to her lips.\nNor in the scenes with her confessor, when she so indignantly spurns\nthe imputation of disloyalty to her lord, and creeps, child-like, to\ncrave accustomed kindness from her ghostly friend, whose mind has\nbeen poisoned by a villain's arts against her; nor in the interview\nwith St. Pierre, while she is giving utterance to the heart-felt\njoy which fills her bosom upon meeting with her countryman; nor,\nlastly, in the camp scene, where she so nobly refuses to go back\nto the trusting bosom of her lord, until he had proved that trust\nwell-founded. We might give more particular citations of natural\nand striking points in her performance of all these scenes, but we\nforbear. Certainly, we repeat, in none of these was there aught that\nlooked like failure, so far as her reading and action were concerned;\nand in this opinion we are confirmed by the concurrent testimony\nof many of the most distinguished members of the profession, who\nwitnessed the d\u00e9but.\n\nWith great confidence, then, do we predict a brilliant career for\nthis young lady, in the profession she has adopted, if she be only\ntrue to herself, and uses aright the talents she possesses. Careful\nstudy, observation, experience, and 'careful study,' after all, and\nwith all the rest, will realize the fondest hopes of her friends, and\nthe proudest of her own most ambitious anticipations.\n\n                                                    J. F. O.\n\n\nPARK THEATRE.--If an exception to the influence of that mighty\nincubus which has borne so heavily upon all trades, business,\ncorporations, and professions, were demanded, the Park Theatre, in\nits undisturbed prosperity, would be selected as the most prominent.\nWhether from their old love of the drama, or from a desire to\ndivert their thoughts from the misery that surrounded them without,\nthey have sought a refuge in the gay illusions of the mimic scene\nwithin, the theatre has, through the entire period of this pecuniary\npestilence, met with constant support from a suffering public. And\nit is well that such has been the case. It is far better that the\nmind, depressed with care, and racked with continued anxiety, should\nseek, in such rational recreation as the Theatre affords, a healthy\nrelief, than by shutting out, in gloomy despondency, all amusement\nor relaxation, make its great grief to grow by what it feeds upon.\nVaried attractions have, during the past season, followed each other\nin quick succession. Bright and particular stars have shot their\nglories across the theatrical horizon, to the wonder of many, and the\nadmiration of all. New plays, of every variety of the drama, have\nbeen brought forward, some to receive the stamp of approval, and\nothers of condemnation. D\u00e9butantes have strutted their hour, some\ngiving promise of growing excellence, and others of quick oblivion.\nSo far, so good. The establishment has been growing rich, and the\npublic have been satisfied with these _prominent_ evidences of its\ndesire to maintain its old renown.\n\nIt would be well, if it were in our power, in looking back upon the\npast season, to find that _all_ things had been done, which justice\nrequires to be done, by an establishment so flourishing as the Park\nTheatre. But unluckily, there is more left undone, than any excuse\nwhich the management can produce can palliate. We can affirm, without\nfear of contradiction, that there is no theatre in the world, whose\nimmediate support, from the _public_, can bear comparison with the\nPark Theatre. No theatre in this country, it is well known, pretends\nto boast of the immense and constant patronage of the Park. The\nsuccessive bankruptcies of almost every manager who has attempted to\ndirect the concerns of the principal English theatres, is notorious,\nand is quite sufficient proof of their want of support from the\npublic; and among the uncounted and uncountable theatres of the\ngayest and most theatrical nation in the world, those that depend\nupon their superior attractions for their great names, depend also\nupon government for their principal support. In Germany, there is the\nsame dependence; and in Italy, the land of song, the very hot-bed\nof musical genius, opera itself does not find its support in the\npublic alone, but is fostered and encouraged, both by the civil and\necclesiastical authorities. Such being the enviable situation of the\nPark Theatre, it is no more than reasonable to expect from it a just\nacknowledgment of its incomparable obligations, in the _perfection_\nof every thing belonging to its management and direction. A very\nbrief examination of its present qualifications, will show whether\nor not this acknowledgment has been, or is likely to be, promptly\nawarded. There is in the stock company of this theatre, _one_ good\ncomedian, unequalled in America, we _know_, and unexcelled in any\nother