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THE KNICKERBOCKER.

    VOL. X.     SEPTEMBER, 1837.      NO. 3.




SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE AND ANTIQUITIES.

NUMBER ONE.


THE predominant taste for the study of ancient literature, and the
investigation of antiquity, has been the means of bringing to light
a vast quantity of matter, which, if written in modern times, would
hardly be regarded of sufficient value to preserve beyond the age in
which it was written. Elegance of style and composition is not the
distinguishing trait in _all_ the Grecian and Roman authors which
have come down to us; nor are the subjects of sufficient importance
to merit a preservation of twenty centuries; although it may be safe
to say, that these qualities in general constitute the beauty and
value of these writings; for we know that the ancients appreciated
the works of their great men, as well as we; and to this we must
owe their preservation. The philosophy of Plato and Socrates--the
histories of Herodotus and Livy--the poetry of Homer and Virgil--the
metaphysics of Aristotle--the geometry of Euclid, and the eloquence
of Cicero and Demosthenes, are not regarded now with more esteem
than they were in the period in which they were produced, although
the great mass of the people were far behind us in knowledge. Poetry
and eloquence are as attractive to the senses of a savage, as to him
who is civilized; and to this circumstance must be attributed the
preservation and transmission of many poems, of people who have left
no other memento of their existence.

The wisdom of the ancient writers above named, was in advance
of the age in which they lived, yet they were appreciated; and
although kingdoms have risen and fallen, nations have been scattered
and annihilated, and language itself become corrupted or lost,
these memorials of learning and genius have been preserved, amid
the general devastation, and still appear in all their original
beauty and grandeur, more imperishable than the sculptured column
or trophied urn; models for nations yet unborn, and drawing forth
the admiration of the most accomplished scholars and profound
philosophers.

In addition to these, we possess many valuable histories, learned
dissertations, poetical effusions, specimens of the early drama,
etc., which, although they may rank lower in their style of
composition, are valuable from the light they throw upon the manners
and customs of the age in which they were penned, and make us better
acquainted with the private life, the tastes and occupations, of the
ancients.

Thus much may be said of the Greek and Roman people. Their origin,
their history, and their literature, are known in all civilized parts
of the world; and from the downfall of their respective kingdoms to
the present time, we are tolerably well acquainted with the leading
events of the history of their descendants, in the modern nations
of the south of Europe. Not so with the Teutonic people, who occupy
the middle and northern parts of that continent. The glory of their
ancestors has never been immortalized; no poet or historian arose
to transmit to posterity an account of their origin, or the fame
of their deeds, as letters were first known to the Goths in A. D.,
360. It is not the intention, in the present essay, to illustrate
the literature of the Germanic nations, but to take up that portion
embraced in the general term of _Scandinavian_, which embraces the
literature of Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Iceland. It is also known
by the term _Old-Northern_ or _Norse_, and as _Icelandic literature_.
It is embodied in the Eddas and Historical Sagas as they are called,
in the countries of the north. The former consists of collections of
Icelandic poems, written upon parchment, or skins, in the language of
that country; and the latter, which include the most important part,
are relations of historical events which have occurred in Iceland and
other countries of the north, including Great Britain and Ireland.
They also extend to the affairs of Greenland, which we know was
colonized by the Scandinavians at an early period, and to accounts of
voyages made by them to an unknown land, called Vinland--supposed to
be America--and to various parts of Europe.

Such are the sources of Scandinavian literature. But before we
attempt to examine these treasures, which form the subject of our
remarks, it may be well to ask the question, which naturally arises
here: Who were this ancient people, who, from the earliest period,
have occupied the north of Europe? Whence came they? And to what
nation of more remote antiquity is their origin to be traced?

To answer these questions satisfactorily, would be a task as easily
accomplished, as that of stating with accuracy the origin of the
Egyptians. Several learned writers, of ancient as well as modern
times, have investigated the subject, without arriving at conclusions
which would agree in the most important points; and strange as it
may appear, it is not the less true, that we are better able, after
a lapse of ten or fifteen centuries, to determine the origin of
the people by whom Europe was populated, about the period of the
commencement of the Christian era, than writers were who flourished
ten centuries ago. At that period, the most noble of inventions had
not been brought to light, to treasure up passing events, and what
had been preserved by tradition. Letters were not cultivated in
Europe, and the intercourse between nations of kindred origin was not
sufficiently close, to have promoted such an inquiry.

The cultivation and advancement of the science of philology, or
system of universal grammar, has furnished us with a more unerring
guide by which to trace the origin of the nations of antiquity,
where sufficient of their languages remain, than history itself; for
the latter, being in a great degree traditionary, cannot be relied
upon, when treating of the origin of nations. The primitive history
of the Scandinavians, Romans, Greeks, Egyptians, and Hindoos, are
so interwoven with their mythology, that it is extremely difficult
to separate truth from fiction. In analyzing the various European
languages, on the principles adopted by philologists, we are enabled
to trace the affinities existing between them; and by a similarity
of grammatical structure, correspondence of words and phrases, and
analogies in the conjugations of verbs and declensions of nouns, to
classify the various languages, and ascertain from what family or
stock they are derived. All the living languages of Europe, with
the exception of the Biscayan, or Basque, and the Gaëlic, have been
traced to Asia, and to languages which were spoken by the most
ancient people of which we have any record. It is now conceded,
that the Celts were one, if not the principal, of the primitive
nations of Europe, distinguished by different names in different
countries. The earliest historians of Europe agree, that they were,
in a remote period, settled in various parts of that continent--in
the mountainous regions of the Alps, and throughout Gaul, whence
they migrated to Great Britain and Ireland, and to the central and
western regions of Spain. At a later period, they inundated Italy,
Thrace, and Asia Minor. 'The Hibernians,' says Malte Brun, 'are an
old branch of the same people; and, according to some authors, the
Highlanders of Scotland are a colony of the native Irish. The _Erse_,
or Gaëlic, is the only authentic monument of the Celtic language; but
it may be readily admitted, that a nation so widely extended must
have been incorporated with many states whose dialects are at present
extinct.'[1]

Another primitive nation was the ancestors of the Basques, a people
now dwindled to a few thousands, and confined to the western base of
the Pyrenees. They were closely allied to the Iberians, who occupied
eastern and southern Spain, and a part of Gaul. In the remnant of
this people is preserved one of the most remarkable languages that
philologists have ever yet investigated, exhibiting undoubted marks
of originality. 'It is preserved in a corner of Europe, the sole
remaining fragment of perhaps a hundred dialects, constructed on the
same plan, which probably existed, and were universally spoken, at a
remote period, in that quarter of the globe. Like the bones of the
mammoth, and the shells of unknown fishes, the races of which have
perished, it remains a frightful monument of the immense destruction
produced by a succession of ages. There it stands, single and alone,
of its kind, surrounded by idioms whose modern construction bears no
kind of analogy to it.'[2]

The south of Europe was occupied by the Etruscans, or Etrurians,
whose splendid monuments alone remain to perpetuate their existence;
also by the Ausonians, and the Osci. In the east of Europe, we know
of no other primitive people than the Thracians, which, however, may
have included others of less note. They are spoken of by all the
early historians, but of their language, no traces are known to exist.

The north of Europe now alone remains. This part of the continent
which embraces Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and the north of Germany, was
originally inhabited by the Goths or Scandinavians; some writers
using the former, and others the latter, to distinguish them. Under
whatever name they have been known, they have filled so important a
place in history, that they deserve more than a passing notice.

'In the beginning of the sixth century,' says Gibbon, 'and after the
conquest of Italy, the Goths, in the possession of present greatness,
very naturally indulged themselves in the prospect of past and future
glory. They wished to preserve the memory of their ancestors, and to
transmit to posterity their own achievements. The principal minister
of the Court of Ravenna, the learned Cassiodorus, qualified the
inclination of the conquerors in a Gothic history, which consisted of
twelve books, now reduced to the imperfect abridgment of Jornandes.
These writers passed, with the most artful conciseness, over the
misfortunes of the nation, celebrated its success, and adorned the
triumph with many Asiatic trophies, that more properly belonged to
the people of Scythia. On the faith of ancient songs, the uncertain
but the only memorials of barbarians, they deduced the first origin
of the Goths from the vast island or peninsula of Scandinavia.'[3]

No dependence, of course, can be placed on this history, obtained in
such a manner, and by a people unacquainted with letters. Commencing
on historic ground, as early as the Christian era, and as late as
the Antonines, the Goths were established toward the mouth of the
Vistula, and in that fertile province where the commercial cities of
Thorn, Elbing, Köningsberg, and Dantzic, were long afterward founded.
In the reign of Antonines, the Goths were still seated in Prussia.
About the reign of Alexander Severus, the Roman province of Dacia
had already experienced their proximity, by frequent and destructive
inroads. In this interval, therefore, of about seventy years, Gibbon
places the second migration of the Goths from the Baltic to the
Euxine.

Another, and perhaps a more plausible theory, for the origin of
the Goths, is that of identifying them with the Thracians. This
theory is strongly advocated by Vans Kennedy, who adduces many and
conclusive arguments in favor of his hypothesis. Then to identify
the Scandinavians with the Goths, and their origin is settled. From
the time of Herodotus, until the general prevalence of the name of
Goths, it is undeniable, that the Thracians remained unconquered,
and that they extended themselves from Macedonia to the Dniester,
and from the Euxine Sea to the confines of Germany. For, as the Getæ
are identified by ancient writers with the Thracians, and as neither
proof nor probability supports the assumption that Thracia was ever
occupied by either Scythians or Scandinavians, it must necessarily
follow, that whatever is predicated of the Getæ, must equally apply
to the Thracians; and, consequently, if the Getæ were Goths, the
Goths were also Thracians. To determine, therefore, the identity of
the Getæ and Goths, it may be remarked, that from Strabo, it appears
that the country immediately to the south of the Elbe was inhabited
by the Suevi; then succeeded the country of the Getæ, which extended
along the southern bank of the Danube, and also to the north of that
river, as far as the Dniester. The Moesi, likewise, dwelt on both
banks of the Danube, and were equally with the Getæ considered by the
Greeks to be a Thracian people. The Dacians, also, were a Thracian
people.'[4]

It will be necessary, in the next place, to identify the other
nations which occupied the interior of Europe from the second to the
fifth century, with one of the great nations before alluded to, in
order to arrive at the point in question. The incursions made by the
barbarians, as they were called, from the North into Italy, which
eventuated in the overthrow of the Roman empire, have generally been
attributed to people who crossed the Baltic into Denmark, thence into
Germany, where, uniting with other tribes, they concentrated their
power, and established an empire between the Euxine and Adriatic,
on both sides of the Danube. The most distinguished of these German
nations, as they were called, were the Goths, Vandals, Visigoths,
and Gepidæ. 'In ancient times,' says Procopius, 'they were called
Sauromatæ and Melanchlæri, and by some the Gætic nation. They thus
differ from each other in name, but in nothing else; for they are
all fair, yellow-haired, and good-looking; they observe the same
institutions, and worship the same God, as they are all of the Arian
sect; and they use the same language, which is called Gothic. It
therefore appears to me, that they were all originally the same
nation.'[5]

The affinities of language which are so apparent in the languages of
the north of Europe and Germany, as well as in Great Britain, do not
require any evidence to prove their identity of origin; and if their
language was the same, the natural conclusion is, that the people
were the same. Gibbon states, that the German nations originally
emigrated from Scandinavia; but his authority was Jornandes, who
abridged the history of the Goths, as written by Cassiodorus, before
alluded to, which is considered as indifferent authority.

Acknowledging the Goths and Scandinavians to be the same, one
originated in the other, or each, migrating from the parent stock,
must have taken a different course to reach their respective
countries. The latter must necessarily have passed around the Gulf of
Bothnia to reach Sweden and Norway, or must have passed to the south
of the Baltic, through the country of the Goths. The former course
is altogether improbable, and the latter makes them a branch of the
Gothic nation, which is far the most probable. After quoting numerous
authors on this subject, Vans Kennedy comes to the conclusion, that
from the Hellespont the Thracians gradually extended themselves to
the shores of the Baltic, and thence to Scandinavia. This hypothesis
is far the most reasonable, inasmuch as it has support from the
analogies of languages; from a close resemblance in the complexion,
color of hair, eyes, etc., and from the testimony of history itself.
The Thracians, as before observed, were one of the primitive nations
of Europe. They are repeatedly noticed by Homer, who speaks of them
as a numerous and hardy race. Alluding to their country, he says:

    'To where the Mysians prove their martial force,
    And hardy Thracians tame the savage horse;
    And where the far-famed Hippomolgian strays,
    Renown'd for justice and for length of days;
    Thrice happy race!'
                               ILIAD, B. XIII., v. 1, p. 13.

They are afterward spoken of by Herodotus, and subsequently by
Procopius, from the latter of which we have quoted. As a nation,
the Thracians have long been extinct. Even of their language there
remains no vestige, except what is seen in the Teutonic languages
at the North; those of the South, of Pelargic origin, are by some
philologists derived from the Thracian, inasmuch as the affinities
of the languages of the north and south of Europe are sufficient
to deduce them from some earlier language, all traces of which are
extinct.

This subject might be carried much farther, by tracing the analogies
of language which exist between the German and Sanscrit, or between
the English and Sanscrit, and of the affinity between the Persian
and the two European languages named. They are all so striking as to
place it beyond a doubt that some connexion existed at a very remote
period of antiquity, between the people by whom these languages are
spoken. On this point, the great philologist Adelung observes, that
it has excited the greatest wonder and astonishment. 'The fact is
undeniable; and the German found in Persian consists not only of a
remarkable number of radical words, but also in particles, and is
even observable in the grammatical structure. This circumstance will
admit of two explanations, either from a later intermingling of the
two languages, after they were completely formed, or from their both
being derived from the same mother tongue.'[6]

Having thus traced the Scandinavians to the Thracians, which latter
people, from their proximity to Asia, must have preserved parts of
their mother tongue, particularly if that was the Persian or Zend,
and noticed the remarkable affinity existing, even in our day, in the
languages of Teutonic people (of which the Scandinavians are one) and
the Persian, the antiquity of the former, and their descent from one
of the original nations of Asia, will be sufficiently apparent, to
take up the subject which heads this article.

The early history of the North was traditionary, until the
introduction of Christianity, with which Roman letters were also
introduced. These were easily adapted to express the various sounds
of their languages; and being much more convenient and applicable to
reduce their songs, tales, and histories into, than the characters
heretofore used, they were soon after embodied in them. The letters
in use, previous to the introduction of the Roman alphabet, were
Runic. This alphabet consisted of sixteen letters, which are said to
be Phoenician in their origin, and to have been introduced by Odin.
They were used to sculpture important events on rocks and monuments,
many of which are still found in various parts of the North, as well
as in Great Britain. In another place, a more particular account
will be given of these _Runes_, as they are called, accompanied by
translations.

It does not appear that the Runic letters had ever been employed to
much extent, on parchment, to record passing events, or to preserve
the lays, which memory alone had transmitted from generation to
generation. Like all other people of antiquity, the Scandinavians had
their bards, synonymous with the rhapsodists of Greece. They were
known by the name of _Skalds_, and were both poets and historians.
'They were the companions and chroniclers of kings, who liberally
rewarded their genius, and sometimes entered the lists with them in
trials of skill in their own art. A regular succession of this order
of men was perpetuated--a list of two hundred and thirty in number,
of the most distinguished in the three kingdoms of Norway, Denmark,
and Sweden, among whom are several crowned heads, and distinguished
warriors of the heroic age. Canute the Great retained several Skalds
at his court, among whom was one from Iceland, 'who,' says Snorre
Sturleson, 'having composed a short poem on Canute, went, for the
purpose of reciting it, to the king, who was just rising from table,
and thronged with suitors. The impatient poet craved an audience
from the king for his lay, assuring him that it was very short.
The wrath of Canute was kindled, and he answered the Skald with a
stern look: 'Are you not ashamed to do what none but yourself has
dared--to write a _short_ poem upon me? Unless, by the hour of dinner
to-morrow, you produce a _drapa_, above thirty strophes long, on the
same subject, your life shall pay the penalty.' The inventive genius
of the poet did not desert him. He produced the required poem, and
was liberally rewarded by the king with fifty marks of silver.[7] The
improvisatores of modern times forcibly remind us of the northern
Skalds, who, without the genial skies and classic land of Italy to
excite their imagination, produced their lays with equal facility,
and expressed their ideas, which correspond with the wildness
and rigidity of the North, as the Italian bards assimilate their
effusions with the mildness of their climate, and the delightful
landscapes with which they were surrounded. Southey thus alludes to
them:

        ----'Wild the Runic faith,
    And wild the realms where Scandinavian chiefs
    And Skalds arose, and hence the Skald's strong verse
    Partook the savage wildness.'

The most important part of Old Northern, or Icelandic literature, is
that contained in the _Sagas_. Of these there are vast quantities
still in a high state of preservation, not less than two thousand
of them being in the collection of the Royal Society of Northern
Antiquaries. They are written upon skins, in dialects of the
Scandinavian languages. The greater portion, however, are in the
Icelandic text; others are in the Faroe, Orkney, and Norwegian
dialects. One of the most noble and praiseworthy undertakings of the
present day, is that of the society alluded to, which contemplates
the examination, elucidation, and immediate publication, of these
valuable manuscripts. They have already advanced to a considerable
extent in the accomplishment of their object. The first and most
important collection of the Saga manuscripts, was that made by
Arne Magnusen, a learned Icelander, who died in 1730. He collected
one thousand five hundred and fifty-four of them, and by his will
bequeathed a large sum for their publication. This fund led Professor
Rafn, in connection with Brynjulfon, Egilson, and Gudmunsson, of
Iceland, to found a society for the publication of the old Norse
manuscripts, which society is the one referred to, having the King of
Denmark for its patron and founder, and embracing among its members
most of the learned men of the north of Europe. In addition to the
bequest of Arne Magnusen, a large fund has been formed, contributed
by the king and other noble and public-spirited individuals of
Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Germany, Great Britain, and Iceland, for the
further prosecution and investigation of old northern Archaeology,
and Scandinavian antiquities generally. 'The ancient literature of
the North,' to quote the language of a letter from the society,
'in point of extent, has not without reason been compared to the
literary remains of Greece and Latium, and which is indisputably of
decided importance to the antiquarians, historians, lawyers, and
philologists of Europe and America.' It is gratifying to observe,
that this enterprise has already begun to excite an interest, not
only within the limited territory of Denmark, or of Scandinavia,
where the resources for so extensive an undertaking are too scanty,
but also in several countries beyond the limits of northern Europe,
whose scholars share with us in the sentiment, that such literary
undertakings ought not to be confined within political boundaries,
but, on account of their extensive tendency, have also a claim to
active participation from other countries; since without it they
cannot meet with the requisite development, nor become of that
utility to literature and science for which they are intended, and of
which they are susceptible. In order more fully to carry into effect
the plans of this society, the cöoperation of several of the most
eminent antiquarians and literary men of Great Britain and the United
States has been solicited, to which they will, no doubt, readily
accede.

The Saga literature, which was cultivated to so great an extent in
that distant and isolated spot, while all Europe was in a state of
darkness, had a great influence in civilizing and promoting the
cultivation of letters throughout the north of Europe. The Icelanders
were a maritime people, inheriting their love of commerce and
adventure from the hardy Scandinavians who planted their colony.
Their continued intercourse with the coast of Norway led them to seek
adventures elsewhere. The Faroe Islands, the Orkneys, Great Britain,
and Ireland, were visited, and a continued trade kept up between
them. The two former were Scandinavian colonies, and spoke a dialect
of the ancient language.

With the introduction of Christianity into the North, the later
Latins, Gothic characters of the Anglo-Saxons, came into general use;
and to this we owe the transcripts, made chiefly in Ireland, of the
sagas and poetry of the pagan times of the North, and also of the
northern history during the middle ages. These sagas are divided
into four classes, the mythic, mythico-historical, historical, and
romantic.

The volumes already published, are the following: Foramanna Sögur,
eleven volumes; Oldnordiske Sagær, eleven volumes; Scripita Historica
Islandorum, six volumes. These contain historical sagas, recording
events which transpired on the continent; a history of the Norwegian
kings from Olaf Fryggvuson to Magnus, Lagabæta, embracing a long
period of years, and terminating in the year 1274; the history
of the Danish kings, from Harold Bluetooth to Canute VI., or the
period between the middle of the tenth and the commencement of the
thirteenth centuries, with critical notes and commentaries on the
narrations and sagas of several northern writers.