country, we _believe_; one comic actress, without a superior,\nin the characters of the veteran dowagers, venerable and doting\nnurses, ancient spinsters, and old women generally; one tolerable\n_farceur_, who would be a comedian, if he would be content to be\nnatural, and had a sufficient knowledge of the eccentricities of\ncharacter to be aware that extravagance is not _always_ their\nprominent trait. One second comedian for old men, country-clowns,\ntalkative, officious servants, such as _Pedro_, in 'Cinderella;' one\n'actress of all work,' especially good in chambermaids, and never\nbad in any thing which the paucity of talent among the ladies of\nthis company _obliges_ her to undertake; two good light comedians,\none of them always sufficient for second characters in tragedy, and\nthe other particularly effective in the heavy villains of opera\nand melodrama; one interesting and sensible actress for the ladies\nof comedy, and never at fault as a hoyden, or the spoilt miss of a\nboarding-school;[12] one third-rate singer among the men; one 'ditto\nditto' among the women; one infatuated youth, whose pretty face is\nregularly disfigured with the paint that goes to make up the faces\nof 'scape-grace nephews' or interesting 'lovers' in sentimental\nfarces; one good reader, who plays second parts in tragedy; one bad\nreader, and worse actor, who rolls though Shakspeare and Sheridan\nwith equal effect; one man who does the dukes, and plays the kings,\nbecause he is _fat_; these, with sundry female chorus-singers, who\nappear constantly as 'walking ladies,' and do occasionally a bit of\nheavy business in tragedy, and several individual supernumeraries,\nwho are constantly sent on as 'gentlemen,' and being so addressed\nby the other characters, endeavor, by all sorts of awkward\ngraces, to stultify the audience into the belief that they _are_\nso--these, and these alone, constitute the stock-company of the most\nliberally-supported metropolitan theatre in the world! Ask where is\nits single tragedian, either male or female; its duplicate comedian;\nits additional actor or actress, of any character; its capacity, in\nshort, to enact any one tragedy or comedy in all its parts, and 'echo\nanswers where!' And to _manage_ this inefficient company, seek for\nthe 'stage-manager,' and if we are not mistaken, he will be found\namong the things 'that were, but are not.' There are the materials\nin this city alone, sufficient to furnish forth a _corps dramatique_\nworthy of the Park Theatre. We have shown that the company _needs_\nreplenishing, and it should be so replenished that every character\nin the drama might have a fitting representative. As the company at\npresent exists, its best members do double duty; playing both tragedy\nand comedy, as dire necessity requires; while its subordinates are\nconstantly forced into characters utterly beyond their ability even\nto comprehend, and to shape them even into an outward resemblance\nof which, all the efforts of tailors and stage-dressers must prove\ntotally abortive. It is not proper that Mr. JOHN MASON should play\nboth _Macbeth_ and _Jeremy Diddler_, unless for his own amusement. It\nis not reasonable, that the same person who officiates as tragedian,\nshould be compelled, after 'doing the terrible' in a five-act\ntragedy, to assist in executing the comicalities of a broad farce;\nnor is it more in keeping with the illusion of theatrical displays,\nthat the identical lady who does the 'heavy business' of tragedy,\nshould throw aside her robes of dignity, and immediately thereafter\ncome tripping on in the after-piece, as a coquettish chambermaid.\nYet such incongruities have been repeatedly practised, and must of\nnecessity continue to be so, until the management see fit to supply\ntheir establishment with a full complement of forces.\n\nThere are many other things which need reform. The 'wardrobe wants\nreplenishing.' The orchestra needs both addition and subtraction, as\nwell as the company on the stage. The police are worse than useless;\nbeing notorious for creating more disturbance than they ever quell.\nWhen all these matters are brought to their just propriety, the Park\nTheatre will be worthy of the liberal encouragement which the public\nhave shown themselves disposed to exhibit toward it, and not before.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[12] We regret to state, that the lady here alluded to has taken her\nfarewell of the American public and that the company has thereby\nsuffered a loss it cannot soon repair.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSINCE the above was penned, the Park Theatre, after a brief\nintermission, has reopened, to commence another, and we hope a\nprosperous season. The interior of the house has been much improved,\nin the decoration and thorough painting which it has undergone.