_Iselendinga Sögur_, two volumes, contains the historical sagas,
recording events which have transpired in Iceland; giving also a
particular account of the first colonization of the island, in
Icelandic.

_Faëreyinga Saga_, or the History of the Inhabitants of the Faroe
Islands; in Icelandic, the Faroe-dialect, and Danish. _Fornaldar
Sögur Nordrlanda_, three volumes; _Nordiske Fortids Sagær_, three
volumes. The latter six volumes comprise all the _mytho-historical
sagas_, recording events in the North, assignable to the period
anterior to the colonization of Iceland, or the era of authentic
history; in Icelandic and Danish.

_Krakumal sive Epicedium Ragnaris Lodbroci_, or Ode on the Heroic
Deeds and Death of the Danish King, Ragnar Lodbrok, in England; in
Icelandic, Danish, Latin, and French.

These publications will give some idea of the extent, variety, and
interest, of the manuscripts in the possession of this society, and
of the light which, in all probability, many of them will throw upon
the hitherto unsettled points of English, Scottish, and Irish history.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] MALTE BRUN's Geography, vol. VI., p. 77.

[2] MR. DUPONCEAU's Report to the Hist. and Lit. Comm. of the
American Phil. Soc., p. 11.

[3] Gibbon's Roman Empire, vol. I., p. 387.

[4] Researches into the Origin and Affinity of the Principal
Languages of Europe, and Asia, p. 142.

[5] PROCOPIUS in Bell. Van., lib. I., c. 2.

[6] ADELUNG's, Mithridates, vol. I., p. 277.

[7] WHEATON'S Hist. of the Northmen, p. 51, _et seq._




ANACREONTIC.


    I.

    WILT thou then leave me, ere the hurrying hours
      Have yet gone by, when sleepless souls should meet?
    Wilt thou then leave me, when in these still bowers,
      Time lingers, wrapt in joys so wildly sweet?
    Oh, break not thus away, with trembling spirit,
      Nor deem a converse so delightful, wrong;
    Ah me! the hours of joy we now inherit,
      Have never yet been known to linger long.

    II.

    Haste not away so soon--a while remaining,
      Some newer bliss, unknown, shall touch the heart;
    Ah me! thy own unto my bosom straining,
      If like me thou didst love, we should not part.
    Thou still wouldst pause, and with a fond affection,
      Re-clasp the hands, unite the lips that burn,
    And when in fear thou break'st the sweet connection,
      Return and linger, linger and return.

                                            G. B. SINGLETON.




THE AMERICAN WILD ROSE.

    A recent English writer says: 'The rose is a flower entirely
    unknown to the new world.'


    FAIR flower! the opening of whose breast
    Of fragrance, on the soft south-west,
    Speaks sweet to me, in mem'ries dear--
    All that calls up affection's tear;
    I love thy heart-leaf'd single cup,
      Soft blushing with the hue of morn;
    I kiss each essenced dew-drop up,
      That trembles on thy thorn:
    For thou upon my path hast grown
    Since childhood--womanhood, I own.
    First on a Pennsylvanian bank,
      Where fair my native creek flow'd by,
    The breathings of thine heart I drank,
      And gazed into thy golden eye.

    Where'er I wander, still dost thou
    Ever upon my pathway bow;
    The field, the cliff--my children's tomb,
    To garland with spontaneous bloom.
    Where'er a mossy rock hath place,
    Thou wavest there in modest grace;
    Guarding beneath thy blushing vest,
    Midst tufted grass, the partridge-nest.
    Where'er o'er mountain path I toil,
    Thou spring'st to bless the grav'ly soil;
    Where straggling fence-row gives thee room,
    Thou fling'st a garland, and perfume;
    And oft thy dying odors play,
    Mingled in swathe of fragrant hay.
    Though thou dost love the woodland shade,
    Still for the sun-beam wert thou made.
    Stealing from copse to open sky--
    Greeting from far the traveller's eye:
    Thou wert not 'born to blush unseen,'
    Sweet wilding rose; the meadow's queen!

    I love thy leaf's indented green;
      The tinge of red upon thy stalk;
    Thy pointed buds, so neatly furl'd:
    O, who hath said this western world
      Was to thy smile unknown!
    Come, let him take one morning walk,
      When May has well nigh flown;
    In dell or dingle, chiefly where
    A thicket meets the open air;
    Or where a gurgling streamlet takes
    Its sparkling leap through rocky brakes;
    O'er fence-row, to the tassel'd corn,
    The smiling rose nods from her thorn:
    O! ever, rose! smile thus to me,
    Memento of my childhood's glee.
    In warmer Greece, thou may'st repay,
    With richer glow, the softer day;
    At eve, as from the bul-bul's throat,
    Love's fabled breathings o'er thee float;
    Or England's gardens may enhance,
      By florist's art, thy trebled flower;
    But here thou'rt free; thy ev'ry glance
      Speaks but our nation's dower.

    Free as the foot of Pilgrim, set
    On Plymouth-rock by salt sea wet;
    Free as the soil on which he trod,
    Free as the pray'r he breath'd to GOD;
    Free as the untam'd Indian's eye,
    That tracks the foe none else can spy;
    Free as the arrow from his bow--
    Free as the dark Missouri's flow;
    Free as the forest's untam'd herds;
    Free as the lake's migrating birds.

    Wild rose, and sweet! still grace the soil,
    Won by our fathers' sacred toil;
    Still cheer the labors of the plough--
    The harvest rose, still flourish thou!
    Gayer may blow in Persian loom,
    Richer may breathe in Turk's perfume:
    But purer, sweeter, never hung
    The rocks, the paths, the fields among;
    I love thee, for thou dost for me
    Garland the country of the free!

                                                          W.




EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD.


THERE is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy, than, while
gazing at a figure of melancholy age, to re-create its youth, and,
without entirely obliterating the identity of form and features, to
restore those graces which time has snatched away. Some old people,
especially women, so age-worn and woful are they, seem never to
have been young and gay. It is easier to conceive that such gloomy
phantoms were sent into the world as withered and decrepit as we
beheld them now, with sympathies only for pain and grief, to watch at
death-beds, and weep at funerals. Even the sable garments of their
widowhood appear essential to their existence; all their attributes
combine to render them darksome shadows, creeping strangely amid
the sunshine of human life. Yet it is no unprofitable task, to take
one of these doleful creatures, and set fancy resolutely at work to
brighten the dim eye, and darken the silvery locks, and paint the
ashen-cheek with rose-color, and repair the shrunken and crazy form,
till a dewy maiden shall be seen in the old matron's elbow-chair.
The miracle being wrought, then let the years roll back again, each
sadder than the last, and the whole weight of age and sorrow settle
down upon the youthful figure. Wrinkles and furrows, the hand-writing
of Time, may thus be deciphered, and found to contain deep lessons
of thought and feeling. Such profit might be derived, by a skilful
observer, from my much-respected friend, the Widow Ingersoll, a nurse
of great repute, who has breathed the atmosphere of sick-chambers and
dying-breaths, these forty years.

See! she sits cowering over her lonesome hearth, with her gown and
upper petticoat drawn upward, gathering thriftily into her person
the whole warmth of the fire, which, now at nightfall, begins to
dissipate the autumnal chill of her chamber. The blaze quivers
capriciously in front, alternately glimmering into the deepest chasms
of her wrinkled visage, and then permitting a ghostly dimness to mar
the outlines of her venerable figure. And Nurse Ingersoll holds a
tea-spoon in her right hand, with which to stir up the contents of a
tumbler in her left, whence steams a vapory fragrance, abhorred of
temperance societies. Now she sips--now stirs--now sips again. Her
sad old heart has need to be revived by the rich infusion of Geneva,
which is mixed half-and-half with hot water, in the tumbler. All day
long she has been sitting by a death-pillow, and quitted it for her
home, only when the spirit of her patient left the clay, and went
homeward too. But now are her melancholy meditations cheered, and her
torpid blood warmed, and her shoulders lightened of at least twenty
ponderous years, by a draught from the true Fountain of Youth, in a
case-bottle. It is strange that men should deem that fount a fable,
when its liquor fills more bottles than the congress-water! Sip it
again, good nurse, and see whether a second draught will not take
off another score of years, and perhaps ten more, and show us, in
your high-backed chair, the blooming damsel who plighted troths with
Edward Fane. Get you gone, Age and Widowhood! Come back, unwedded
Youth! But, alas! the charm will not work. In spite of fancy's most
potent spell, I can see only an old dame cowering over the fire, a
picture of decay and desolation, while the November blast roars at
her in the chimney, and fitful showers rush suddenly against the
window.

Yet there was a time when Rose Grafton--such was the pretty
maiden-name of Nurse Ingersoll--possessed beauty that would have
gladdened this dim and dismal chamber, as with sunshine. It won for
her the heart of Edward Fane, who has since made so great a figure
in the world, and is now a grand old gentleman, with powdered hair,
and as gouty as a lord. These early lovers thought to have walked
hand in hand through life. They had wept together for Edward's little
sister Mary, whom Rose tended in her sickness, partly because she
was the sweetest child that ever lived or died, but more for love of
him. She was but three years old. Being such an infant, Death could
not embody his terrors in her little corpse; nor did Rose fear to
touch the dead child's brow, though chill, as she curled the silken
hair around it, nor to take her tiny hand, and clasp a flower within
its fingers. Afterward, when she looked through the pane of glass in
the coffin-lid, and beheld Mary's face, it seemed not so much like
death, or life, as like a wax-work, wrought into the perfect image
of a child asleep, and dreaming of its mother's smile. Rose thought
her too fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and wondered that an
angel did not snatch up little Mary's coffin, and bear the slumbering
babe to heaven, and bid her wake immortal. But when the sods were
laid on little Mary, the heart of Rose was troubled. She shuddered at
the fantasy, that, in grasping the child's cold fingers, her virgin
hand had exchanged a first greeting with mortality, and could never
lose the earthy taint. How many a greeting since! But as yet, she
was a fair young girl, with the dew-drops of fresh feeling in her
bosom; and instead of Rose, which seemed too mature a name for her
half-opened beauty, her lover called her Rosebud.

The rosebud was destined never to bloom for Edward Fane. His mother
was a rich and haughty dame, with all the aristocratic prejudices
of colonial times. She scorned Rose Grafton's humble parentage, and
caused her son to break his faith, though, had she let him choose, he
would have prized his Rosebud above the richest diamond. The lovers
parted, and have seldom met again. Both may have visited the same
mansions, but not at the same time; for one was bidden to the festal
hall, and the other to the sick-chamber; he was the guest of Pleasure
and Prosperity, and she of Anguish. Rose, after their separation, was
long secluded within the dwelling of Mr. Ingersoll, whom she married
with the revengeful hope of breaking her false lover's heart. She
went to her bridegroom's arms with bitterer tears, they say, than
young girls ought to shed, at the threshold of the bridal chamber.
Yet, though her husband's head was getting gray, and his heart had
been chilled with an autumnal frost, Rose soon began to love him, and
wondered at her own conjugal affection. He was all she had to love;
there were no children.

In a year or two, poor Mr. Ingersoll was visited with a wearisome
infirmity, which settled in his joints, and made him weaker than a
child. He crept forth about his business, and came home at dinnertime
and eventide, not with the manly tread that gladdens a wife's heart,
but slowly--feebly--jotting down each dull footstep with a melancholy
dub of his staff. We must pardon his pretty wife, if she sometimes
blushed to own him. Her visitors, when they heard him coming, looked
for the appearance of some old, old man; but he dragged his nerveless
limbs into the parlor--and there was Mr. Ingersoll! The disease
increasing, he never went into the sunshine, save with a staff in
his right hand, and his left on his wife's shoulder, bearing heavily
downward, like a dead man's hand. Thus, a slender woman, still
looking maiden-like, she supported his tall, broad-chested frame
along the pathway of their little garden, and plucked the roses for
her gray-haired husband, and spoke soothingly, as to an infant. His
mind was palsied with his body; its utmost energy was peevishness.
In a few months more, she helped him up the staircase, with a pause
at every step, and a longer one upon the landing-place, and a heavy
glance behind, as he crossed the threshold of his chamber. He knew,
poor man, that the precincts of those four walls would thenceforth
be his world--his world, his home, his tomb--at once a dwelling and
a burial-place, till he were borne to a darker and a narrower one.
But Rose was with him in the tomb. He leaned upon her, in his daily
passage from the bed to the chair by the fireside, and back again
from the weary chair to the joyless bed--his bed and hers--their
marriage-bed; till even this short journey ceased, and his head lay
all day upon the pillow, and hers all night beside it. How long poor
Mr. Ingersoll was kept in misery! Death seemed to draw near the door,
and often to lift the latch, and sometimes to thrust his ugly skull
into the chamber, nodding to Rose, and pointing at her husband, but
still delayed to enter. 'This bed-ridden wretch cannot escape me!'
quoth Death. 'I will go forth, and run a race with the swift, and
fight a battle with the strong, and come back for Ingersoll at my
leisure!' Oh, when the deliverer came so near, in the dull anguish of
her worn-out sympathies, did she never long to cry, 'Death, come in!'

But, no! We have no right to ascribe such a wish to our friend Rose.
She never failed in a wife's duty to her poor sick husband. She
murmured not, though a glimpse of the sunny sky was as strange to
her as him, nor answered peevishly, though his complaining accents
roused her from her sweetest dream, only to share his wretchedness.
He knew her faith, yet nourished a cankered jealousy; and when the
slow disease had chilled all his heart, save one lukewarm spot, which
Death's frozen fingers were searching for, his last words were: 'What
would my Rose have done for her first love, if she has been so true
and kind to a sick old man like me!' And then his poor soul crept
away, and left the body lifeless, though hardly more so than for
years before, and Rose a widow, though in truth it was the wedding
night that widowed her. She felt glad, it must be owned, when Mr.
Ingersoll was buried, because his corpse had retained such a likeness
to the man half alive, that she hearkened for the sad murmur of his
voice, bidding her shift his pillow. But all through the next winter,
though the grave had held him many a month, she fancied him calling
from that cold bed, 'Rose! Rose! come put a blanket on my feet!'

So now the Rosebud was the Widow Ingersoll. Her troubles had come
early, and, tedious as they seemed, had passed before all her bloom
was fled. She was still fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or, with
a widow's cheerful gravity, she might have won a widower, stealing
into his heart in the very guise of his dead wife. But the Widow
Ingersoll had no such projects. By her watchings and continual cares,
her heart had become knit to her first husband with a constancy which
changed its very nature, and made her love him for his infirmities,
and infirmity for his sake. When the palsied old man was gone, even
her early lover could not have supplied his place. She had dwelt in
a sick-chamber, and been the companion of a half-dead wretch, till
she should scarcely breathe in a free air, and felt ill at ease with
the healthy and the happy. She missed the fragrance of the doctor's
stuff. She walked the chamber with a noiseless footfall. If visitors
came in, she spoke in soft and soothing accents, and was startled and
shocked by their loud voices. Often, in the lonesome evening, she
looked timorously from the fireside to the bed, with almost a hope of
recognising a ghastly face upon the pillow. Then went her thoughts
sadly to her husband's grave. If one impatient throb had wronged him
in his lifetime--if she had secretly repined, because her buoyant
youth was imprisoned with his torpid age--if ever, while slumbering
beside him, a treacherous dream had admitted another into her
heart--yet the sick man had been preparing a revenge, which the dead
now claimed. On his painful pillow, he had cast a spell around her;
his groans and misery had proved more captivating charms than gayety
and youthful grace; in his semblance, Disease itself had won the
Rosebud for a bride; nor could his death dissolve the nuptials. By
that indissoluble bond she had gained a home in every sick-chamber,
and nowhere else; there were her brethren and sisters; thither her
husband summoned her, with that voice which had seemed to issue from
the grave of Ingersoll. At length she recognised her destiny.

We have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the widow; now we see
her in a separate and insulated character: she was, in all her
attributes, Nurse Ingersoll. And Nurse Ingersoll alone, with her
own shrivelled lips, could make known her experience in that
capacity. What a history might she record of the great sicknesses,
in which she has gone hand in hand with the exterminating angel!
She remembers when the small-pox hoisted a red-banner on almost
every house along the street. She has witnessed when the typhus
fever swept off a whole household, young and old, all but a lonely
mother, who vainly shrieked to follow her last loved one. Where
would be Death's triumph, if none lived to weep! She can speak of
strange maladies that have broken out, as if spontaneously, but were
found to have been imported from foreign lands, with rich silks and
other merchandise, the costliest portion of the cargo. And once, she
recollects, the people died of what was considered a new pestilence,
till the doctors traced it to the ancient grave of a young girl, who
thus caused many deaths a hundred years after her own burial. Strange
that such black mischief should lurk in a maiden's grave! She loves
to tell how strong men fight with fiëry fevers, utterly refusing to
give up their breath; and how consumptive virgins fade out of the
world, scarcely reluctant, as if their lovers were wooing them to a
far country. Tell us, thou fearful woman! tell us the death-secrets!
Fain would I search out the meaning of words, faintly gasped with
intermingled sobs, and broken sentences, half-audibly spoken between
earth and the judgment-seat!

An awful woman! She is the patron-saint of young physicians, and
the bosom friend of old ones. In the mansions where she enters, the
inmates provide themselves black garments; the coffin-maker follows
her; and the bell tolls as she comes away from the threshold. Death
himself has met her at so many a bed-side, that he puts forth his
bony hand to greet Nurse Ingersoll. She is an awful woman! And,
oh! is it conceivable, that this handmaid of human infirmity and
affliction--so darkly stained, so thoroughly imbued with all that
is saddest in the doom of mortals--can ever again be bright and
gladsome, even though bathed in the sunshine of eternity? By her long
communion with wo, has she not forfeited her inheritance of immortal
joy? Does any germ of bliss survive within her?

Hark! an eager knocking at Nurse Ingersoll's door. She starts from
her drowsy reverie, sets aside the empty tumbler and tea-spoon, and
lights a lamp at the dim embers of the fire. Rap, rap, rap! again;
and she hurries adown the staircase, wondering which of her friends
can be at death's door now, since there is such an earnest messenger
at Nurse Ingersoll's. Again the peal resounds, just as her hand is on
the lock. 'Be quick, Nurse Ingersoll!' cries a man on the door-step;
'old Colonel Fane is taken with the gout in his stomach, and has sent
for you to watch by his death-bed. Make haste, for there is no time
to lose!' 'Fane! Edward Fane! And has he sent for me at last? I am
ready! I will get on my cloak and begone. So,' adds the sable-gowned,
ashen-visaged, funereal old figure, 'Edward Fane remembers his
Rosebud!'

Our question is answered. There is a germ of bliss within her. Her
long-hoarded constancy--her memory of the bliss that was--remaining
amid the gloom of her after life, like a sweet-smelling flower in a
coffin, is a symbol that all may be renewed. In some happier clime,
the Rosebud may revive again, with all the dew-drops in its bosom.




THE SONG OF THE SHIP.


    'I'VE a long stout bill, like the condor bird, and a cloak of
        canvass white,
    And walking sticks, full two or three, that sport a banner bright;
    I carry an anchor on my bows, and cannon in my sides,
    And a compass true, that night and day my course unerring guides.

    'My way is on the stormy deep, and the tempest as it blows,
    But rocks my darling sons to sleep, who laugh at human woes;
    I bear a nation's arms abroad, where nations without me
    Could never speak in sovereign power--I'm mistress of the sea!

    'When night comes on, I light a lamp, when storms, I trim a sail,
    My hardy boys are e'er alert, with hearts that never fail;
    I rove in might the dark blue deep--I draw a golden chain,
    That causes man on man to smile, and rivets main to main.

    'Wealth follows where my canvass flies, and power attends my roar,
    I dance upon the bounding sea, and smile beside the shore;
    If art and nature both be taxed, they all are found a-lee,
    Compared, in might and glory, to a noble ship at sea.'

    Here ceased the ship to speak, the while she proudly dashed her way,
    When thus a meek and lowly man took up the broken lay:
    'Ah! thus,' he cried, 'shall all be borne, and thus shall all be blest,
    Who put their trust in Alohim, and in Messiah rest.'

    _Michilimackinack, August, 1837._                H. R S.




MARK!

BY PATER ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA.

IN TWO PARTS--PART ONE.


A WRITER in Blackwood, in reviewing the poems of Bishop Corbet, of
facetious memory, insists that the church has been more distinguished
for wit and humor, than any other of the learned professions. This
may not hold true in these refined days, and especially with us,
where the strength of a man's principles is apt to be measured by the
length of his face, and where a large portion of the community seem
to think that

    'To laugh were want of goodness, and grimace.'