\nThe new drop-curtain, painted by Mr. EVERS, is the most prominent\naddition to the local ornaments of the house. It represents the\nwell-known picture of the court, as convened for the trial of Queen\nCatharine, and is well worthy of the high reputation of the artist.\nThe likenesses, according to the original picture, by Harlowe, are\ngenerally well preserved. The figure of Mrs. Siddons is perhaps\nsomewhat large and masculine, but the bold, commanding dignity of\nher look and action is perfectly maintained. The portrait of Charles\nKemble is true and familiar, even to those of us who have only\nseen him when time had somewhat wrinkled his noble front. The face\nof John Kemble seems to us, in the copy, more full and round, and\nthe features more massive, than in the original. Our own lamented\nConway presents a figure on the canvass at the Park, which is hardly\njustified by Harlowe. His face and person are not as we remember\nthem. They are too muscular and broad in their proportions. Conway,\nas we knew him, was of a tall figure, but rather delicately than\nstrongly put together. The other personages do not differ materially\nfrom the pictured originals, and are certainly far superior, as\nfigures, to any that we have ever before seen from the hand of Mr.\nEvers. We think, however, that the artist has committed the common\nfault of crowding his figures too closely. The frame seems too small\nfor so many _tall_ persons, and all of them _prominent_. If the space\nwithin the frame were larger, or the figures smaller, and placed at\nmore reasonable distances, this production would be almost faultless.\nThe draperies are naturally and gracefully drawn; the coloring,\nperhaps, a little too bright and glaring for the chaste and subdued\nwhite and gold in which the interior of the house is dressed. Of the\ngood taste displayed in the coloring and decorations of the pannels\nof the boxes, and of the whole interior, from pit to gallery, with\nthe splendid dome which crowns the regenerated arena of our 'Old\nDrury,' too much cannot be said in commendation. A rich propriety\ncharacterizes the painting, and ornamental devices, and the whole\nreflects abundant credit upon the improved taste of Mr. Evers and his\nassistants.\n\nMr. HUGHES, from the London theatres, has taken the leader's chair\nin the orchestra; and from the exhibitions which he has already made\nof his skill, seems destined to fill it worthily. Our space will not\nallow us to speak of our old favorite, MRS. SHARPE, who made her\nfirst appearance here for some years on the opening evening. She was\ngreeted with a most hearty welcome, and played with all the spirit\nand vivacity which formerly characterized her efforts in comedy. MRS.\nCHIPPENDALE also made her courtesy; and her efforts to please, as\nIsabella, in the 'Wonder,' were well received.\n\n                                                          C.\n\n\nPATHOS.--True pathos is not only one of the most striking but the\nmost durable attributes of real eloquence. It will live in the heart\nfor years, recurring ever and anon to the memory, 'mournful and\nyet pleasant to the soul.' There is nothing so difficult to feign,\nas pathos. It is the language of _the heart_; and while the orator\ncan 'pump up a feeling' of grandeur or sublimity, and wreak it\nupon expression, and the bard, under the influence of an imaginary\nafflatus, can excite a reader's _pity_ for fanciful misfortune, yet\nneither can affect a pathos, which an intelligent auditory or reader\nwill not at once detect. Of the many scenes or events which have\naroused this emotion in our bosom, since childhood, there is not one\nwhich may not be called up from the dark backward of the past, with\nthe vividness of an occurrence of yesterday.\n\nThese thoughts have been awakened, by meeting the following exquisite\nexample of pathos in an ancient common-place book. Simple as it is,\nwe venture to say there is not one under whose eye it will fall, who\ncan read it for the first time, or re-peruse it, without emotion:\n\n    \"MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.\n\n    \"I had a mother once, like you,\n      Who o'er my pillow hung,\n    Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,\n      And taught my faltering tongue.\n    But then, there came a fearful day--\n      I sought my mother's bed,\n    Till harsh hands tore me thence away,\n      And told me she was dead!\"\n\n    \"IT was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a\n    long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred\n    mound, beneath which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful\n    period, great changes had come over me. My childish years had\n    passed away; and with them had passed my youthful character.