But it was not so in the time of Corbet, of South, of Swift, and
of Sterne. Even in the present day, the name of Sydney Smith is
identical with a grin, and evangelical old Rowland Hill himself could
not keep down the busy devil of fun within him. But these are only
exceptions. The taste of the age has declared itself, rightly enough,
perhaps, against the mixture of things sacred and jocose; and the
clergyman who is so unfortunate as to possess a fund of wit, must
seek some other field for its display than the desk, happy if he be
allowed to indulge it even in private, without a brotherly hint from
that benevolent class of individuals, whose chief business in life is
to attend to the foibles of their neighbors. To the student, however,
it is a treat, to turn aside from the staid formality and correct
dulness of the present age, to the times when it was permitted to
a man to follow the bent of his genius, however devious; when
illiterate audiences, more filled with the spirit of faith than with
that of criticism, were as much edified by their preacher's jokes as
by his homilies; and when even the good man, dreaming as little as
Shakspeare himself that his tragi-comedy would fall under the ban
of posterity, went on, firing off alternately the heavy ordnance of
learned denunciation, and the lighter artillery of jest and jibe, at
the head of the conscience-stricken sinner.

Our business, however, is not with the English worthies of this
school, with whose merits and defects we are sufficiently familiar,
but to introduce the reader to another genius of the same stamp, who
flourished at Vienna, where he held no less a station than that of
preacher at the emperor's court.

PATER ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA, if we regard only his quaintness, his
queerness, his bad puns, and his jokes, lugged in, like Sancho's
proverbs, in season and out of season, was a lineal descendant of
those worthy travelling friars, whom Schiller has immortalized by
the Capuchin's Sermon, in the introduction to Wallenstein. But in
learning, in fervor, in rough and rude but stirring eloquence, he is
far above the herd of hedge-preachers. 'Though it appear a little
out of fashion,' there is much that is sterling in him. Few court
preachers ever spake so freely and fearlessly, or applied the lash
of satire so unsparingly to every rank and condition. Had he lived
in a more refined age, when cultivation might have chastened without
destroying his fancy, he would have stood high among popular orators.

His name is probably new to most of our readers; for few of our
German scholars ever peep into those ponderous folios in which
earlier days delighted, or trace up the stream of German literature
higher than Wieland or Klopstock. To such, it would be idle to
expatiate on the crabbed beauties which adorn the Nibelungen-lied,
the Minnesingers, old Hans Sachs, or Abraham a Sancta Clara. We
trust, however, that in the latter they will find enough of oddity,
at least, to render some slight acquaintance acceptable. His true
name was ULRICH MEGERLE, and he was born in Suabia, (the Ireland of
Germany,) in 1642. At the age of twenty, he became a bare-footed
monk, of the Augustine order, and in 1669, was invited to Vienna, in
the capacity of court preacher, an office he filled till his death,
in 1709; preaching and writing the while with untiring zeal and
industry. At a future time, we may brush the learned dust off some
other volumes of his works: at present, we will take up one of his
choicest bits of quaintness, the discourse called '_Mark!_' composed
of a series of warnings to the people of Vienna, written soon after
the plague, which swept off seventy thousand inhabitants in six
months. We have been obliged, of course, to take some few liberties
in our version. Where one of his bad German puns proved utterly
untranslateable, we have endeavored to fill its place with an English
one, equally as bad, and as near the original as possible. It will be
seen that here and there he varies the steady progress of his prose,
and breaks into a rhyming pace, something between a canter and a
hobble; showing that the amphibious measure adopted by the 'wondrous
boy that wrote Alroy,' is not altogether original. Without farther
preface, we shall proceed to our extracts. Thus, then, discourseth
our reverend friend, in his exordium, of the signs that, as usual,
preceded the pestilence:

'Signs in the heavens were furnished by the baleful and malevolent
aspects of the planets. Signs in air are usually changeful weather,
and heavy rains. Clouds, too, are so deemed; but in my poor judgment,
the plague was caused, not only by unwholesome _nebulæ_, but by
wicked _nebulones_. Signs of water are, abundance of fishes cast on
shore, crabs, frogs, and toads; and it is certain, when sharks are
found plying round courts of justice, when honesty sidles off like
a crab, and when toadies are found in the high places, that God
commonly sends a pestilence. Signs of earth, are, when idle, noxious
weeds and herbs infest the ground; and of a surety, when such plants
as sanguinary, dandy-lions, mushrooms, and painted-ladies, grow
plentifully, it is easy to see what is meant thereby!' * * *

'Death began his career in Leopoldstadt, (the suburbs,) and there
destroyed the people for a time, but in moderation. Afterward the
pestilence crossed the Danube to the other suburbs; and it seemed at
first as though Death ventured not to enter the capital, but would
content himself with the suburbs, and the dark corners, and dirty
spots thereof; so that men began wickedly to surmise, that he only
wanted to pick out the refuse, to rummage beggars' wallets, and still
his hunger with coarse crumbs; and that noble palaces, and rich
houses, were safe from his scythe. 'Holla!' said Death, 'to let you
know that no fortress is too strong for me, if girt with a fosse that
could swallow the ocean, I will, spite of you all, conquer the city!'
And he actually did in July.

'In the days of the dictator, Cæsar, an ox spoke; in the days of the
prophet Balaam, an ass spoke; in the time of the Emperor Maurice, a
metal image spoke; in the time of Beda, the stones spoke; but at this
time, in Vienna, when a sick man lay here in one corner, a dying man
groaned there in the other; a few steps off lay one already dead,
and the bodies choked the way of the passers-by; in Vienna, the very
stones spake, and warned the people to repentance. 'Up, and awake, ye
sinners! The axe is laid to the root of the tree! God's anger is at
the threshold; the voice of the Almighty is calling you to eternity;
the archangel Michael holds the balance, to weigh your life! Up! up!
and repent, for this is the only prop to which to hold fast in the
day of destruction! The penitent knockings of your heart, be sure,
can alone open the door of heaven; your hearty sighs are the only
music that please the ear of God.' Thus spake all the streets and
alleys, and the plastermen trod on, warned them to seek a plaster for
the wounds of their conscience.

'Taverns are wont to be the abode of joy and license; for it is no
secret, that when the blessed Virgin came to Bethlehem with Joseph,
she had to take shelter in a broken stall, for there was no room
for her in the tavern; and it is a truth, that God seldom finds
any room in such houses, because all things evil lodge there. For
a lamb to become a hog, an eagle a crow, and a horse an ass, is no
great miracle; for do we not see daily, that men drink like hogs
at the 'White Lamb;' that the 'Golden Eagle' makes gallows-birds,
and the 'Red-Horse' asses? But in these days, the reverse happened;
and the waiters were not so busy in counting up the drinks, as the
drinkers, who lay dead by the door the next morning. Their floors
were sprinkled, not with water, but with tears. Instead of shouting,
was sighing, and--wonderful to say!--there was more whining in them
than wine.'

After discoursing in this manner concerning the plague and its
incidents, by way of prologue, he proceeds to his practical
deductions, addressed to all classes: and first, he invokes mankind
generally, heading the invocation,

    'MARK--MAN!'

''Tis not for nothing, that the word _live_, spelled backward,
readeth _evil_. 'Tis like a cloud, that fantastic child of the
summer, which is no sooner born, than the rays of the sun menace to
make an end of him. Just so our life, _vix orimur morimur_! Our first
breath is a sigh on the way to death, and the very rocking of the
cradle warns us how tottering is our existence.' * * * 'Summer comes
after spring; Saturday comes after Friday; four comes after three,
and death comes after life.

    'Life and glass, they shake and they break;
    Life and grass, how soon they pass!
    Life and a hare, how fleet they are!

'Life is certain only in uncertainty, and is like a leaf on the tree,
a foam on the sea, a wave on the strand, a house on the sand.'

'Stop me not, while I sing my song before thy door. To-day red,
to-morrow dead; to-day your grace, to-morrow, 'God be gracious;'
to-day, a comfort to all, to-morrow, under the pall; to-day, dear,
to-morrow, the bier; to-day hurra, to-morrow, psha!

'_Omnes morimur!_ I have seen that we must all die; I have seen that
death is a player, and a roguish one, for he bowls the men down and
setteth them not up again, and attacketh not the pawn alone, but the
king; I have seen, that were I to gather together the limbs of a dead
emperor, and mix them up with water, they would not be of size enough
to stop the mouth of sneering Michal, when she opened it to laugh at
David her lord.

'Joshua, the hero, before he stormed the city of Jericho, made a
vow to the Lord that none of his army should plunder aught. God
knows, it's hard for soldiers to keep from it; and though they have
little to do with schools, they know wondrous well, that in default
of the _dativus_, they must take to the _ablativus_. Yet, spite
of the ordinance, a soldier named Achan crooked his fingers, and
helped himself to the booty. And lo! when he was caught, and brought
before the aforesaid hero, what answered he: '_Abstuli, abscondi in
terrâ, et fossam humo aperui_.' Such is the answer of Death, the
great robber and plunderer of all things. Tell me, Death, where are
Matthias the Emperor, and Matathias, the prophet? Where are Eleazer
and Eliezer? Where are Leo and Leontius, Maximus and Maximinus?
'_Abstuti et abscondi in terrâ_,' says Death!'

The Pater next takes up the religious world, commencing, as usual,
'Mark! Sir Priest!' and dilateth on the importance of the office, as
follows:

'What is worthier than pious and spiritual men, who have turned their
backs on the world, knowing that world and wild are words that
differ little in name, and none in fact. For what is this world, but
a garden full of thistles; a sugared poison, a gilded dung-hill; a
sack full of holes; a silver hook, a shop full of fool's-caps; a
drug-store, full of nauseous purges; a flowery deceit? The apostles
likened the kingdom of God to a grain of mustard-seed, not to a
sugar-plum; to sour leaven, and not to sweet-meats.'

After reminding us that Peter, in the fulness of his zeal, smote off
the high priest's servant's ear, and was reproved therefor, he goes
on to give a reason for it, which we do not recollect to have met in
any of the commentators: 'If he had been the footman of any nobleman,
or lady, merely,' says he, 'the Lord would perhaps have winked at it,
had he cut off his whole head; but the servant of a high priest was
to be respected.'[8]

We leave the divines for the present, and turn to his next 'mark,'
which is addressed to the learned, whereon he expatiates with a
fellow-feeling, and makes some displays of learning, which will
certainly excite astonishment, if not admiration. His introduction is
as follows:

    'MARK--LEARNED MAN!'

'Tis well known, that Lot's wife was changed by God's decree into a
pillar of salt, because, contrary to the divine command, she looked
back; but why she was changed into a pillar of salt, and not into
a thorn-bush, which is as curious and sharp as she was herself, is
because when she entertained the angels who visited her husband, she
put no salt to the meats, that she might be free of these frequent
visitors. Salt has ever been held the symbol of science and wisdom,
as is shown, not only by its being the first syllable in the name
of King Solomon, but inasmuch as Christ says to his disciples, 'Ye
are the salt of the earth.' As meat without salt, so is man without
knowledge. As the poet saith:

    'A table without a dish,
    A pond without a fish,
    A soup without bread,
    A tailor without thread,
    A horse without a tether,
    A cobbler without leather,
    A ship without a sail,
    A pitcher without ale,
    And a man without wit,
    Do well together fit.'

'I have, with especial care, examined Holy Writ, and find that
therein the word husbandman occurs thirty-six times; the word field,
three hundred and fourteen times; the word sow, twenty times; the
word grow, five hundred times; the word corn, fifty-seven times;
the word reap, fifty-two times; the word barn, twenty-one times; the
word thresh, fifteen times; the word hay, forty-eight times; but the
word _straw_, only once,[9] and that with no great commendation,
where Rachel sat upon it to hide the golden images from her father
Laban. Since, therefore, the word straw occurs but once, I am free to
conclude, that it was holden for something most contemptible. And as
worthless as straw is, so is a man of straw,[10] without learning.'

And again:

'Jesus, our infant Lord, had to lie in a manger at Bethlehem, he
whose abode is the starry heaven; and when his precious body shivered
with cold, and was warmed only by his inward love to us, he to whom
all the hosts of heaven minister, had no attendants, save an ox and
an ass. St. Vincent remarketh, that the ox stood at the babe's head,
and the ass at his feet; whereby he wished to show, that asses, and
such as have no knowledge, should keep in the background, and those
only who have wisdom, stand in the high places.'

       *       *       *       *       *

What is more lovely than knowledge? He who hath it, cuts the 'gordian
knot' better than the Macedonian monarch, and can answer all the
puzzling questions about which other men busy their brains in vain.
As thus: Why doth a man who hath eaten his fill, till his body is
stuffed like a travelling journeyman's knapsack, weigh less than
before? The philosopher knoweth the reason. Why doth he who has drank
too much wine, commonly fall over forward, while he who hath drank
too much beer, generally falleth over backward? The philosopher
knoweth the reason.'

And again he discusseth learnedly of lawyers:

'In the Old Testament, there was a wondrous drink for women, which
many a one had to swallow, albeit she did not complain of thirst.
For whenever a man conjectured that his spouse was faithless,
he led her to the priest at the altar, who handed her a liquor
mixed with a thousand curses, the which, were she wrongfully
accused, harmed her not; but were she really guilty, lo! she was
incontinently filled therewith, and swelled up like a sack of
Bohemian hops, and pined away; and thus they cunningly learned who
was innocent and who guilty. 'Well,' saith one, 'why happeneth
not the same now-a-days? 'Tis as necessary as in those times, and
men would crowd to buy such a drink, at whatsoever price.' To
this I answer, that such miracles are no longer needful; for the
lawyers, with their _citationes_, _notationes_, _protestationes_,
_connotationes_, _replicationes_, _contestationes_, _appellationes_,
_acceptilationes_, _certiorationes_, _confirmationes_, and the like,
make guilt or innocence as clear as day.' But mark we how Death
treats all this choice Latinity: 'What kind of tongue,' saith Death,
'is this, wherein the Latinists address me? By my life, I understand
not Latin! My father, the Devil, a substantial man, and my mother,
Sin, a notable dame as any, to save expense, gave me no learning;
therefore I care not a fig for your Latinists. The Almighty has
truly taught me somewhat, but I find my studies differ mainly from
yours; for in my grammar, _mors_ is _generis communis_; in my syntax,
the verb _vivo_ has no _infinitivum_.'

He next addresses soldiers, whom he comforts with the thought that
they need not despair of eternal life, bad as their calling is; for,
saith he:

'St. John, the angel of the apocalypse, tells us, in his description
of the heavenly Jerusalem, how he saw in his trance, that this
metropolis of God was built four-square, and each side garnished with
three doors; whence we can safely conclude, as St. Dionysius hath it,
that from all quarters and parts of the world, there is access to
heaven.

'St. Athanasius wisely observeth of the people of Israel, that when
they entered on a campaign, the ark of the covenant, wherein were
stored the laws of Moses and the ten commandments, was carried before
the host, that the warriors might have God's law continually before
their eyes. Hear this, ye Christian soldiers! The ten commandments
were the avant-guard of the army of Israel; with you, God help us!
they too commonly are sent to the rear.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Who's there?' 'No friend!' 'Who is no friend?' 'I,' says Death.
'Holla there! Guard, turn out!' 'My loving friends,' replieth Death,
'I cannot laugh in my sleeve, for I have none; but I can't help
grinning, at finding you think to frighten my scythe with your pikes
and halberts. That would be a joke! How many of the Jews have I not
destroyed? The sum total, as Holy Writ testifieth, 854,002,067! And
now shall I be afraid of _you_? No, no! Order arms! Albeit your
leader, _Mars_, and I, _Mors_, are kinsmen in name, I cannot abide
neutral, but declare open war on you! Let him who doubts my power,
go to Vienna, and ask of the first sentinel he meets!' Inasmuch as
Vienna is a rampart of all Germany against the Turk, it is girt
with thick walls, and strong towers. The heavenly city, Jerusalem,
is described by the chronicle as having twelve great gates; now as
Vienna hath six, it may justly be called half a heaven. It hath
always been the wont of the soldiery at Vienna to keep their main
force in the city, and a guard at St. Peter's church-yard; but this
time, Death, against the officers' will, changed their ordering,
and almost all the troops were bidden to _lie at ease_ in the
church-yard, while Death went the rounds, from post to post, on the
walls.'

Let us quote the conclusion of this branch of his address:

'Let the body die, then, be it in fire or in water, on earth or in
air--what matters it! Let it die, this dung-hill, this nest of worms,
this lump of filth, this dying worm, this clod of earth; let it die,
this perishing rottenness, this tricked-out decay, this painted
sepulchre, this congregation of diseases, this bundle of rags, this
six feet of nothing! Let it die!--let it perish! Let it decay,
this living hospital, this sport of chance, this little heap of
earth--when, how, where it may--it matters not! But I beseech thee,
by thy soul's salvation--I sound it in thine ears, with uplifted
hands, let not the SOUL perish! This curious and precious handiwork
and image of God--this priceless and unfading jewel of eternity--this
pure and peaceful sister of the spirits made blessed--oh let not
_this_ perish by sin, for this is the only death that is terrible
indeed!'

There are passages like the above, scattered here and there,
which will show that our author was something more than a mere
pulpit-joker, and that he had within him all the elements of high
eloquence. Our conscience, indeed, reproaches us, at times, that we
are not doing the old worthy justice, but picking out his knotty
points and excrescences, to amuse our contemporaries with their odd
twists and turns, and air of hoar antiquity, rather than laying open
the sound core and pith that lie beneath them. But our object--and
we hope it as an excusable one, in these trying times--is rather to
beguile the reader into a smile, than edify him by serious discourse,
a plenty whereof is to be found at every corner, without going back
for it to Pater Abraham a Sancta Clara.

       *       *       *       *       *

FOR the present, we leave our 'man of mark,' reserving his homily
to maidens, his advice to parents, touching the use of the rod; his
counsels to the rich, etc., for another number.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Speaking of ears. That was an ingenious and kindred elucidation
of a passage of Scripture, which was given by a Methodist clergyman,
of whom we have somewhere read. 'In those ancient days,' said the
divine, 'small crimes were punished by cropping off the ears; so that
it rarely happened, that a large concourse of people could assemble,
without a considerable proportion of them, and oftentimes more, being
deprived of their auricular members. Hence we view, my brethren, the
propriety of that frequent remark of our Saviour, when addressing a
mixed multitude, 'He that _hath_ ears to hear, let him hear!'' It was
the same profound biblical critic, who made St Paul's similitude,
touching his late conversion, ('as one born out of due time,') quite
level to the comprehension of his hearers, by explaining, that the
apostle 'was undoubtedly a seven-months' child!'

                                         EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

[9] 'PATER ABRAHAM,' mark! You had better examine your Bible 'with
especial care' once more. Did not Pharaoh make the children of Israel
turn out the regular quantity of brick, whether they had _straw_,
or not? Our modern version, however, may not answer to the Pater's
original.

                                         EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

[10] Literally _strohkopf_, a straw-head, a dunce.




NATURE.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF MATTHISON.


    I.

    ILLUM'D by reddening skies, stands glittering
          On tender blade the dew;
    And undulates the landscape of the spring
          Upon the clear stream's blue.

    II.

    Fair is the rocky rill, the blossom'd tree,
          The grove with gold that gleams;
    Fair is the star of eve, which close we see
          To yonder purple gleams.

    III.

    Fair is the meadow's green, the dale's thick bush,
          The hill's bright robe of flowers;
    The alder-stream, the pond's surrounding rush,
          And lilies' snowy showers.

    IV.

    Oh! how the host of beings are made one
          By Love's enduring band!
    The glow-worm, and the fiëry flood of sun,
          Spring from one Father's hand.

    V.

    Thou beckonest, Almighty, if the tree
          Lose but a bud that's blown;
    Thou beckonest, if in immensity
          One sun is sunk and gone!




FRANCIS MITFORD.

NUMBER THREE.


WE spake of BRUMMELL's opinions of Canada. 'Canada,' said he,
'is a mere incubus on the already bloated back of England. The
profits derived from the trade of that colony scarcely defray the
enormous expenses of her establishments. Nor is this the worst.
The question of her boundary will one day involve us in a most
bloody and expensive war, demanded, perhaps, by national pride, but
repugnant to our most vital interests; a war, too, with a nation
of brothers, with whom we ought to have but one common view; that
of peaceably extending our laws, language, and commerce, over the
most distant part of the globe. Should there be a war, whether
England emerges from that contest vanquished or triumphant, the
consequences must be equally fatal. Alienation of the present strong
and growing friendship will result, which must tend, more or less,
to restrict the extensive commerce between the two countries, to
the great injury of Great Britain; for though the United States may
easily obtain from other countries the manufactures which she now
obtains from us, at, in the first instance, a triflingly-enhanced
price, yet the grand staple article of cotton cannot be purchased
any where so good, or on such advantageous terms, as in the United
States. The necessity imposed by war on that country of procuring
manufactured commodities elsewhere, would, no doubt, continue in a
great measure, by choice, after peace. The best thing England can do
with Canada, is to present her (with her own consent) to the United
States, or to manumit her from all colonial trammels, and declare her
independent. Thus, by enlisting the pride of the Canadians on the
side of a separate government, she may perhaps succeed in preventing
a junction between this colony and the United States--if indeed
England can be said to have any real interest in the hindrance of
such a junction. Fifty thousand men sent over to Canada, in case of
war with the United States, at the expense of twenty-five millions,
will not suffice to keep Canada from being overrun by her powerful
neighbours; all military speculations on the subject, to the contrary
notwithstanding.'

       *       *       *       *       *

WHERE is the mortal who has expatriated himself, without feeling
a yearning after home? Home! magical word! bringing with it vivid
recollections of the sweetest scenes of childhood, and those days
of youth, when the mind, freed from care, bounds with joy at the
slightest favorable event! Every man, in considering his home, looks
only to the most pleasing events which occurred during his residence
there, and is apt to consider all the disagreeable circumstances of
his existence as receiving a still darker tinge from his stay abroad.
Mitford was no exception to the general rule. He determined to return
to London, at all hazards.

This resolve was confirmed by another motive. He had long
loved--ardently loved. The life of dissipation, and even of riot,
which he had led, had not been able to efface the holy passion from
his soul. There it burned, at once a safeguard to, and a promoter of,
other virtues. The fair Marguerite was lovely, rich, and constant in
her attachment to him. Neither the sneers of friends, nor the ill
reports of enemies, were able to efface his image from her mind.
Friendship may be dissolved; fortune may desert us; but woman's love
blossoms in eternal spring, and only blooms the more, amid the wintry
blasts of adversity.

A late correspondence apprized him that her hand and fortune awaited
him. This determined his movements, and he found himself in London.
But the necessary preparatives for a marriage, however fortunate,
require money--without which the wings of Cupid are clogged; and
though Mitford might have relieved himself by an application to his
lady-love, whose purse was at her own disposal, yet he could not bear
to owe a favor before marriage.

He bethought himself of an expedient. Whenever a man wants money in
London, the surest way to obtain it, is by offering to lend it, or by
offering some great prospective advantage for the sum required. Many
a man parts with what he has, to one whom he thinks will increase his
store when he requires it; but no man parts with his money to one
whom he thinks has none.

A dashing advertisement graced the pages of the 'Post' and 'Herald'
newspapers:

    'EXTRAORDINARY FACILITY.--The advertiser, possessing great
    influence in a certain high quarter, would feel disposed to
    promote the interest of any gentleman of standing and talent,
    who has a thousand pounds at his disposal. Address 'A. M.,'
    Standish's Rooms, Regent-street.

    'N. B. No indiscretion need be apprehended.'

We need scarcely say, that our hero answered to the initials of
'A. M.' The applications were numerous. Mitford made a special
appointment with one whom he thought likely to answer his purpose. He
had chambers for the occasion in Lincoln's Inn.

The applicant had recently arrived from the East Indies, and had
some property. The idea of obtaining a respectable post, with a
good salary, at once to increase his income and employ his leisure,
attracted him. Our hero received him in a dimly-lighted apartment.
His back was toward the window. When you are afflicted with a
diffidence, over which you have no control, on important occasions,
always turn the dorsal vertebræ toward the light.

The business was soon opened. The applicant was anxious to embrace
the ideal advantage offered.

'But, my dear Sir,' said Mitford, 'it will be necessary to have
some security in hand, before you are inducted. Without at all
doubting your punctuality, you are aware that in matters of business,
particularity is necessary: beside, I must consult the wishes of my
principal.

The stranger paused! He slowly drew forth his pocket-book, took out a
post bill for £1000, and handed it to Mitford.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW may not a man, by false sophistry, tame his mind to the
commission of a tortuous act! Honesty in man, is like virtue in
woman. The possibility of violating it must not for a moment enter
the imagination. In either case, deliberation is destruction.

Mitford, who would not for any consideration have omitted the payment
of a debt of honor; who would have resisted the slightest imputation
on his character unto death; thus reasoned with himself: 'I am on the
point of marrying a fortune; why should I hesitate to appropriate
this money, for a few days, when I shall have ample means to repay
it? To be sure, I must endorse the note; but then the certainty
of refunding the amount takes away any moral obliquity that might
otherwise attach to the act.'

Thus soliliquized Mitford; and, endorsing the note, he committed
forgery.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SPLENDID party had assembled at Sidmouth-Terrace, to celebrate a
bridal festival. Lights beamed far into the park, illuminating all
around. Revelry and joy breathed throughout.

Mitford was there. The sanction of the church was about to seal
the happiness of our hero for ever, when suddenly three officers
interrupted the bridal ceremonies, and seizing Mitford on a warrant
for forgery, conducted him to prison.

To describe the distress of the bride--the confusion of the
guests--would be impossible. We leave it to the imagination of our
readers.

The process of the law was rapid. The day of trial arrived. Mitford
pleaded not guilty.

All that the most able counsel could effect, was done for him. The
witnesses were brow-beaten; the jury harangued; but he was found
guilty.

The judge passed sentence of death.

       *       *       *       *       *

'LA!' said Mrs. Minikin, the haberdasher's wife, 'to-morrow is the
day when that there gen'leman is to be hung for forgery. Let's go see
him.'

'My dear,' said Mr. Minikin, 'you know I never likes them there sort
of things. If it was a reg'lar mill, then I might go; but I never
likes to see no one tucked up.'

'Oh, but, my dear,' said the gentle Mrs. Minikin, 'it is not
entertaining, I grant, to see them there riff-raffs which is usually
hung; but this is a gen'leman. Only consider,' said she, in her
most endearing manner, 'how delightful to see one of them there
'igh-flyers hung!' And the pliant Mr. Minikin consented.

       *       *       *       *       *

LET us now turn to the dungeon which contained this ill-fated man.
There, on a scanty supply of straw, a dim light glimmering through
the bars of his cell, rendering the interior still more desolate, by
revealing its wretchedness, lay Mitford--pale, emaciated, and bearing
on his countenance the conviction, that the world and himself were
now disjointed. Ever and anon the echoing wheels of some patrician
chariot conveyed to his ear the mirth and gayety that reigned
without. But what was all this to him? His heart was never more
to beat at the sight of beauty; ambition could no longer convey
elevation to his mind. A few short hours, and he must be brought
forth to satisfy the stern severity of the law, and furnish food to
the gaping curiosity of thousands. And was this to be the termination
of his career? Was it for this a mother's holy tears had blessed his
advent to the world?--that a father's toil had left him reposing amid
the luxuries of wealth? All, all was now shortly to terminate in the
scaffold's terrors, and worse than the scaffold's terrors, in the
scaffold's shame.

While these thoughts passed through his mind, scalding tears coursed
down his cheeks, moistening the straw on which he lay; not tears
extracted by craven fear, but holy drops of penitence.

From this state of mind he was soon awakened by the reverend
clergyman, whose duty it was to prepare him for his approaching awful
change. He whispered to him the hope of divine mercy, so unquenchable
that the most heinous offences failed to suppress it; that it was
true he must suffer a public punishment, at once as an example, and
an earthly atonement for his crime; but the benign Saviour of mankind
had passed through all the ignominy of a public execution, with a
resigned spirit, as an offering for the sins of others; and in virtue
of that offering, he must himself hope for forgiveness, and suffer
with resignation.

The holy man left Mitford more collected in mind, and resolved to
submit to his inevitable fate with piety and courage.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE morning dawned. The fatal bell had struck; the scaffold had been
erected; the gaping multitude, anxious for some horrid show to awaken
their morbid sensibilities, clogged up in thousands every avenue to
the sacrificial altar. Those whom the doom of the law had fixed that
morning to be their last, stood upon the scaffold; but Mitford was
not there; and the great unwashed, who had that day gone to enjoy the
luxury of seeing a gentleman hung, returned disappointed of half the
show.

The mystery must be solved. The betrothed of Mitford had forwarded
a petition to the king, and another to the queen, requesting a
commutation of punishment; but these documents had to pass through so
many avenues of the palace, that they never reached the royal eye.
Receiving no answer, and almost despairing of success, she flew to
the Secretary of State.

Sir Robert Peel then filled the responsible situation of the Home
Department. And here let us pause, to do justice to one of the
greatest men of modern times; to one who, at no distant day, is
destined to fill a large space in the world's eye. His father, sprung
from the canaille, by the aid of the spinning-jenny, left his son in
possession of one of the most ample fortunes, even in the wealthiest
country in the world. The father, of rank tory principles, was
farther recommended to royal notice, by the gift of twenty thousand
pounds to carry on a war, which, however unpopular with the nation,
a profligate ministry had induced that nation to believe its honor
interested in prosecuting. The son was thus introduced to royal
favor; and it is well known, that George the Third entertained
great personal partiality for him. He commenced life as a statesman,
having, in the outset of his political career, been inducted into the
office of Under Secretary of State. His whole public life has been a
life of office. His experience is thus greater than that of any man
now living. Unfortunately, having commenced his career as an advocate
for tory principles, his party have always pursued his leaning
toward more liberal principles as a crime, while the more liberal
party have always looked with suspicion on his aid, and viewed him
as an enemy in their camp. As a debater, he is unrivalled; and if
many surpass him in those burning and flowery sentences by which
eloquence is distinguished, none equal him as a ready and always a
sensible debater. But in our times, it unfortunately happens, that if
a man commences his life by advocating bad principles, consistency
forces him to adhere to them. The present world of politics, unlike
the divine world to come, admits of no repentance. Once take your
course in evil, you must adhere to it, if you wish to preserve your
reputation. To change for the better, is certain perdition. Thus
because Sir Robert Peel advocated Catholic emancipation, which he
had all his previous life opposed, every contumelious epithet that
rancor could invent, was hurled at him by his old friends; while
the advocates of that measure viewed his accession to their ranks,
not merely with distrust, as but a late convert, but with jealousy,
as tending to rob them of some portion of the merit of carrying it
on the very point of their success. And John Bull refused, from the
hands of Sir Robert Peel and his colleagues, a greater measure of
reform and retrenchment than even the original advocates held forth.
Thus it is, a thief may reform, or become a useful member of society,
if he will only amend; but a politician must look to nothing but
consistency.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE fair Marguerite found no difficulty in gaining access to Sir
Robert. Her beauty, her distress, her tale at once simple and
affecting, all conspired to move him. He laid her petition and
her woes at the foot of the throne. Majesty was pleased to find
extenuating circumstances in Mitford's case, and a reprieve was
granted to him.

The bitter draught of grief had been too much for the gentle
Marguerite. Her faculties had been too nervously awakened. While
her lover required her aid, reason had kept its throne. His safety
insured, she became a maniac, and the inmate of a mad-house.

Still farther mercy awaited our hero. After some detention in prison,
he was liberated, on condition that he should leave the kingdom,
never to return.

       *       *       *       *       *

YEARS had now elapsed. Mitford's error and his shame had alike been
forgotten; and it was supposed he was dead. It was not until the
tempest of a new revolution awoke regenerated France to a sense of
the wrongs endeavored to be inflicted on her by a Bourbon, whose
family a million of foreign bayonets had seated on the throne, and
until Paris taught all the capitals of Europe how easily a large
city could resist a well-appointed army, that a ray of light was shed
upon his fate.

The barriers of the Rue Richelieu had been erected by the people, and
were furiously attacked by squadrons of infantry and cavalry. The
Parisians, led by a most intrepid young man, evidently a foreigner,
defended it to the very utmost. Three charges had been made, and
successfully repulsed. A fourth threatened to carry the barriers.
Some of the pickets were overthrown; and already had a few of the
light cavalry penetrated within. A few stout hearts strove hand to
hand with the military, but numbers had given way. In this emergency,
the gallant leader of the people, waving his tri-colored flag, sprang
in front of the wavering multitude. His gestures, his example,
rëanimated them. Again they pressed forward, and bearing with them
the tide of victory, they successfully repulsed the military;
but their leader had sealed his conquest with his life. He fell,
fighting hand to hand and foot to foot with the leader of the hostile
soldiery, and their bodies lay close together, in the sleep of death.

The strife of the three days past, honorable interment was awarded
the fallen and patriotic brave. Among the latter was not forgotten
the youthful stranger, who had so well defended the barriers of
the Rue Richelieu. The papers on his person proved him to be an
Englishman. That Englishman was FRANCIS MITFORD.




SERENADE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF BÜRGER.--BY J. J. CAMPBELL.


    I.

    WITH song and lyre let sleep now fly;
      To song and lyre take bounden heed!
    The wakeful minstrel, that am I,
      Fair sweetheart! ever true at need.
    O, open thou the clear sunshine
    Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!

    II.

    Through night and gloom I hither tramp,
      At hour when spirits are in view;
    Long since, there glimmers not a lamp
      The hush'd-up cottage-window through:
    Long since has rested, sweet and blest,
    What love and fond desire let rest.

    III.

    On his wife's bosom cradled keeps
      His weary head, the husband dear;
    While to his favorite hen close creeps,
      Upon the roost, good chanticleer;
    And sparrow on the eaves is eyed,
    Couching with true-love by his side.

    IV.

    Oh! when will these dull times be sped,
      Until I too creep close to thee;
    Until in sweet repose my head
      Upon thy bosom nestled be?
    When lead'st thou me unto the side
    O, priest! of my sweet little bride?

    V.

    How would I then so heartily,
      So dear, so very dear, thee hold!
    How would I, oh! how would then we
      Each other in our arms enfold!
    Yet patience! time, too, slippeth on--
    Be thou but true, my darling one!

    VI.

    And now, dear soul! good-night once more;
      God keep thee with his shelt'ring might!
    What God keeps, that is well watch'd o'er,
      And kept from danger and affright.
    Adieu!--now close the sunny shine
    Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!




MOHEGAN LANGUAGE AND GEOGRAPHICAL NAMES.


TO THE EDITORS OF THE KNICKERBOCKER:

                         _Michilimackinack, August 2, 1837._

IN making some inquiries recently of a party of the Mohegan
tribe--the remnant of whom have made their way to this quarter within
a few years--I find that they have preserved their traditionary
history for the last two centuries, or more, with a degree of
accuracy which is not common to the native tribes in this region.
It is very well known, from published data, that this ancient tribe
occupied Long-Island and the contiguous main land, on the discovery
of the country, whence in process of time they withdrew eastwardly
into Connecticut, and afterward went west into Massachusetts. They
appear, from the first, to have had the means of instruction, which
have been continued up to the present time, with perhaps less
interruption than among most of the other tribes. This may account in
part for the better preservation of their traditions. Many of them
being able to read, could refer to some things in printed documents.
Others appear to have retained with tenacity that traditionary lore
which the aged among the tribes generally employ the leisure of their
superannuated days in handing down to the young.

During the long residence of this tribe at Stockbridge, (Mass.,) they
were commonly Stockbridges, and after the revolutionary war, when
they transferred their residence to Oneida, in western New-York, they
naturally retained this name, and finally bore it with them to their
present location in Wisconsin territory. I disclaim any intention
to sketch their history; and wish no farther to allude to it, than
appears to be necessary to bring forward a few facts in the character
of their language, and particularly their names for the places of
their former residence, on the lower parts of the Hudson. And as this
is a matter of which but little is generally known, it has appeared
to me of sufficient local interest, to justify the liberty I take in
addressing these remarks to you.

The Mohegan is readily recognised as a type of the Algonquin or (as
Mr. Gallatin has recently denominated it,) the 'Lenapee-Algonkin'
family, and bears a strong resemblance, both in sound and syntax,
to the dialects of some of the existing lake tribes. This affinity
is very striking in its grammatical structure, and its primitive
words. Derivatives, with all our tribes, are subject to interchange
their consonants, or drop them entirely, which creates a necessity of
being constantly on the alert to detect these exchanges. Moreover,
the accent is uniformly moved, or doubled, often creating primary
and secondary accents in the same phrase, which, in an unwritten
language, is alone sufficient to account for numerous mutations. But
what, more than any other principle, affects the _sound_ of Indian
words, in their concrete and derivative states, is the large stock
of (so to say) floating particles, which come into these words in
the shape of prefixes and suffixes. These are, in their offices,
almost as numerous as the purposes of person, tense, number, quality,
position, etc., may require. But while their respective office
remains precisely the same, in almost any given number of dialects
in a mother language, it is found that the several tribes pique
themselves in giving these auxiliary particles a sound peculiar to
themselves, by which something like _nationality_ is kept up. Thus
in two dialects indicating the least change in the primitives or
derivatives, to be found among all the tribes, namely, the Chippewa
and Ottowa, these particles, which, in the animate class for plural,
are denoted by UG, and in the local inflections by ONG, and ING, in
the one dialect, are respectively changed to UK, ONK, and INK, in the
other.

Similar to this process, seems to have been the result of change
between the ancient Algonquin and the Mohegan, the latter, like the
Ottowa, constantly substituting K for G, and P for B, etc., but in
other respects, it exhibits numerous gutturals, and some aspirates,
which are but rarely found in the liquid flow of the Algic. It also
embraces the (perhaps) Gothic sound of TH, which is wholly unknown
(the Shawnee excepted) to the modern lake dialects.

Geographical terms, with the Indians, are found generally to unite
some natural quality in the features or productions of the country
with an indication of the locality; so that their names are not, as
with us, simple nominatives, but (as in all other cases in these
peculiar languages) the quality, action, etc., transfers itself to
the object, and is expressed in a consolidated phrase. This is one
of the most constant and distinguishing traits of these languages.
Their nouns and adjectives, therefore, as well as their verbs, are
transitives. Even their prepositions take a transitive character, and
link themselves, as with 'hooks of steel,' to the objects to which
they are applied. Thus their name for the island from which this
letter is dated, is Place of the Gigantic Faëries, or, by another
interpretation, Place of the Great Turtle. Detroit is, (literally
translated,) Round-ward, or Rounds-by Place, denoting the sinuosities
of the river in its approach. Sault St. Marie, 'At the Shallow Water
with Rocks.' In another class of derivative words, the union of the
substantive and adjective is without a local inflection, as in their
name for Lake Superior, which is simply called, The Sea Waters;
Mississippi, The Great River; Michigan, The Great Lake, etc.

This principle is found most fully to pervade the Mohegan. I
requested one of the chiefs of the party above referred to, to
pronounce their name for Long-Island. He replied, PAUM-NUK-KAH-HUK,
signifying, Place of the Long Land. The name of the coast opposite to
this island, at the mouth of the Hudson, or rather, across the Sound,
he pronounced MON-AH'-TON-UK. Dropping the local inflection UK,
meaning place, or land, we have the elements of Manhattan, the latter
of which preserves the original quite as well as the generality
of Indian names transmitted by English enunciation. Philologists
will perceive, farther, that the aspirate H would be very naturally
prefixed to the second syllable, while the sound of O, being the
sound of O in the French word _ton_, might be expressed, nearly as
well, by some of the modified sounds of A.

Judged by similar means of analysis, Sing-Sing is a corruption
of OSIN-SINK, _i. e._, Place of Stones, or Rocks; Neversink from
NAWAISINK, a phrase descriptive of highlands equi-distant between
two waters, as Raritan Bay and the Atlantic. Minisink is, literally,
Place of the Island. Tappan Sea _appears_ to be a derivative from a
band of the Mohegans, who dwelt there, called TAPONSEES, or rather
from the name of their village. After getting through the Highlands,
names of Mohawk derivation occur. Poughkeepsie, Warwarsing, and
Coxsackie, are, however, clearly of Mohegan origin. So far as I
recollect, the ancient name of Albany, SKE-NEK-TA-DA, is the first
term of the Iroquois type of languages, in ascending the Hudson,
of which any notice is preserved. In proceeding east, west, or
south-west from that point, geographical names of this character
universally prevail. But it is to be remarked, that but few sonorous
names occur, until reaching the districts of country formerly
possessed by the Oneidas, Onondagas, and other western branches of
this confederacy.

        I am, gentlemen, very respectfully,

                    Your Obedient Servant,

                                       HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT.




A FAREWELL.

    FARE thee well!--the word is spoken,
      That makes the past a dream to me;
    The long delicious spell is broken--
      Yet fare thee well, since thou art free!