\n    The world was altered too; and as I stood at my mother's grave,\n    I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless, happy\n    creature, whose cheek she so often kissed in her excess of\n    tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen years had not\n    effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile. It seemed as\n    if I had seen her yesterday--as if the blessed sound of her\n    voice was then in my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and\n    childhood were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that had\n    it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed would\n    have been gentle and refreshing. The circumstance may seem a\n    trifling one; but the thought of it, even now, agonizes my\n    heart--and I relate it, that those children who have parents to\n    love them, may learn to value them as they ought.\n\n    \"My mother had been ill a long time; and I had become so much\n    accustomed to her pale face, and weak voice, that I was not\n    frightened at them, as children usually are. At first, it is\n    true, I had sobbed violently--for they told me she would die;\n    but when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her\n    the same, I began to believe she would always be spared to me.\n\n    \"One day, when I had lost my place in the class, and done my\n    work wrong-side-outward, I came home discouraged and fretful.\n    I went into my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual--but\n    she met me with the same affectionate smile that always\n    welcomed my return. Alas! when I look back, through the lapse\n    of thirteen years, I think my heart must have been stone, not\n    to have been melted by it.\n\n    \"She requested me to go down stairs, and bring her a glass of\n    water. I pettishly asked why she did not call the domestic\n    to do it. With a look of mild reproach, which I shall never\n    forget, if I live to be a hundred years old, she said, 'And\n    will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick\n    mother?'\n\n    \"I went and brought her the water; but I did not do it kindly.\n    Instead of smiling, and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I sat\n    the glass down very quick, and left the room.\n\n    \"After playing a short time, I went to bed, without bidding my\n    mother 'good night;' but when alone in my room, in darkness and\n    silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how her faint\n    voice trembled, when she said, 'Will not my daughter bring a\n    glass of water for her poor sick mother?' I could not sleep;\n    and I stole into her chamber, to ask forgiveness. She had just\n    sunk into an uneasy slumber; and they told me I must not waken\n    her. I did not tell any one what troubled me; but stole back to\n    my bed, resolved to rise early in the morning, and tell her how\n    sorry I was for my conduct.\n\n    \"The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hurrying on my\n    clothes, I hastened to my mother's room.\n\n    \"She was dead! She never spoke to me more--never smiled upon\n    me again! And when I touched the hand that used to rest upon\n    my head in blessing, it was so cold it made me start. I bowed\n    down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart.\n    I thought then I wished I could die, and be buried with her;\n    and old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to\n    give, could my mother but have lived to tell me she forgave\n    my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when\n    I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of her manifold\n    kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she gave me, will\n    'bite like a serpent, and sting like an adder.'\"\n\nNear this beautiful fragment, in the time-honored receptacle of\nliterary 'things lost upon earth' to which we have alluded, we find\na kindred specimen, in the affecting 'Lines written by an East-India\nOfficer on his Return from India.' They are as old as the hills, and\nas lasting; and we still sympathize as deeply and sincerely with the\n\n    ----'Stranger in a stranger clime,\n    Where stranger voices mock his ear,'\n\nas when we first read of his desolation of heart, we know not how\nmany years ago. There is a melting tenderness in his musings, amid\nthe sights and sounds now strange to his eye and ear, and among\nthe graves of the friends of his youth, who have long since been\n'followed to the house of mourning, and forgotten in the dust,'\nwhich is to us irresistibly touching. We feel the holy sadness of\nhis blighted affection, when he wakes from dreams of departed years,\nand the loved ones who blessed his childhood--dreams which come\nto him in a sleep finally won to his bed in the late and troubled\nnight-watches--and in alternate joy and bitterness of soul, exclaims:\n\n    'I see each shade all silvery white,\n      I hear each spirit's melting sigh;\n    I turn to clasp those forms of light,\n      And the pale morning chills mine eye!'