    Yes! thou art free; but oh, how shatter'd
      This faithful heart thou couldst not know,
    Nor see each crush'd affection scatter'd,
      And yet with chilling coldness go!

    Perchance unto this bosom's yearning,
      Thou'dst answer with some kindred sigh,
    Or seek to quell its secret burning,
      With one glance from thy pitying eye.

    Yet were it so, how would it cherish
      That tender look, 'a death in life;'
    Oh! better far at once to perish,
      Than linger through hope's fever'd strife!

    Then fare thee well!--mid others ranging,
      Thou carest not to look on me;
    Nor heedest the true love, unchanging,
      That like a beacon, shines for thee.

    Yet when the meteor has departed,
      That lur'd thee to the world's caress,
    When languid, drooping, broken-hearted,
      Thou sinkest back in weariness;

    Then come to one, who, though forsaken,
      Still loved thee on, through weal and wo;
    Nor would one memory awaken,
      That o'er thy path a shade could throw.

    Yes, come! and like the star of even,
      My love shall cheer thine earthly way,
    And in the blessed light of heaven,
      Shine on, an ever-constant ray!

                                                    M. E. L.




WILSON CONWORTH.

NUMBER SIX.


'WEAK and irresolute is man.' I record a fault of human nature, as
well as my own. I resolved and re-resolved, and am the same. Do I
not blush while recording this weakness? Alas! I am dead to feeling,
as it regards my fellows. I have no communion with the world, now. I
pass by, unnoticed and unknown. Still, I have a love for mankind; and
I make these confessions, hoping they may prove of use to others. I
daily see others in the same predicament as myself, or, if not so far
advanced, yet pursuing a course which will inevitably lead them where
I now am. Yes! where I am; and what is that state? Solitariness,
apathy, disgust, fretfulness, heart-ache; the absence of all the
gentle sympathies of life; the death of all domestic affection; the
familiarity of the vulgar and low-bred; the sneer of the foolish
prosperous man; the contempt of the small thriving gleaner; the
neglect of the busy, and the pity of the good. Oh! yes! one comfort
yet remains; the prayers of the pious and truly religious.

But to my story. As hope began to fade from the heart of my dear
Alice; as she saw I was beyond the influence of her prayers and
entreaties; as she began to be acquainted with the real state of my
habits; as she began to see, that not even my love for her availed
any thing she began to despair. She had involved herself too deeply
to retract. Her feelings had acquired the habit of loving me; and
indeed, though an idle young man, I do not think it strange that such
devotion and tenderness as I sometimes really felt and bestowed upon
her, should have awakened some return.

I was well-bred, had a good person, could sing passably well,
by myself, write good poetry, and was passionate and hot in my
evidences of affection. I was an enthusiast, and women like decided
tastes. They feel an assurance, a confidence in your good, quiet,
smooth-faced, unexcitable, sensible man, if he be young, especially;
but they love life and animation, even though it lead to slight
errors. Women know the difficulty of restraining the feelings within
the bounds of propriety; they are most open to impressions; the
real creatures of feeling, they love feeling in others. They have
many struggles with what they wish, and what they ought to do. They
estimate in men the ardor of the temptation, as an offset to the
fault. Hence they are forgiving.

Women are obliged to keep a constant guard over themselves. They know
their own weakness, and self-protection arms them to the task. Many
a high-souled woman knows this. When you do find a well-disciplined
character in the female form, what a noble one it is! The labor of
the undertaking, the education of self-control, has made her great.
She is a whole host. Look at her influence in society; see the
majesty of her deportment, the easy assurance of her countenance. How
common men quail before her! What respect and attention she exacts
from the titled profligate, and the talented vicious! She is all
that is exalted on earth. There is no beauty to compare with such
beauty; no wealth with such charms. She is the nicest workmanship of
God; and in her dwells a soul that scatters blessings around her.
'The heart of her husband delighteth in her, and he has no need of
spoil.'

Reader, if you are a father, and have seen the son of your hopes,
the inheritor of your name, the bearer of your form and features,
gradually falling a victim to low vices; if you are a mother, and can
trace, in those features now bloated with excess, and in that eye
now dimmed with sensuality, the semblance to the babe that drew its
earliest food from your pure bosom, and remember that eye upturned
to your face as the innocent lay cradled in your arms; if you are
a sister, and mourn the ruin of your bed-fellow; or a brother, and
seen your playmate in prison, you may form some notion of what the
emotions of a fond heart are, when it beholds its stay gone, its
prospects blighted, and its love thrown away upon an unworthy object.
No! not altogether unworthy, but with just enough of good to keep
alive the love, while it mocks all efforts to draw consolation, to
answer the chord in her own bosom.

Love wishes its object to be perfect. None can or must compare
with its choice. How fondly does woman cheat herself, if she
can, into the belief that her choice is fortunate beyond human
fortune! I weep--even I, who have not wept for years for my own
misfortunes--I weep, as I recall the memory of the tears she shed
over my irrevocable ruin. She did know my character, at last, and she
predicted, even in spite of her love, all that has happened.

Shall I record that these tears were not a source of pain to me then?
They satisfied my vanity. I always reserved reformation to myself,
and thought she was mistaken; and these scalding tears, as they
coursed down her cheeks, told me that I was beloved. Not even the
misery of the object of my affection could prevent a triumph that I
had over her--_her_, the sought-for by many--that I was preferred
among a multitude. Is this nature? Was I hard-hearted? Would not any
one feel the same? Let the reader examine his own heart, and answer.


CHAPTER XIII.

AT this time, and in this very village, there lived a gentleman, in
the truest sense of the term, by the name of Edward Lang. He was a
man of high family, of aristocratic notions, and thought literature
the chief object worthy of pursuit. At the time I saw him, he bore
the ills of poverty, the burden of a broken heart, and disappointed
hopes. He possessed a well-stored mind, unwearied benevolence, and
a Tremaine-like refinement. He had, in the early part of his life,
encumbered a large fortune with debts of extravagance, idleness,
and folly; and at a subsequent period, lost the remainder in
scheming; for he thought that his prëeminence in literature gave him
prëeminence in every thing.

Every body applauded his plans; they were upon a large scale; they
redounded to the good of the place, and ruined him.

Bred a lawyer, the unfairness of country practice, the low and
degraded crowd it brought him in contact with, caused him to throw up
his profession. He took to farming; but he only tried experiments, to
the advantage of other people, and his own loss. He got up all sorts
of useful societies, which cost him his time, and paid him nothing.
He bought all the new works for other people to read; subscribed
liberally to reading-rooms and schools. He fatted cattle for the
agricultural society, at six times their worth in corn and care.
Every body in the village improved their own stock by his; but then
all this took money from his pocket.

He did not know the state of his affairs, because he hated
settlements. He could not bring himself down to the drudgery of life,
but did his farming scientifically, in his study, and left the work
to hired hands. He failed, and nobody pitied him. He began to be
called a 'poor good-for-nothing fellow,' whose chimeras had brought
him down. All his neighbors sued him, and he suffered all who owed
him to go undunned. He gave up all for lost; sat himself down in
wretchedness, disgusted with the world, and tired of himself.

I was quite intimate with this gentleman. Being much my senior,
for he was about fifty, and a bachelor, he took it upon himself to
give me a word of advice. He had been in love himself, and that
desperately; though unfortunate in his love affairs, as well as all
others. The father of the lady objected to him, on the score of his
being unfit to make money. He possessed hordes of wealth, himself,
and could have made two hearts happy. But no; this would not do.
His ideas of excellence consisted in the faculty of making money
and keeping it. 'As for literature and refinement, he did not care
for them. _He_ was not a literary man,' he said, 'and yet he was
rich, and respected; a president of a bank; had been an unsuccessful
candidate for congress, which was _some_ honor, and had it in
his power to fill any office in the town he would accept. No; he
preferred a man of business for a son-in-law.'

He found one; a coarse, rough, unlettered country-merchant, whose
ideas were bounded by the length and breadth of his counter; whose
whole soul was given to traffic. A sloven, except on Sundays and
courting-days, and then only clean on the outside. This fair,
delicate, daughter of wealth, possessed of a mind and education much
beyond her family's comprehension, was wedded to this '_respectable_'
man. Her heart was broken by this savage act of parental authority.
She died during the first year of her wedlock, and Edward Lang was
for two years deranged, and woke from this sleep of reason, to find
himself without hope, without motive, without sympathy.

He took to his books; he shut out the world, and dwelt upon the
beautiful and good in theory; lived in a love for the generous, the
exalted, and happy scenes of his imagination. When forced abroad by
his friends, he seemed lost and unhappy; he was disturbed from this
resting which an unfortunate mind derives from picturing for others
what he knows can never be for him.

By the world at large he was said to nourish false views of things,
because he had a higher standard than the world generally live by.
By these means he unfitted himself for society, and was voted dull,
eccentric, and love-sick. Time, however, softened his regrets, and
he came out in the scheming life I have referred to, in which, by
acting by principle and science, even in the work of agriculture, he
lost his all.

When I was introduced to him, he was living with an old aunt, upon
his paternal estate. Though poor, they had about them those marks of
refinement, which well-educated people will contrive to weave out of
common materials. Whether on the farm, in the garden, at his table,
in church, or in the street, no one could see Mr. Lang, and not say
with certainty that he was a gentleman. The aunt belonged to the old
school of ladies, rather prim and stiff; and yet her benevolent face,
her self-possession, and quiet dignity, gave her great influence in
society. Her reading and good sense, her piety and patience, were
proverbial. Every body called her 'madam,' and treated her with
marked respect. I was on the most familiar terms at their house; for
I believe they felt that I appreciated them. It was the sympathy of
people educated in the same way.

This gentleman was of great service to me. From the examination of
his own feelings, he had learned much of the nature of passion; from
severe suffering, he had become acquainted with misfortune. I used to
confide to him all my sorrows, and I told him my struggles. He saw my
remorse, and pitied my irresolution.

Alice, too, had confidence in him. They often rode together; and
his age and purity of life, and the nice delicacy of his feelings,
induced her to open her heart to him. He felt flattered, as well he
might, by the trust this noble girl reposed in him. But, beside, he
had read so much of love, thought so much of it, and suffered so much
for it, that he engaged in the contemplation of our affairs with
the _goût_ of an epicure over a favorite dish. He lived over again
hours of past endearment of his own. He felt young and ardent, as he
listened to the recital of conversations and difficulties which I,
with the greenness of a boy, always told him.

Things had arrived at a pass dangerous for both of us; and as yet her
parents knew nothing. One of our conversations happened to be heard
by the lady's mamma, and papa was informed of all. He was surprised,
but affected to treat the matter quite coldly; told me I was too
young, too unsettled, to think of matrimony, and very politely
forbade me his house; 'as,' he said, 'the sooner we forgot each other
the better.'

I ought to confess, here, that my habits had got to be quite
irregular. I attended horse-races, tavern-suppers, balls, and
sometimes drinking-parties, when the society was by no means the most
select; and to drown the mortification, and get to the level of my
companions, I ran into excesses that shattered my nerves, and made me
unfit, for days, for any calm reflection.

I have always felt the consequences of this mode of life. Even
the best minds will become tainted by contact with vulgarity and
coarseness. The purest taste will get degraded, in a measure, by
constant intercourse with low persons, such as young men who have
nothing to do usually meet about taverns, stage-houses, and strolling
theatres. We even acquire habits of speaking and pronunciation, and
of cant terms, which are beneath a gentleman.

When low-bred men engage in pleasure, 'plenty of stuff to drink' is
deemed the first essential. We are getting rid, to be sure, of the
character of 'a nation of drunkards;' but when I was a boy, liquors
were set out upon all occasions; at weddings, at funerals, dinners,
calls, paying money, or dunning-visits. People in the country, of
respectability, used to drink at eleven o'clock in the forenoon,
and at four in the afternoon. That was genteel. The class who drank
before breakfast then, now drink only at eleven; and those who drank
only at eleven, drink not at all.

It was the custom, too, to drink before meals for an appetite; for
appetite was considered a mark of health, however produced. Among
very good sort of people, this was a common notion, that a man could
work in proportion to the food he took into his stomach; so workmen
were swilled with drams for an appetite.

It is certainly true, that temperance societies cannot hope for any
permanent results in their exertions, unless there is a corresponding
movement in other societies. Education societies, peace societies,
temperance societies, and religious societies, they all have a common
object and common cause, to ameliorate the state of man. They point
to a common centre. People will not become temperate, and remain
irreligious, and quarrelsome, and ignorant. I have often thought it
would be well to turn all our efforts to educating mankind; and I
believe all other objects would be protected by the course of events.
But it is very questionable whether any benefit can result from
taking down names to pledges not to drink spirits, in places where
schools are not supported, nor the house of God attended.

In this village, every body drank at times, at parties and balls;
and to be a little boosy, was by no means disreputable. Judges,
members of congress, lawyers, doctors, mingled in these frolics, for
popularity's sake; and the people at large thought, of course, they
might go, upon the strength of such examples, to any extent.

If I had, by retirement, escaped the contamination of what are called
'glossed vices' in the city, in the country I contracted habits of a
grosser nature. I do not mean to be understood as being a drunkard;
but I had frequent 'scrapes;' my selection of associates was less
nice; my delicacy less; my sense of honor less accurately defined. I
lost, in refinement of feeling, immeasurably.

Taking all these things into view, it is no wonder that my intended
father-in-law looked upon me with suspicious eyes. He was a man
who had seen the ruin of many a likely young farmer and mechanic,
from the same beginnings; and he was by no means pleased with my
prospects. So I was forbidden to think of his daughter. She was sent
out of town, I could not tell where, and I immediately left the
village of N---- for a wider sphere of dissipation.

I returned to the city, coarse in my manners, rough in my
appearance--thanks to the country tailor!--with large whiskers,
and a swaggering bar-room air. I found, upon comparing myself with
city appearances, that I was at least ten years behind the age. I
blushed, looked ashamed, and avoided former acquaintances, who would
greet me with, 'Well, Conworth, where the devil have you been?' or,
'Where the devil did you get those whiskers?' Mind, reader, I had
been sentimental for a year, and when I was with gentlemen, was as
stiff as country gentlemen usually are. Think, then, how my feelings
must have been shocked at such familiarity, when I was looking as
grave as an owl, dressed up in my long-tailed coat, large pantaloons,
nicely polished thick boots, and long-napped, broad-brimmed hat, with
whiskers covering the sides of my face, and my complexion the color
of a coal-heaver.

Tailors and time work wonders; and in a short time my country friends
would hardly have known me. I soon settled down into courses of
dissolute life. I had no restraints. I imagined myself a martyr to
love, and was, indeed, unhappy; persuaded myself that I had no hope,
and particularly when about half drunk, I sighed like a furnace.

I spent one year, one precious year, of my youth in this manner. I
was desperate; lived away from home, and only visited my friends when
I was in want of money.

Sometimes, when my stomach was deranged, and my brain flighty, I
meditated self-destruction. I was only at ease when rioting in
excitement. I kept all sorts of company, and indulged in all sorts
of vices. I cannot imagine a more dissolute young man than I was in
conduct, who keeps himself this side of penal crime; though it is
worthy of remark, that I never recollect having indulged in any vice,
unless under artificial stimulus.

I believe my father thought himself a little in the wrong, by
suffering such desertion as I met with from all my friends. He pitied
me, and in the most affectionate manner persuaded me to return to his
house. A word of kindness was to me like manna in the wilderness.
I eagerly acceded to his proposal. He paid me every attention, and
actually left his business, and travelled with me for two months, and
endeavoured to bring my mind back to pleasant reflections; for I was
indeed almost a maniac. This was the balm in Gilead to my sick mind.
I came to myself, and with my father's permission I went to spend the
remainder of my clerkship at the celebrated law-school at L----.

I have always had the strongest inducements to do well. After all my
errors, before I left home, the friends of our family vied in showing
me kindness. I was in a constant round of the most refined society.
To be sure, I had the _éclat_ of having been disappointed in love
with the finest girl in the country; and any thing about love is
interesting; and to be crazy or drunk for love, is not so bad as to
be so for any other cause.

I was grateful for these favors and attentions; and when I left
home for the law lectures, I really believe all my friends were
firmly persuaded that I was an instance of wonderful reformation. So
credulous and forgiving are our friends for the sake of what they
know we can and ought to be!


CHAPTER XIV.

I WISH my reader could sympathize with me, upon coming thus far in my
history. I am aware that I have written nothing of much importance,
so far as incident may be looked for. But, to my view, life is rather
a succession of feelings and sentiments, than of actions. It fills
me with inexpressible satisfaction, to find that I have mastered my
adversaries, idleness and irresolution, in this instance, and have
come to this point. It is the longest and most arduous task I have
ever performed, for it is a work of continued exertion. I have never
flagged from it; and the idea that some good inferences may be drawn
from these pages, by the young among my own countrymen, so that my
life may not pass away without one useful act, one deed of positive
good, has supported me.

Let every idler, if he wishes to enjoy one happy hour, set about
doing something, no matter what. Let him undertake to commit a
chapter in the Bible to memory, or copy some piece of writing, or to
make any intellectual exertion; but let it be definite; not take a
walk, or a journey, or any thing that requires movement of the body,
but still, continued, uninterrupted study and attention. Idlers are
the veriest busy-bodies we know, and always flying about in some
shape or other. They are idle with the appearance of industry, and
deceive every body but themselves. While the world looks on, and
wonders at their diligence, they are passing hours, days, years,
of the most insupportable care, the care of finding something to
do. I know something of the tedium of this life, and confess, that
the hours spent in these records have been the happiest of my life,
because I have had an end, an object, constantly in view.

My debts all paid once more, my character again rëinstated, my purse
well supplied, my wardrobe in the newest fashion, and abundant as I
could pack, behold the rustic of a year's standing, the lover, whose
heart was broken, getting into the stage for L----, the place of the
celebrated law-school; while Thomas, dressed in the self-same suit
in which I had arrived some year before, is packing the trunks on
behind. Alas! the association of that event and those pantaloons!
Reader, they did put me in mind of the romantic hills and valley of
N----, and then of Alice Clair; though to get to these affecting
thoughts, I had to pass through the tailor's shop where they were
made. There is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and so
backward from the ridiculous to the sublime.

But in the height of my satisfaction in being permitted to take
a new start in the world, under such favorable auspices, my
love-disappointment did not weigh very heavily upon my heart. I had
already, as I thought, performed all my promises of being a good
student, etc., for I wished to, and I took the will for the deed.
I wished it so much, that not a doubt or misgiving disturbed the
serenity of my mind. I esteemed it a settled matter, that I was, in
the first place, to make myself remarkable as a student; and then,
without any trouble, to walk directly to the top of the profession. I
was a sanguine----fool!

This confidence inspired my father with golden hopes; and when we
parted, he told me he was the happiest man in the city. 'Now, my
son,' said he, 'you are old enough (I was twenty) to begin to form a
character; all your wild oats are sown; the past is forgotten; you
have your destiny in your own hands. Write to me often; tell me all
your wishes; and (here the devil jogged his elbow) draw upon me, if
you want more money. God bless you, my dear boy!' The tears started
in his eyes; mine were wet, too. As I got into the stage, (mark the
baseness of my heart!) I dwelt mostly upon the words, 'Draw upon me,
if you want more money.' My eyes ceased their weeping. I addressed
some gay make-acquaintance remarks to a fellow passenger, and as we
rattled over the bridge in the velocipede line of coaches, forgot
every thing but the beauty of the morning, and only wondered how long
it would be before breakfast.

So contemptible is the _spirit_ of youth, in its blind passion for
pleasure. All the higher, nobler feelings sink into insignificance,
compared with its own selfish enjoyments. Pleasure, love of pleasure,
tramples upon the holy influences of home; it steels the heart
to filial affection; it saps the juices of youth; and leaves the
young body prematurely cold, and lifeless, and insensible, to the
natural action of all those relations and sentiments, that reason is
intended to draw its moral food from. The mother 'who watched o'er
our childhood' is forgotten; the father disregarded, and the sister's
face is crimsoned with shame for us, and we ourselves are lost. And
for what? For an hour's amusement; a short-lived enjoyment; an empty
sound of revelry, and unmeaning mirth.

What inconsistency! Hardly had I got a step from my father's door;
hardly had my fingers lost the affectionate pressure of his hand,
when the evil genius stepped in, to scatter the impressions which a
moment before seemed so fixed.

Since the time of my mother's death, I never had passed the door of
the chamber where she died, without thinking of the evening when
I visited her corpse, alone--a pure boy, free from all vice, all
contamination--and then drawing the comparison between the present
and the past. Such reflections always gave me pain, and summoned up
all the resolution I was master of. I am convinced, that, if I had
had a mother until my mind had acquired strength and firmness, I
should have been a better and a happier man.

A father's love acts upon us later in life, but a mother leads us
up to God. She bends and moulds our tender minds to her purposes so
gently, that we are hardly aware of the pressure; but the father
admires, and praises, and waters the more vigorous branches of our
growth.

Our reading, our studies, sermons, nature, observation, tend to give
to the mother a poetical interest in our hearts, in after years,
when she is dead. She is the nucleus about which gather some of the
most beautiful associations of our manhood. When we ourselves have
children, we find out what is the nature of parental affection, and
we look back with regret that we did not know and estimate it better,
so that the homage of our love might have been more devoted, for what
is so worthy of being repaid.




THE RED MAN.


    I LOVE the Indian. Ere the white man came,
    And taught him vice, and infamy, and shame,
    His soul was noble. In the sun he saw
    His God, and worshipped him with trembling awe.
    Though rude his life, his bosom never beat
    With polished vices, nor with dark deceit.




A MOTHER'S GRIEF.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.--BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.


    I.

    TO mark, the sufferings of the babe
      That cannot speak its wo;
    To see the infant tears gush forth,
      Yet know not why they flow;
    To meet the meek, uplifted eye,
      That fain would ask relief,
    Yet can but tell of agony--
      This is a mother's grief.

    II.

    Through dreary days and darker nights,
      To trace the march of death;
    To hear the faint and frequent sigh,
      The quick and shortened breath;
    To watch the last dread strife draw near,
      And pray that struggle brief,
    Though all be ended with the close--
      This is a mother's grief.

    III.

    To see, in one short hour, decayed
      The hope of future years;
    To feel how vain a father's prayers,
      How vain a mother's tears:
    To think the cold grave now must close
      O'er what was once the chief
    Of all the treasured joys of earth--
      This is a mother's grief.

    IV.

    Yet when the first wild throb is past
      Of anguish and despair,
    To lift the eye of faith to heaven,
      And think 'My child is there!'
    This best can dry the gushing tear,
      This yields the heart relief,
    Until the Christian's pious hope
      O'ercomes a mother's grief.




EYES AND LIPS.

FROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A WESTERN BACHELOR.


AN ingenious friend, who has a saturnine cast of complexion,
maintains with great zeal, that dark eyes are indicative of a higher
order of intellect than those of other colors. This doctrine meets
with great favor from every one whose eyes are black, while those
that are blue, hazel, or gray, kindle with indignation at such
monstrous absurdity. Our friend borrows a very happy illustration
from nature, and says, that as the wildest and most vivid flashes of
lightning burst from the blackest clouds, so do the most brilliant
emanations of mind glare from the darkest eyes. Whether there be any
truth in this doctrine, or not, it must be admitted, that our friend
has the authority of the poets on his side. From immemorial time,
they have been sonnetizing dark and black eyes, to the almost utter
neglect of all others. Your novelists never in painting a heroine,
say she has gray eyes; but all their poetical fictions see with those
that are large, languishing, lustrous, and dark.

The vividness of an eye's expression is not dependent on its color.
The eye is most expressive, whose owner has the most thought and
feeling. The eye expresses the language of the mind and heart; and
whether light or dark, wherever there is strong emotion, it manifests
it. A man is a better reader of the meaning of a woman's eye, than he
is of one of his own gender; and a lady discovers more indications in
the eyes of the opposite sex, than can the most scrutinizing man.

The eye is the most poetical of features; and ample testimony has
been borne, in all time, to its superiority in this particular.
There is much poetry in the smile of one we love; but there is more
in the gleaming kindness of an eye from which the concentrated
rays of feeling, thought, and sentiment, are looking forth. Did
you never look into the tranquil depths of an eye, and see the
shadows of thoughts winging their flight onward? Did you never read
whole chapters about the sympathy of souls in them? If not, your
observation has not been acute, nor your love very devout.

The sublime science of astrology, which once commanded the faith of
the learned, has been laughed at by the wisdom or scepticism of more
modern times. The doctrines and the devotion of those old readers of
the stars have been discarded; and to the human eye the only relict
of astrology now on earth has been confided. Lovers are the sole
inheritors of the romantic doctrines bequeathed by elder astrologers
to posterity. They do not cast devout looks toward the bespangled
firmament, at night; but to them, the brow of a beloved being is a
heaven, and the eye is the star that unfolds to them the shadows of
their coming destinies. Their ancestors read the decrees of fate in
the glittering watchers of the night-season, and they foresee the
mysteries of the future in the expressions which shift and play upon
the eye. If the eye of his mistress sparkles at his approach, it is
the precursor of after joy. If the murky shadow of a frown rests upon
it, it is the foreshadowing of the woe to come. To the lover, the
eye of his mistress is ever eloquent, of hope or fear, of triumph or
defeat. It is the polar star of his hope, the cynosure of his faith;
and the complexion of the future changes, as her eye wanes into
shadow, or waxes into the light of day.

       *       *       *       *       *

A WHOLESOME lip is a thing to be loved. People are too much in
the habit of regarding lips as mere appendages to the 'human face
divine'--ornaments, like ear-rings, to set off its beauty. This is
to detract from their true use and excellence. They serve other
purposes, and are indices of character.

A wholesome lip is of the complexion of a morello cherry. It pouts
like a rosebud, and might lead a bee astray, as the grapes of Zeuxis
did the birds. When kissing was in fashion, gallants of taste showed
a flattering preference for lips of this kind. There was a flavor
about them--ambrosia, on which young Love fed and grew fat. The
disciple of Socrates was feminine in the matter of lips, for bees
hovered over them; and the judgment of a bee, in this respect, is
scarcely inferior to that of a bachelor under thirty.

In general, people are disposed to think their noses of more
importance than their lips, and many saucy noses seem to be of the
same way of thinking; since we see them turning up with an expression
of high disdain, as if the lips were so inferior as to merit scorn.
No 'genteel,' well-behaved nose, is guilty of such dastardly
effrontery. Such an one, it is true, may at times flap its nostrils,
and crow lustily over its neighbors, as if it were 'cock of the
walk;' but there is a soft insinuation about an eloquent lip, that
cuts the comb of the braggart, and tames the monarch down to a mere
republican.

Our maiden aunt Sally wore a lip, which, like her matrimonial
chances, was rather shrivelled. It was a mere streak along the
horizon; an indistinct margin along an ocean of mouth; a strip to
tell you where her teeth were. My aunt died husbandless. If she had
wedded, her bridal kiss would have been interesting. She saluted
my cheek once, when, like Fanny, I was 'younger than I am now, and
prettier--of course!' I thought the sensation like a gentle bite.
Instead of soft, spongy flesh, her lips seemed like scraps of flesh,
iron-bound. Sometimes she puckered them up like the orifice of her
reticule; and this was an infallible precursor of a coming storm.
Xantippe had a thin, bluish, unwaving lip. Beware of such!

My nurse was a grizzly-headed negro woman; and her gift of underlip
was stupendous. It poured down, a real cataract of lip. It was
without model, although not without shadow. She was deficient in
chin, and her lip circled over her lower jaw-bone, in shape and size
resembling a half-grown grey-hound's ear. At a distance, you might
have mistaken it for an extra allowance of tongue, which her mouth
could not contain. It was awful! That is, to think of kissing such
a thing! When the old woman bustled about, it shivered like a sheep
in shearing-time; and when she jumped, it flapped over her under-jaw
like the wing of a squat pigeon.

Among the ladies, there are two orders of lips--the nectarine and
the vinegarish. The former swell out like the heave of a deep sigh;
the latter are sharp, and make you smack your mouth when you look on
them. The first denotes amiability, the second acidity. Everlasting
spring lives in the blossoms of a nectarine lip, and eternal winter
dwells upon the vinegarish, along which no rill of blood ever strays.

The lips of one's sweet-heart are a volume of poetry. Smiles fling
a ray like the flush of morning upon them, and they are glorious
in their brightness. They are an oracle, and from them comes the
voice of destiny. They are a shrine, and around them the breath of
inspiration ever lingers. It would be vain to talk of kissing any
thing so sacred, when the mere thought overwhelms one in unspeakable
bliss!

                                                    T. H. S.




AN ALBUM FRAGMENT.


    WHAT is life, but a vision! The forms which have spread
      Their enchantment around us, and gladdened our day,
    Like the vanishing vapors of morning have fled,
      Or like eve's sun-gilt clouds, they are passing away.
    And when Youth's cherished hopes shall have faded and gone,
      And this turbulent dream of existence is o'er--
    When life's sparkling current hath ceased to flow on,
      And the place which now knows me will know me no more--
    Then bright on this page be engraven my name,
      And long may it live, when my being is past;
    Let others contend for a loftier fame,
      No nobler, no dearer, no _other_, I ask.
    Here perchance shouldst thou see it, forgotten, unknown,
      Oh! hallow that name with the dew of a tear!
    Far sweeter the tribute, than tale-telling stone,
      Which Pride, or Ambition, or Folly might rear.

                                                    J. H. B.




SONNETS: BY 'QUINCE.'


    ABSENCE.

    EARTH owns no smiles in absence of the sun;
      Dark mourns the night when chambered is her queen;
    The sweet flowers wither when Sol's spring is run;
      Nor fairies dance but in chaste Luna's sheen.
    Nothing but mourns from that it loves apart:
      The lone bird sorrows from its sever'd mate;
    And pines and withers the fond human heart,
      When those it worshipped leave it desolate.
    Thus in earth, night, flower, bird, creation's lord,
      The sweetest, dearest bond, is sympathy;
    Which sever'd, snaps the close-entwining chord
      That all things binds in some fond unity.
    Life-killing Absence, 'neath thy curse I pine,
    Affection's Upas tree--that name be thine!


    AGE.

    AGE is the winter season of man's life,
      The last dim flickering of the taper's ray;
    'Tis the last act that closes earthly strife;
      The latest character that he may play.
    Yet here, i' the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
      With rev'rend hair, white as the drifted snow,
    We madly mock our fate--play the buffoon,
      And self-deceiving to the dark grave go.
    The withered leaf clings latest to the tree,
      Hope vainly builds itself on dark despair;
    The shipwreck'd mariner buffets with the sea,
      And vainly strives for life, though death be there.
    So age, with palsied hand, to life doth cling
    Most fondly, as from age life taketh wing.


    AMBITION.

    THE waxen wing that strove t' empierce the sky,
      The daring hand that fired the Ephesian dome,
    The Spirit's strife with God for mastery,
      Which made the burning depths of hell its home,
    Were fell Ambition's. In that one word lies
      All that is greatly good or greatly ill;
    'Tis best of friends--'tis worst of enemies--
      Honey and poison it doth both distil.
    With vice enleagued, it sinks our spirit's down,
      Till lust and murder gorge their fierce desire;
    But virtue weaves for it a deathless crown,
      Which teaches noble natures to aspire.
    Honor and fame soar on its wingéd breath,
    Hurl'd in its downward flight lie sin and death.


    AUTHORS.

    AUTHORS are beings only half of earth--
      They own a world apart from other men:
    A glorious realm! giv'n by their fancy birth,
      Subjects, a sceptre, and a diadem;
    A fairy land of thought, in which sweet bliss
      Would run to ecstasy in wild delight,
    But that stern Nature drags them back to this,
      With call imperious, which they may not slight:
    And then they traffic with their thoughts to live,
      And coin their laboring brains for daily bread:
    Getting scant dross for the rich ore they give,
      While often with the gift their life is shed:
    And thus they die, leaving behind a name,
    At once their country's glory and her shame.




A FEW THOUGHTS ON FUNERALS.

            ----''Tis too horrible!
    The weariest and most loathéd worldly life
    That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
    Can lay on nature, is a paradise
    To what we fear of death!'

                                                 SHAKSPEARE.


IN my morning walk in the country, the other day, a common poor-house
hearse passed me. It was a long box, painted black, covered with a
scant piece of dark cloth of some kind, hardly large enough to allow
the tassels to dangle down its sides, in imitation of more gorgeous
drapery. The little door at the hind-end of it looked as if it might
open into the infernal regions. This dismal box, mounted nakedly
on four frail wheels, was drawn along by a pale, lean horse, and
the driver sat severe in his shirt-sleeves and tattered hat, like
some desperate blackguard driving a night-cart. As he passed the
cottages on the road-side, I observed anxious faces following its
course; and particularly that of one poor woman, with an infant in
her arms, whose poverty-stricken cheek was blanched still whiter,
for the moment, as she contemplated the probable picture of her own
humble obsequies. I imagined her as thinking of the time when she
should leave her unprotected little ones to the chance charities of
a heartless world--heartless to her--and herself be carried in this
same vehicle to a stoneless grave.

I felt indignant at this unnecessary harrowing up of her feelings,
and my own were not pleasantly affected; and then, and since, I have
thought much upon the subject of funerals.

What moral purpose is answered in thus thrusting the thought of
their dissolution upon the poor and miserable, amid their labors
and wants? Is not life hard enough for them to bear, burthened with
hunger and no food, with ignorant vice--habitual and early inculcated
vice--which, in their view, is almost virtue, and certainly, is
second nature? Must they turn horror-struck from the neglect, even to
the remains of the poor beings who, like themselves, are not freed by
death from the selfish contempt of their fellows? Why must the bell
send forth those tones that seem to the sick and weak nerves of the
feeble like a summons from the grave? Why this sickening array in
musty black, this dressing up a banquet for the worm, with terrific
ceremonies? Death is less awful to all, on account of the departure
from life, than because of the black badges, the dark and gloomy
retinue, that are associated in our minds with the event of it. When
we think of dying, it is of being put in a coffin, the white shroud
setting off, in loathsome contrast, the yellow palor of the face, and
the indescribable expression of the human features without a soul;
and then comes the black carriage, and that decaying pall, which has
served so many like occasions, and which will itself, though with
the sexton it looks as if it had a terrestrial immortality, finally
perish, and be cast aside to rot, but with no ostentatious funeral.
The motion, too, of this procession is slow; and our torture is felt
as lingering and fated. At last, we rest in the dark earth--we are
lonely and out of hearing--pinioned for ever! It would seem that
human ingenuity had contrived a tissue of horrors to close the
troubles of a human life.

Death is serious business, to be sure, and our passage through its
shadows is a fearful journey. Yet it is an entrance to immortality.
The entrance to magnificent temples, and brilliant theatres, is
through dark portals--necessarily dark to be firm; and nothing human
can add to the solemnity of death; but we may, by our sympathetic
attempts at the terrible-sublime, change what is solemn and salutary
into a source of disgust and aversion.

We come into a world of care, and want, and affliction, and our
unconscious ears are struck with sounds of rejoicing. We enter upon
an immortality of bliss, and around the self-same body there are
wailing and lamentation.

I was perplexing myself for a solution of this strange inconsistency
in our customs, when chancing to meet a philosophic friend, he
relieved my perplexity, by saying: 'Oh, people are afraid of going
to hell, and that their friends are gone there, and so they make all
this sad array. They usher their relations into eternity--for the
soul in our associations ever accompanies the body--as criminals are
led to execution. Their awful fate thus finds an awful language.'

If these be the true reasons of the gloomy ceremonies of death,
it is devoutly to be hoped that the fears of this result may in
some cases be unfounded. We do not wish to controvert the idea of
rewards and punishments hereafter, for they belong to the nature of
the soul, whether in this world or in the next; but it seems rather
extra-judicial, a plain case of supererogation, to bestow upon _all_
the marks of divine justice before hand.

In case of executions in human justice, if they take place _in
terrorem_, to awe the multitude into obedience, it is very well to
dress the hangman in the probable habiliments of the devil, and to
ride the culprit through the streets as a show, upon a pine coffin.
There should be as little romance, as few flowers in his way, as
possible. It is gross inconsistency, certainly, to introduce any
softening circumstances into public executions, as well as mistaken
mercy to the passions of men. In saying this, we suppose it is not
pretended that the execution of human beings is authorized upon any
other ground than support of the law. To execute privately, or with
as little terror as possible, is to enact over again the trick of
Nero to ensnare his subjects: for surely, the penalty is part of the
law, and the execution of it should be as open as the condemnation,
or the people are robbed of these horrid privileges of assisting
their virtue.

But to return to our subject. We dislike our funerals, because they
seem to be one of the remains of the many attempts to subject the
people to the control of the priests. And now, we blush to write
it, we fear the influence of the clergy in some churches is mainly
dependent upon a certain idea people have, that their future destiny
is somewhat in such hands. It is a poor compliment to our religious
nature, to suppose we are most fit to give our hearts to God, when
under an abject fear of death; that

    'When thoughts of the last bitter hour
    Come like a blight over our spirits,
    And the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
    And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
    Make us to shudder, and grow sick at heart,'

we are best prepared to pay that voluntary homage, to feel that free
devotion, which can alone be pleasing to our Creator.

Funeral occasions have been hailed as special seasons for operating
upon the nervousness of people. Every poor body is dragged about, and
exposed to the public gaze, in the church or meetinghouse, upon the
same principle that a recruiting sergeant drums his gaily-attired
soldiers about a town. Public men, the property of the people,
should be buried publicly, for all are supposed to sympathize in
the loss; all feel a personal interest in the ceremony. But it is
otherwise with private individuals. Then it is death we see, and not
a departed friend. But a still stronger objection lies against this
display of corpses, and these _very_ public burials, and it is, that
the poor are encouraged to indulge in mourning apparel, which they
often can ill afford. The salutary terror upon the wicked is more
than counteracted by the want and criminal shifts induced by this
unnecessary extravagance.

Talk with any man who is not a slave to custom, upon the subject of
burning the dead, and he will, with few exceptions, express a liking
of it for his own body. If we retain the portraits of our friends
as sacred treasures, nay, if a lock of hair, even, be held as a
precious memento, why not retain their very ashes embalmed in fire?
Who that has beheld the play of Virginius--we are glad to connect a
fine feeling with the stage--and seen the urn of Virginia, has not
felt a thrill of pleasure that so much is left to the fond father to
hug to his bosom? (How Cooper played Virginius!) Who has not felt a
wish, then, to have the ashes of some departed friend, to embrace in
like manner in his arms? Suppose a father, a brother, a husband, a
lover, to return, after long absence; death has cut down his darling
child, his saint-like sister, his wife; perhaps, what is hardest to
bear, because never thought of as possible, his only love; perhaps
pestilence has swept away all of these. He is pointed to their
graves, or to the common tomb of his kindred. A slight mound of earth
is all that is left him to associate with the loved object; or what
is worse, he goes to the tomb, and there is no charm in his sorrow
to heal itself, for it has lost all individuality: he looks upon an
array of coffins, and they all look alike; he cannot separate his
own sacred sorrow from the intrusive presence of that of others. But
place in his hands the ashes of those he loved; let him be alone with
the embalmed dead. He will kiss the cold urn; imagination will place
the cold corse in his arms, and he will take his last embrace, and
serenity will begin to dawn upon his mind. As he replaces the urn in
its sacred deposit, he will feel, 'She is not dead, but sleepeth!'

The headless trunk of the great Pompey was not left to decay upon the
sea-shore. How it rejoices us to learn, after following his fortunes
to his unhappy death, when he is cast upon the sand, neglected and
uncoffined, that his faithful slave gathered a small pile of wood,
and burned his body, carefully collecting the ashes. As soon as the
task is done, Pompey is great again; and we close his history with
satisfaction, for he is buried with affection. Far better is such a
fate, than the freezing ceremony of a modern funeral.

                                                    J. N. B.




YESTERDAY.


    I.

    AND where are now thy sunny hours,
      Fond man, which shone but yesterday?
    Perchance thy path was rich with flowers,
      That glittered in thy joyous way;
    Perchance the Day's pure eye of light
      Was one interminable smile,
    And visions eloquent and bright
      Stirred thy wrapt soul with bliss the while.

    II.

    And where are they? The sweeping tide
      Of onward and resistless time
    Is strewn with wrecks of baffled pride--
      Conceptions high, and hopes sublime!
    Dreams, that have shed upon the earth
      The gladdening hues of paradise;
    Their charm is flown, hush'd is their mirth,
      And all their kindling exstasies.

    III.

    It may be that the heart was sad,
      And wrapt in sorrow, yesterday;
    Perchance the scenes that once could glad
      Thy spirit, passed like spring away;
    That on the waste of years was seen
      Nought that might cheer the gloomy breast--
    No sunny spot of vernal green,
      On which the thoughtful eye could rest.

    IV.

    What recks it now, that then a cloud
      Was dimly brooding o'er thy head;
    That to the tempest thou hast bowed,
      When joy's ephemeral beams had fled?
    That day hath gone--its care is o'er--
      Its shadows all have passed away;
    Time's wave hath murmur'd by that shore,
      And round thee now is but to-day.