\n\nWe shall never forget a scene in which deep pathos was a principal\ncharacteristic, which we once beheld, at a country church, in one\nof the thinly-populated, humble towns of western New-York. A pious\nclergyman, of the Baptist denomination, whose 'three-score years\nand ten' had turned his hair to snow, and given to his limbs the\ntremulousness of age, was to preach his farewell discourse to his\nlittle congregation, over whom he had presided for nearly half a\ncentury. The place itself, and the time, were accessaries to the\n'abiding effect' which was left upon the minds of all who were\npresent. It was the afternoon of a mild October day, and the sere\nleaves of the trees which shaded the church were falling in slow\neddies by the open windows. After recapitulating his long labors\namong them--his teachings 'publicly, and from house to house'--his\nattendance upon the marriage festivals of those whom he had afterward\nconsigned to the grave with bitter tears--the christenings and\nfunerals he had celebrated--after these affectionate reminiscences,\nwhich touched an answering chord in the bosom of every hearer--he\nadverted to that day wherein all the actors in the drama of\nlife must enter at the last scene, to complete and make up the\nsublime catastrophe, and warned them to prepare for its momentous\nsolemnities. 'For myself,' said he, 'I can say--standing upon a\nnarrow point between two eternities, and looking back upon a world\nimperfect and fading, and upon friends dear indeed, but more fleeting\nstill--that I account myself as nothing, until I was my Saviour's,\nand enrolled in the register of Christ.' And raising his trembling,\nattenuated hands to heaven, his dim eyes streaming with tears--for,\nthough he had struggled against emotion, his feelings now overcame\nhim--he repeated these lines, in the most melting cadence:\n\n    'Ere since by faith I saw the stream\n      Thy flowing wounds supply,\n    Redeeming Love has been my theme,\n      And shall be till I die:\n    _Then_, in a nobler, sweeter song,\n      I'll sing thy power to save,\n    When this poor lisping, faltering tongue\n      Lies silent in the grave!\n\nThe look which followed these touching stanzas--the subdued emotion,\nthe pious hope, which beamed in the countenance of the venerable\nfather--will never fade from the memory of those who heard him. The\nheart of the speaker was poured forth; he was embodied Pathos.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNEW-YORK MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION.--We hear, with sincere\npleasure, of the continued success and improvement of this\nwidely-useful institution. A large increase of its already extended\nlist of members; additions of new and valuable books; accessions\nof magazines, and the higher order of periodicals; and ample\npreparations for a series of lectures from some of the best minds\nof the country, are some of the more prominent indications of the\n'high and palmy state' to which we have alluded. Let but party\ndisaffections be religiously avoided--let the members but strengthen\neach other's hands in the advancement of the great interests of the\nassociation--and the institution, for whose original foundation we\nare mainly indebted to the benevolent efforts of WILLIAM WOOD, ESQ.,\nof Canandaigua, will become one of which both our city and state may\nbe justly proud.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLAPLACE.--We have received a small and handsomely-printed pamphlet,\ncontaining 'An Historical Eulogy of M. Le MARQUIS DE LAPLACE,\npronounced in the Public Session of the Royal Academy of Sciences, at\nParis, June 15, 1829. By M. Le BARON FOURIER, Perpetual Secretary.'\nTranslated from the French, by R. W. HASKINS, ESQ., of Buffalo. We\nregard this as an excellent and compendious history of one of the\nmost eminent scientific men France has ever produced. It is the\ntribute of a mind capable of appreciating the labors of one 'who\nenlarged the domain of thought, and taught man the dignity of his\nbeing, by unveiling to his view all the majesty of the heavens,'\nand whose name the world will not 'willingly let die.' A clear and\nforcible style assures us that the original has lost little in the\nhands of the translator.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    *.* The reply of SAMUEL KIRKHAM, ESQ., to the extract from Mr.\n    GOOLD BROWN's 'Grammar of English Grammars,' will appear in\n    the October number. Having 'redeemed the time,' it may not be\n    amiss to state, 'in this connection,' that the KNICKERBOCKER,\n    will hereafter be issued with punctuality on the first of every\n    month.","title":"The Knickerbocker, Vol. 10, No. 3, September 1837","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":49731}