    V.

    Then what is yesterday?--a breath,
      A whisper of the summer breeze;
    A thing of silent birth and death,
      Colored by man's fond sympathies.
    It had its buds--they all are gone;
      Its fears--but they are now no more:
    Its hopes--but they were quickly flown--
      Its pure delights--and they are o'er!

    VI.

    Look ye not back, save but to glean
      From the deep memories of the past--
    From the illusions of each scene,
      The thought that time is flying fast:
    That VANITY on things of earth
      Is by a pointed diamond writ;
    Its hours of wild and transient mirth
      Are midnight skies by meteors lit.

    VII.

    Oh, what is yesterday?--a ray
      Which burst on being's troubled wave;
    Which passed like a swift thought away
      Unto eternity's wide grave!
    A star whose light hath left the sky--
      But for a little moment given;
    Scarce gleaming on the gladdened eye,
      Ere it hath left the vault of heaven!

    VIII.

    TO-DAY!--how in its little span
      The interests of an endless state,
    Beyond the feverish life of man,
      Are crowded with their awful weight!
    Prayers may ascend--the soul may pour
      Its trembling supplications here,
    That when time's fitful hour is o'er,
      Its hopes of heaven may blossom there.

    _Philadelphia._                                   W.G.C.




EDITING AND OTHER MATTERS.

A CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED VOLUME.


THE 'LITERARY GAZETTE' created a great sensation. Frank was
congratulated by his friends on the excellence of his hebdomadal.
His editorial brethren bestowed liberal commendation; and he was
bespattered with praise, where he expected to be flattered by
criticism. To be sure, there were some croakers, who thought it a
little too light, and some blithe hearts thought it a little too
heavy; but generally, great satisfaction was expressed with its
contents. Subscribers flocked in, and every thing went on swimmingly.

But however lightly Frank's bark danced at first, he soon found that
there were clouds, storms, and rough waters, to be encountered, as
well as sunshine and soft winds. An author whom he reviewed with
deserved severity, was sure to regard what was said as an emanation
of jealousy. Rejected fi'penny rhymists reported him unfriendly to
the 'infantile efforts of genius.' Bilious moralists condemned him
for what their evil-seeking imaginations tortured into profligacy.
In this way, his judgment and goodness of heart were underrated;
and although he won more smiles than frowns, yet he sighed when
he thought of the goodness of his motives, and the abominable
constructions which were frequently put upon them.

In addition to these grievances, the drudgery of preparing matter for
his paper soon became sickening. At times, heavy demands were made
on his exhausted brain; and then the ungentle efforts to lash his
mind into a fury; to spread the wings of an imagination borne down
by lassitude; to wake up reluctant thought; were most unpleasant.
And yet he knew it must be done, and that his readers would judge
him by his weakness rather than his strength. This knowledge, with
his desire to please, placed him often in a dilemma which nothing
but kindred experience can appreciate. When he was in the mood,
composition was an agreeable occupation; but when draft after draft
had been made upon his labors, a sense of fatigue would come over
him, and he knew that the stream of thought yet in motion under such
cloudy auspices, would reflect but little brilliancy on the vision
of his readers. The misery of editorship is, that one dull article
will receive more reprobation than a score of successful ones can
remove. Men are prone to judge of things by the worst lights. The
virtue which one practices, will seldom be considered expiatory of
his vices; the day is judged of by the minute of cloud, rather than
the hour of sunshine; and a line of dulness will condemn a page of
vivacity. We look at the specks on the sun, the mole on the cheek
of beauty, and the blemish on the statue otherwise perfect in its
symmetry.

Often, while revelling in visions of happiness, Frank would be
recalled to his earthly duties, by the entrance of the boy from the
printing-office, y'clept, _par excellence_, the devil. Every editor
is aware of the felicity which these intrusions into his sanctum
afford. Fixed in his arm-chair, with a horizontal line of leg before
him, while his fancy is with his sweet-heart, or his wife and little
ones, as the case may be, he feels quite comfortable. At the next
instant, all his glistening thoughts and fairy fancies are 'knocked
into _pi_,' by the entrance of the imp of the printing-office, with a
face streaked with ink, round-aboutless and vestless, and having on a
pair of inexpressibles hitched up on one side by a twine string, who
shrieks out, in a merciless tone, 'I'm come for copy, Sir!' Cowper
said that the bray of an ass was the only unmusical sound in nature;
but the poet had never experienced the discord occasioned to an
editor's mind, by an inopportune demand for 'copy,' or he would have
make one more exception.

Often did Frank hold with the dirty-faced urchin such a dialogue as
the following:

    _Devil._ 'They want more copy, Sir.'

    _Frank._ 'What's become of that I sent before?'

    _Devil._ 'It's used up, Sir.'

    _Frank._ 'Isn't it enough?'

    _Devil._ 'Not by a jug-full, Sir.'

    _Frank._ 'How much more is wanting?'

    _Devil._ 'Three columns, Sir.'

    _Frank._ 'When will it be wanted?'

    _Devil._ 'Why, I've been here twice before this morning, and I
    couldn't get in. The foreman's mad as h--ll, and says how as that
    the paper can't be got out in time.'

    _Frank._ 'Well, be off. I'll have some copy ready in an hour.'

Devil goes off, with a sunken aspect, muttering, as he goes, 'I gets
more kicks than coppers. The foreman kicks me for not getting copy,
and the editor kicks me for coming for it. Deuce take 'em both! As to
the paper, she may be late, for me; and as to the press, I wish she
was blow'd to the mischief!'

The 'devil' talks upon the common principle, when he speaks of the
paper and the printing-press as belonging to the feminine gender.
Your statesman, speaking of the country's prosperity, says, '_Her_
commerce, _her_ manufactures, and _her_ arts, are flourishing,
and will soon advance _her_ high in the respect of nations.' The
backwoods-men say of Cincinnati, '_She_ is the western _queen_.' A
Kentuckian will pet his rifle, and say, '_She's_ leetle the slickest
bore in these parts, and her voice is sweet as Nannie's, and that's
saying a heap for _her_.' Some go so far as to sex learned bodies,
and to say of congress, 'The constitution does not confer such powers
on her, and beyond those delegated she cannot rightfully act;'
thus flinging a petticoat over this venerable body of gray-haired
bachelors, husbands, and orators.

The fact is, it is quite difficult to understand the reason why the
neuter gender is not applied to all things neither male nor female.
Every vessel that skims the billow, in common nomenclature, belongs
to the feminine gender. There is not a steam-boat that ploughs the
river, however hoarsely it may bark, or however it may fling volumes
of smoke above, like streamers, that belongs to the masculine gender.
Every ricketty yawl or skiff that is battered to pieces by the tides,
belongs to the lovely and ever-to-be-beloved sex. If a pleasure-boat,
with its white sail kissing the wave which its prow proudly spurns,
wins a compliment, it is sure to be uttered after this wise: 'See how
finely she sails!--and

    '_She_ walks the water like a thing of life.'

Is not the male sex somewhat scandalously neglected in this
matter? Why should not a noble ship, daring and adventurous--a
merchant-_man_, perhaps an India-_man_--belong to the masculine
gender? If _it_ be female, why not be grammatically consistent, and
talk of merchant-_woman_, and India-_woman_? If it be necessary that
inanimate structures be sexed, why not do it with some reference to
their qualities? Let a ship be called _she_, by all means; for a lady
is beautiful, and a ship bearing steadily away over the waters, is
beautiful to look upon, too; and a lady, though not freighted down
with bales and packages by the ton, yet is she burthened with those
articles in the dry-goods line which are worn by _the ton_. Streamers
wave from the flag-staff of the one, and ribbons flutter gaily from
the main-top of the other. Therefore, let a ship and a woman be of
the same sex. But let there be some limits to the license. We take
it, there is nothing that floats, which looks less like our own dear
sweet-heart, than an old worm-eaten canoe, scooped out of a dead
trunk; and yet, when a paddle is applied to the ugly thing, you look
at it and say, '_She_ moves!'

We admit and feel the romance and propriety of sexing 'the poetry of
heaven.' Blessings be yet again on benighted Egypt, for she taught
us to speak of Osiris and Isis, instead of the sun and moon! Blessed
for ever be the spirit of him who first conceived the idea of sexing
the starry hosts, from the Cynosure to Sirius! How much more poetical
is night in consequence--especially such as Moore speaks of in the
Epicurean:

                       ----'Sweet nights,
    When Isis, the pure star of lovers, lights
    Her bridal crescent o'er the holy stream!'

All who have been in love, feel that the soft influence which comes
down from the face of Isis is feminine in its witchery. She is
friendly to love affairs, although Miss Diana, when in Greece,
would have nothing to do with the masculine deities; and although
she banished Calisto, and transformed Acteon, yet did these same
Greeks scandalize the virgin, by reporting that she forgot her
fastidiousness when she was smitten by the charms of an Endymion on
the Carian Mount. To return. We are glad that the poets of the olden
time sexed the stars pretty much as their fancies thought proper, and
that we Christians still perpetuate these beautiful fictions of their
mythologies; for there is a charm in the classical association which
now comes upon the mind, when viewing the heavens, that we should
regret to part with, however heathenish and anti-utilitarian it may
be.

The owners of bright eyes have astronomy enough to recognise
Venus, the beautiful star of evening; and yet they perversely and
anti-mythologically call her _it_, when they should know that _she_
is all that is now left of that beautiful being of the cestus,
who, like a wreath of foam, was born of a billow near Cythera. Let
us be consistent, and call Venus _she_, even as we call the moon
she, and her lord and master, 'the eye of the universe,' he. It
is proper to speak of Saturn, and _his_ rings, of Mars, and _his_
belligerent front; and we should, to be consistent, _she_ Pallas,
Juno, and Vesta, every one of them. Let us also call this great
heap of dirt and water which we tread on, and sail over, and speak
of, as our _mother_ earth, feminine. Our wretchedly-abused planet
is spoken of as belonging to no sex in particular, now-a-days,
although she was once called Terra and Titæa; and then she was a
beauty, and a charming one, too, as we should judge from some of her
heart-stealing, bright-eyed daughters.

Poetry demands that we still continue to sex the stars. Let us regard
Jupiter as a great big lubberly fellow, making love to the shy and
bashful Vesta, and waking up jealousy in the bosom of his elder
sweet-heart, Juno. Let us have Mars getting up assignations with the
all-loving Venus, as of old; and Saturn and Pallas felicitating each
other in the manner becoming two heads, the one so full of justice,
and the other of wisdom, as are theirs. How delectable it would be,
to fancy Madame Earth flirting with the long-yeared Herschel, to the
utter astonishment of her neighbor Mercury, who would either have to
live an old bachelor, or look up a mistress in some of the systems
which revolve in the far-off regions of space!

Our imagination has run riot long enough through the heavens; and
we therefore return back to our starting-place, the earth. We were
speaking of the incongruity of the sexual designations now in vogue.
Why is it, that once introduced, the system of sexing things was
not carried out farther? Why not give sex to a tree, a carriage, a
wind-mill, and our pantaloons, as well as to a yacht, a watch, and
every scrabbling village in the land? We love to think upon the
Mississippi as the 'Father of Waters,' and the Ohio as '_La belle
Riviere_;' for to the masculine strength and stature of the one, we
offer our admiration, and to the feminine beauty and grace of the
other, we have yielded up our heart.

We were speaking, before we got on this mad-cap digression, of the
miseries in which the editorial fraternity in general, and Frank
Thornton in particular, were sometimes plunged, by ill-timed demands
for that bane of the craft called 'copy.' At such times, Frank would
disenchant himself of his fond visions, pick up his pen, arrange
his paper, and--think, or try to think, of a subject. He would look
over the newspapers for topics; whip up his brain for a suggestion,
or look out at the window, and seeing his friend James Summers,
who prided himself on being a man of the world, he would conclude
to write an article on men of the world in general, much after the
manner of the fragment below.

       *       *       *       *       *

'FIELDING says, that in order to understand men, it is necessary
that one should be born with a genius for that purpose.' Your men
of the world think so too; hence, they are the favorites of nature,
and as such, are superior to ordinary mortals, and have a right, in
consequence, to look down on inferiority. We are not going to upset
Fielding, Bulwer, _et id omne genus_; we only say, that we detest the
boast and swagger which your men of the world take upon themselves as
a natural right, peculiar to those who come into the world with an
extra eye to read that volume of mysteries, the human heart, locked
up, like the ark of old, from the vision of the vulgar.

'Your man of the world is the most bustling of bodies, and looks
like Atlas with the globe incumbent on his shoulders. His lips form
an oracle of human wisdom, and it is rank profanity to question
aught that emanates from so holy a source. His contempt for inferior
understandings is most supreme; and his humor, like a foaming
cataract, flows and boils with sublime rage, if impertinence dare
question his profundity, or contest his right to monopolize the
gleams of knowledge which light up the human mind. He is the greatest
and most orthodox of bigots, and takes good care that the stultified
head of heresy be scathed by the lightnings of his indignation. He
uses old saws with a wink; and if he chooses to bless you with a
squint, you are unpardonable, if you do not cheer him with a smile.
He is a stickler for antiquity, and hates smooth chins and black
heads, for their greenness and folly. He is the repository of all the
fragments of wisdom that are left of shipwrecked ages, which have
floated down on the stream of time. He gathers together the bits
and ends of sayings which go to make up the traditionary lore of a
country; and this unbooked knowledge renders him sager than a man of
much reading. In fine, your man of the world is a very great man, and
is to be respected, whether he discourses of the evangelists at a
horse-race, or flourishes political eloquence, and that Helicon which
inspires it, a beer-mug, in the unquiet recesses of some venerable
ale-house.

'This may be called an 'outline in pencil' of a man of the world,
when the shadows of fifty years or so are upon him; when he has
exhausted the fountains of his wild blood, and turned out sage and
philosopher. A man must run a long and labyrinthine gauntlet, under
the scourge of the vices, before he can aspire to the character.
Of course, it is right that such an one should usurp the throne
of wisdom, as his shoulders have been legitimately invested with
the purple of sin. The right to rule can only be predicated on a
youth of prostitution, a manhood of degradation, and an old age of
impenitence.

'Perhaps you may have seen a man of the world, under the shadow
of a tavern sign-post, discoursing wisdom to the simple-hearted
villagers. He has the infallible marks of a truly great man legible
in his face; bloated veins, and an indented excrescence surmounting
his nose, and flaming like a fiëry beacon with the condensed heat of
unnumbered barrels of all 'proofs.' His libations to Bacchus have
given a remarkable clarification to the emanations of his intellect,
as is discoverable in the vividness with which his wisdom glares
on the understandings of all who hear him. A flippant attorney
is, perhaps, at his side; and the worthy twain discuss national
policies, while the unsophisticated lookers-on stand mute, admiring
the prodigious display of genius. The village magistrate imbibes
ideas which astonish his natural stock of well-behaved ones, that
never strayed beyond the hill-top in the distance, or flew off on
a wild goose-chase after the phantoms of knowledge. The man of the
world lays down his positions, and fortifies them with the maxims
he learned from his predecessor, who sleeps in the church-yard. The
pettifogger capitulates to his invincible adversary, and acknowledges
in him one whose dogmas it were irreverent to doubt.

'Your man of the world never goes to church. His own experience
furnishes principles for the government of men, vastly superior to
all that Christianity ever dreamed of. He has an intuitive perception
into the minds of children, and can predict, to a nicety, the amount
of power their intellectual machinery will be able, in time to come,
to generate. He believes that scarcely an honest man, beside himself,
lives; and as to women, they are not a whit better than they ought to
be. Lastly, your man of the world is the chief light of the world,
and when he dies, the heavens will be hung in gloom, and the edifice
of society will fall into dilapidation; as he, while living, was its
chief prop and support.'

       *       *       *       *       *

ON the afternoon of the day on which the above article appeared, Mr.
James Summers, who sat for the portrait of the 'Man of the World,'
ordered his paper to be stopped, as he could not 'conscientiously
patronize one devoted to Billingsgate interests, and edited by a
person who had evidently received a diploma for his proficiencies,
from the college of Saint Giles!'

This is a specimen of one class of miseries to which editors are
subject. They rack their weary brains for subjects; and when they
dissect them properly, it frequently happens that some subscriber,
who fancies himself aggrieved, says, with poor Dennis the critic,
'That means _me_!'--and forthwith sends in a peremptory order to have
'his paper discontinued.' And thus the editor not only loses some
one's friendship, but, what is of more importance, his subscription.

Subscribers! one word to you. Support your editor through his
difficulties; and whatever else you neglect, be sure you do not
forget to pay for your intellectual provant; that is, if you would
pass decently through this world, and reach heaven at last!




THE SEA-ROVER.

    'O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
    Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
    Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
    Survey our empire, and behold our home!'

       *       *       *       *       *

    I HAVE no ties to bind me
      To any spot on earth;
    I leave no love behind me,
      No warm familiar hearth;
    But I roam with the changeful wind
      Upon the changeful sea,
    Mid isles that shed their fragrance forth
      Like the blessed Araby;
    And in the deep and cloudless night,
      We watch each dewy star,
    And our fancies rove through that shadowy light,
      Where the gentle spirits are:

    Nor while upon the deep
      We wander far and free,
    Are we mariners without
      Our own wild minstrelsy;
    And the night-breeze seems to catch the song,
      And bear it on its wing:
    And the laughing waves seem to echo far
      The voice of our carolling:

    And then we see the unwelcome shark
      Gliding beneath our lee;
    Gently he looketh up, but we
      Trust not his love of harmony;
    Strange playful fish are gambolling
      Around our white-winged bark,
    All harmless, gladsome things are they,
      Except that soft-eyed shark.

    When the foam, torn from the billow,
      Flies furious and fast,
    And the good mast, like a sapling,
      Bends to the mighty blast,
    With steady heart and ready arm,
      Fearless, unmoved, we stand--
    (Our bright bow flashing through the sea,)
      My own, my gallant band!

    O! who would be a man
      Fettered, instead of free!
    A sluggard at his hearth,
      With a bantling on his knee!
    While there are seas to pass,
      While there are winds to blow,
    O! who would be content
      With tales of long ago!
    While there is knowledge waiting,
      As fruit upon a tree,
    Which we for others gather,
      Over the mystic sea!

    I like not traveller's stories,
      Told at the blazing hearth,
    Of wild and wondrous wandering
      On ocean and on earth;
    When the wine foams in the goblet
      With its glorious ruby light,
    Imagination sparkles
      Proportionately bright.
    I loathe to see the simple eye
      In wonder opened wide,
    At hair-breadth 'scapes from shot and steel,
      From rock and tempest tide.

    As each adventure wilder grows
      Of the traveller's bold career,
    The listeners gather closer round,
      And cross themselves for fear;
    And many an anxious glance is cast
      Around the shadowy room,
    As if some horrid spectacle
      Lay lurking in the gloom.

    But I love, in my own good bark,
      And with my gallant crew,
    To wander free where fancy leads
      Over the waters blue:
    To speak with new-found people,
      Of the world a fresh-turned page;
    O! grateful bounds my spirit,
      That I live in a gallant age!

    O! if the tame ones of the earth
      Could taste the deep delight,
    Of feeling free upon the main,
      Whose sway is the bold man's right,
    The sea would swarm with rovers,
      Whose zeal would never sleep,
    While anxiously they gathered
      The treasures of the deep!

    _Montreal, August, 1837._                A. A. MACNICOL.




RANDOM PASSAGES

FROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE,
SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY.

NUMBER FOUR.


PARIS, AUGUST, 1836.--After due deliberation respecting the various
routes, viz.: first, by Southampton to Havre, and up the Seine;
second, by Brighton and Dieppe; third, by steam-boat direct to
Calais, or Boulogne; fourth, (the older and most frequented,) by
Dover and Calais, or Boulogne; I chose the latter; and in order to
be in Paris before Saturday evening, (to-day is Wednesday,) took my
outside seat in the night coach to Dover. It was a fine evening, and
as we rode out of London through 'the main artery of the right hand
of the world,' Charing-Cross, down Whitehall and Parliament-street,
over Westminster bridge, and through the villages of Deptford and
Greenwich, I had the finest sunset view of the great metropolis,
which I had yet seen. A glorious full-moon rose soon after we took
leave of the more dazzling luminary, and of course the ride in
such an evening was most agreeable. We passed through Gravesend, a
bustling and noted town on the Thames, and our course lay for some
distance along the margin of the river. At eleven, we stopped for
supper at Rochester. The night which looked so promising, was not to
be very delightful; a change came over the face of it, in the shape
of a cold, thick fog; moreover, that useless and annoying animal,
y'clept 'the guard,' kept us awake by a hideous bellowing with a long
tin-horn; and altogether, I was abundantly satisfied with my first
experiment in riding all night. Day-light came at last, just as we
were entering the ancient and honorable town of Canterbury, as weary
pilgrims as ever went there in the days of worthy old Chaucer. The
cathedral is entirely surrounded by ordinary dwelling-houses, and the
massive entrance was at this hour of course closed. We could only
get a glimpse of its fine towers. At six A. M., we were set down at
the 'Ship Hotel,' at Dover, and only had to pay five shillings more
than the regular fare, beside three shillings to the guard, etc., for
keeping us awake, and two shillings more for porters, ladders, etc.,
to the boat, a pigmy affair, y'clept the Britannia, on board of which
we _descended_, after a poor breakfast at the hotel; and in a few
minutes we were rapidly receding from the 'white cliffs of England.'
The hills along this coast appear to be entirely of chalk, and from a
short distance, the shore looks as if partly covered with snow. The
castle and heights tower above the town, and the latter give it the
appearance of our Brooklyn. The morning was brilliant and cloudless,
and the sea scarcely ruffled. So we glided over this far-famed and
much-dreaded channel as gently as we should cross from New-York to
Jersey City, only taking somewhat longer time to do it. Before we
had lost sight of Dover, the coast of 'La Belle France' was very
distinct; indeed the two coasts may always be seen from each other,
in clear weather. We had three or four baskets of carrier-pigeons on
board, which were liberated at intervals, to announce our progress.
They are used to communicate important intelligence, and never fail
of arriving at their destination in about ten minutes.

The distance from Boulogne to Dover is forty miles. After a voyage
of three-and-a-half hours, we made the bustling town of Boulogne,
which is prettily situated on the open sea-coast, at the head of a
small bay. On an eminence near the town, is a conspicuous monument,
commenced by Napoleon to commemorate his (intended) conquest of
England,(!) and completed by Louis XVIII., to commemorate Napoleon's
downfall!

       *       *       *       *       *

WE sailed up between two long and excellent wood piers, filled with
expecting friends, porters, police, soldiers, custom-house officers,
etc., and stepping for the first time on the soil of Europe, at least
of the continent, I was escorted by a companion through the eager
crowd, amid the clamorous calls of the commissioners, 'Hotel du Nord?
Hotel D'Angleterre? Hotel D'Orleans? Portmanteau, Monsieur?' and all
in a strange tongue. What a jabbering! At a little bureau on the quay
our passports were received, and we were permitted to proceed without
any personal examination, the commissioner of our hotel (D'Orleans,)
taking charge of our luggage, which he 'passed' in an hour, without
giving us a word of trouble; but we soon found we were not to escape
vexations, for the seats in the diligences, had been engaged for
four days to come! This is especially provoking, in such a place as
Boulogne. But repining avails not.

This is the second of 'Le Trois Jours,' and the tri-colored flags
are displayed from every house in town, giving the streets a gay and
lively face. This is a remarkably clean and orderly place, and in
this respect forms a strong contrast to its rival, Calais. It is a
famous sea-bathing place, and during the summer, English residents
and visitors form one third of the whole population. Indeed, the town
is very _à la Anglaise_--more so, they say, than any other in France.
But still there is enough to remind a novice that he is really in
another country, in the old world. The military on the docks and in
every street; the poor women, bare-footed and bare-headed, performing
the labor of beasts of burthen, being in fact the public porters,
and thankful for the chance of carrying your luggage for a few sous;
the incessant jabbering in a strange tongue, (strange, alas! to me,)
'for even the children here,' as one sagely remarked, 'talk very good
French;' the streets without side-walks, and the picturesque figures
in them; the immense clumsy diligences, arriving and setting off in
cautious pace; the street harpists and music-grinders, (of which we
have abundant specimens,) etc. The hotels form about one-fourth of
all the buildings of the town, and are all crowded. Mine host has a
summer pavilion on the banks of the sea, commanding an extensive view
of the English coast, etc., and very similar to that at Rockaway,
(L. I.,) and to this we are sent in a barouche to dine at the _table
d'hôte_, in a large airy hall, which accommodates one hundred or
more. The company, being mostly English, seemed rather awkward in
this novel mode of dining; and there was no general conversation at
the table. My neighbour stared with astonishment when he found I was
not English, and still more so that I was an American, 'the first
he had ever seen;' and he looked as tickled as if he had seen an
ourang-outang. The shore before the pavilion is covered with little
bathing-cars, which are drawn into the water by horses, and there
is a handsome assembly-hall near by, for the bathers. After dinner,
walked up to the 'barriers,' or ramparts, which surround an elevated
part of the city, and serve both for fortification and a public
promenade. The view from them is very fine.

       *       *       *       *       *

FRIDAY.--A rainy day, and the review and ceremonies in the church
are given up. Strangers at the hotels have been invited by the
mayor to a grand ball at the 'Salle du Spectacle,' or theatre, this
evening. A band of music at the pavilion at dinner. Went to the
theatre; great crowd, nine-tenths spectators; much like our Masonic
Hall balls, except that there is no room to dance. The élite of the
town displayed their best, but the majority were English. It was to
be _très selecte_, and has been the town-talk for a week; yet my
companion said, with great surprise, that of one of the prettiest of
the dancers he had bought his gloves. Made an appointment to meet him
at Amiens cathedral, at five A. M.

SATURDAY.--A most vexatious mistake of my own has lost me my seat
again, and I must endure idleness and ennui, in this purgatory,
twenty-four hours longer. Horrors! What _shall_ I do? Wandered into a
museum, and killed an hour. Bought 'Diary of Desennuyée.' Miserable
trash! Changed it for Mrs. Trollope's 'Paris and the Parisians;'
precious little better. The longest day I have known this two years.

       *       *       *       *       *

AUGUST 31ST.--Found myself actually mounted on the _rotonde_ of a
French diligence, and proceeding, at the pace of six or seven miles
an hour, toward Paris. Splendid morning; and the roads are thoroughly
sprinkled by the late rain. The diligence has been recently much
modified, _à l'Anglaise_, and I perceived but little difference in
the mode or rate of travelling. This one has two outside rear seats,
or the _rotonde_; the _banquette_, over the conducteur's seat in
front; and the interior, divided into three apartments. The front
is called the _coupé_, and is the highest price. The conducteur is
a respectable personage, who overlooks the whole team, delivers the
passports, etc., and the fee to him, and the postilion, is always
regular, and paid in advance. (The fees to waiters at hotels in
France are always charged in the bills; so there is one annoyance
well rid of.)

The road to Paris, by Montreuil, Abbeville, and Beauvais, is
flat, stale, and unprofitable. There is little to be seen but
wheat-fields and pastures, and here and there a bit of a hut, with
the philanthropic announcement, 'Loge au pied et un cheval;' which
is equivalent, I presume, to the similar English establishments'
sign, 'Entertainment for man and horse.' Montreuil is an antique
and strongly-fortified town, entirely surrounded by a high wall,
and several out-posts. Here we stopped to dine. Abbeville, the
next, is the largest town on the route, and quite _continental_ in
its appearance. It was a fête-day, and the whole population were
amusing themselves in the streets, some with a dancing monkey, others
listening to a buffoon, or improvisatrice. Then we passed through
Airaines, Granvilliers, and Marseilles to Beauvais, famous for its
siege in 1472 by the Duke of Burgundy, which was raised by the heroic
Jean Hanchette, whose memory is still honored by an annual festival.
Here we took a good breakfast, for which our night ride had created
an excellent appetite. Passing then through the small villages of
Puiseux, Blaumont, Sur-Oise and Marseilles, we came to Saint Dennis,
the burial-place of the kings of France, and from thence proceeded
through a broad, straight, dusty avenue, to the capital, without
having any general view; and were set down at the bureaux of the
Messageries Royal, where our luggage was slightly examined, and I
was then escorted, by a young companion, to the Hotel De Lille et
d'Albion, opposite the Palais Royal. Dined at the table d'hôte,
with a company of thirty, all English. Got a cab and rode over one
of the bridges to find my quandam yankee doctor. Find it necessary
to be in earnest now about learning French. My ignorance is rather
awkward, but still it is not impossible to make myself understood;
and 'necessity is the mother of invention.'

       *       *       *       *       *

AUGUST 2ND.--Hired a guide, or interpreter, to show me the
localities, and assist me in my business. In the city in general,
I am disappointed. The narrow, filthy streets, with gutters in the
centre, and without side-walks, and the antique and irregular
buildings, do not realize my notions of gay, elegant Paris. But the
extent and magnificence of the _public_ buildings, palaces, gardens,
parks, boulevards, etc., are enough to atone for the dirty streets.
The general view of the city, from one of the centre bridges, (the
atmosphere being wonderfully clear and transparent,) is grand and
imposing in the extreme. The luxurious and superb architecture of the
Louvre, Tuilleries, Luxembourg, and Palais Royal, and the _immense
extent_, as well as the great beauty and elegance, of the gardens
and parks, connected with these places, must astonish even the most
sanguine.

       *       *       *       *       *

AUGUST 4TH.--Took lodgings with Dr. ---- in Rue D'Enfer, opposite the
garden of the Luxembourg, for three objects, namely: to have a guide
to the city; to learn French from him and the talkative landlady,
and for economy's sake, for I pay but seven and a half francs a week
for a snug room with attendance, in a good situation, and can have
breakfast (such as it is) for fifteen sous.[11]

6TH. Having disposed of most of my business, I commenced
'_lionizing_.' First, I walked over Pont des Arts, through the Louvre
and the Tuilleries, to the Garden of the Tuilleries, which, I need
not say, is laid out on a scale of great extent and magnificence,
and is profusely adorned with fine statues, and groups in bronze and
marble. The number and variety of the noble walks in this garden are
truly astonishing. And it is not less so, that the finest statuary
should be so liberally exposed to the public, without the least
guard or protection, and yet none of it is ever injured. Passed
through Place de la Concorde, (late Place Louis XVI.;) and the Champs
Elysées, where they were removing the lamps, etc., used in the late
fête of the three days; and walked up the broad and noble avenue to
the Arc de Triomphe, which was completed a few days since, and is one
of the most conspicuous, and most admired ornaments of the capital. I
will send you a printed description, which will save me a great many
words. Suffice it to say, that the most extravagant epithets will not
give you too high an idea of it. It is of white marble, adorned with
exquisite bas-reliefs, and is so immense in extent and height, that
from the Pont Neuf, about three miles distant, it is conspicuous far
above the tall trees of the Champs Elysées, and all the surrounding
objects.

       *       *       *       *       *

RETURNED to the Louvre, and spent the forenoon in its celebrated
Musée and Gallery of Paintings. This gallery is one thousand three
hundred and thirty feet long, and would reach from Broadway to
Wooster-street! The ceiling is oval, and is elegantly gilded and
adorned. The perspective of the gallery is much like that of Thames
Tunnel, and the farther end appears to be only three or four feet
high. As to the paintings, I have marked in the catalogue those
which particularly struck me, and no farther description would be
worth while. The gallery of ancient sculpture is of course intensely
interesting, and contains one of the finest collections in the world.
(See Madame Starke.) Walked up to the Boulevards, which, with Rue
Rivoli, Rue Castiglione, and perhaps two or three others, are the
only streets which do credit to the city. The Boulevards are quite
modern; and when the trees are matured, and the building finished,
they will be much more beautiful than now. The Boulevard des Italiens
is the handsomest. In the Boulevard Conti, is the superb church of
_St. Madeline_, the interior of which is not yet completed. It is
like the _Bourse_, or Exchange, on the model of a Grecian temple,
and is built of white marble, surrounded with exquisite Corinthian
pillars, and ornamented with bas-reliefs. In the Place Vendome,
nearby, is the celebrated column (on the model of Trajan's,) erected
by Napoleon to commemorate his victories. What a gigantic mind was
Napoleon's! It is displayed as much in the monuments, edifices, and
public works, which he planned and executed, as in his ambitious
projects for the conquest of Europe. This column is made of cannon
taken in his battles, and you must see it, in order to understand the
difficulty as well as grandeur of such a project.

Returned to my room before dark; for recent examples have shown, that
it is not quite safe to be out alone, late in the evening, in the
streets of Paris. Several persons have been attacked and robbed, and
one or two killed, in this neighborhood, within a few days.

       *       *       *       *       *

SUNDAY.--Went to St. Sulpice, which is ranked as the second church
in Paris, next to Notre Dame. It is Roman Catholic of course, for
there are but four or five Protestant churches in all Paris! The
front of St. Sulpice is very grand and imposing, but the rest is not
particularly so. The interior is spacious and lofty, but far less
elaborately finished and decorated than the cathedrals of England.
There are large niches around the walls, enclosed with a railing,
and adorned with fine paintings, an altar etc., which seemed to be
private or family chapels. Several companies of children, apparently
belonging to schools, were led into the church by priests in black
cloth robes. These priests were reading the service in various parts
of the church, and in the niches, to groups of ten or twenty; but the
principal one was before the grand altar, which was richly adorned,
and contrived for effect, which I cannot describe.

7TH.--Went to Versailles, where there was to be a grand review, etc.
The Doctor, a medical student, a New-Orleans gentleman, and myself,
took a hack together, and started off about eleven o'clock. All the
world had gone or were going; the vehicles of all sorts, from the
superb barouche of the nobility, to the go-cart of the market folks,
were innumerable. Rode along the Quai des Tuilleries and the Champs
Elysées. Passed Saint Cloud, the favorite residence of Napoleon, and
the scene of the bloodless revolution which gave him the government
of France. Near the palace, is a column for telegraphs, by which
Napoleon communicated with Paris. A certain light was a signal that
he would see nobody. Neither lord nor lady must approach.

ARRIVED at Versailles at one. Review just over! The palace here
is immensity personified. It can hardly be comprehended. From the
magnificent gardens, the view of it is superb. These gardens will
more than realize the most brilliant fairy scene of the Arabian
Nights. They extend _several miles_ in each direction; laid out with
the most perfect neatness and order; and this is their only fault.
There is too much trimming--too much exactness. If they were a little
more like the wild beauty of nature, they would please my eye as
well. Statuary, of all sorts, is liberally disposed throughout these
vast grounds; noble avenues intersect each other at half-angles
in the gardens and park; and in these the trees are so placed and
trimmed as to form a grand triumphal arch; while the squares between
are occupied by fountains, curiously devised, or by a bed of flowers.

'All the world and his wife' were there. Suddenly, there was a
pressing toward one of the grand avenues. It was to see the King
of Naples, who is now here on a visit to his aunt, the Queen of
the French. The king and the French queen were in an open car,
accompanied by two good-looking youths, about sixteen and eighteen,
(the Dukes of Nemours and Orleans,) and the two princesses, rather
pretty, and dressed with taste and marked simplicity. An elderly
gentleman, next to the King of Naples, was said to be his minister
or guardian, and he looks as if he needed one. He is a mustachioed,
dandyish-looking fellow, and stared through his quizzing glass in
a style quite amusing. The people took off their hats, as the car
passed, but there was not a whisper of applause or enthusiasm.

On our return, just as we stopped at the park of St. Cloud, the
French king's carriage came up, kept as close as a prison; and in
a few minutes, the queen and he of Naples arrived, and stopped in
the park to change horses; so we had a chance to scan them all very
closely. The queen might have been handsome once, but she certainly
is not now. She bowed repeatedly to some one by the carriage; but not
a word was uttered, which appeared very strange.

       *       *       *       *       *

10TH.--My way to Galignani's reading-room, every morning, is through
the portico of the hall of the celebrated French Institute, over the
Pont des Arts, and through the quadrangles of the Louvre and Palais
Royal. What a world in miniature, (and not on a very small scale
either,) is this Palais Royal! A palace that would _cover two or
three of our squares_, in the heart of the city, was converted by
its proprietor, the late Duke of Orleans, into an immense bazaar;
the entrance from every part being from the interior court, which is
a long promenade of itself, adorned with rows of trees, fountains,
and gardens. The lower floor of the palace is divided into stores,
in the arcade fashion, in which are displayed every article, almost,
which can be imagined or desired, for use or ornament. The jewellers
are the most numerous. There are, I should think, at least three or
four hundred of these shops on the first floor, and they each rent
for four thousand francs per annum. The second floor is occupied by
cafés, reading-rooms and by gambling-establishments, or 'hells,' and
the upper stories by characters of all sorts, male and female. In
short, there is a specimen of every thing, good and bad, in this
Palais Royal; and even the bad is made so alluring and dazzling, that
altogether, it is no very difficult matter for an unwary novice there
to rid himself of his superfluous cash. The imposing _coup d'oeil_
of the palace and gardens you can imagine better from the prints,
than from any description.

Near the Bourse, is the Halle au Blé, an immense circular building,
the dome of which is nearly as large as that of the Pantheon at Rome.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN my ramble to-day, I dropped into a church which I found to be
that of Saint Roch, one of the most beautiful in Paris. Like Saint
Sulpice, it has numerous private altars in the enclosures around the
walls, which are adorned with fine paintings. Near the main altar,
there is a representation of the sepulchre, made with real stones,
and roughly placed in the supposed manner of the original, and a
group of statuary, as large as life, representing the entombment.
It is so well done, that the credulous devotees who were kneeling
before it seemed to think it was reality. Near it is a representation
of Mount Calvary and the Crucifixion, not painted, but contrived to
produce a most singular effect.

In the aisle of Saint Roch, I met an English lady, and her three
daughters, whom I had seen at Boulogne. Having travelled with
the lady's husband, but not having been formally introduced, I
passed without speaking to them. The lady turned and spoke to me,
and politely invited me to call at her hotel. I mention this, as
proving that the English are not always so tenacious about formal
introductions as they have been represented.

       *       *       *       *       *

TUESDAY, 9TH.--Walked before breakfast to the Jardin des Plants,
where botanical students have the privilege of studying all the
immense variety of specimens which are there displayed, in a garden
of three-fourths of a mile long. A small hill in the centre is
surmounted by a little bronze temple, from which there is a good
prospect. On this hill are two or three _Cedars of Lebanon_, which
are esteemed very rare and valuable; it is a beautiful tree, and
quite _oriental_. Beside the plants in this establishment, there is a
menagerie, a museum of botany and natural history, etc.

Visited the gallery of the Luxembourg, which is appropriated for
paintings and sculpture by living artists. It was a rich treat. See
catalogue. The garden of the Luxembourg is a beautiful promenade, but
not equal to that of the Tuilleries. Nothing can exceed the gayety
and brilliancy of the scene in these gardens at sunset, and early in
the evening, when the thousands are enjoying the cool refreshing air,
or admiring the fountains and statues. In the Tuilleries, a sculpture
in bronze has been lately put up, representing a lion crushing a
viper or serpent. It seems to attract much attention, as being
emblematical of a strong government putting down all insurrectionary
vipers.

Visited _Notre-Dame_. The interior architecture will not compare
with that of York Minster, and other English cathedrals, but it has
a lighter and more cheerful appearance. It is abundantly decorated
with paintings, some of which are very superior. A company of priests
were chanting in the choir, in the most doleful manner imaginable.
Ascended by four hundred steps to the top of the towers, from which
there is a fine view of Paris and the environs. The clearness of
the atmosphere renders the view much better than that from Saint
Paul's. The _Palais de Justice_, where the courts, etc., are held,
is near Notre Dame, on the Ile de Cité. The Court of Cassation are
now engaged in the trial of persons lately arrested for supposed
treasonable plots. Poor Louis Phillipe! thine is a throne of thorns!
Thou darest not show thyself in public, lest thy life should be
forfeited! Who does not envy thee! And yet, I have never learned that
the king has merited these attempts on his life. The government, in
spite of some severe laws, has been as liberal as the character of
the people would justify.

The _Bibliothèque du Roi_ contains eight hundred thousand volumes,
the largest library in the world. I noticed a work on the topography,
etc., of France, alone, in two hundred and nine large folio volumes!
Connected with the library, is an immense collection of prints, and
of antique medals, cameos, gems, etc. I saw the armour of the Duke
of Sully, Henry IV., and several of the French generals; manuscript
original letters of Racine, Molière, Bossuet, Boileau, Voltaire,
Fenelon, Rousseau, etc.; manuscripts written in the third, fourth,
and fifth centuries, beautifully illuminated; manuscripts in Turkish,
Arabic, Coptic, Egyptian, etc., and paintings from the ruins of
Thebes, probably done before Christ.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE papers announced a review of the troops before the Tuilleries, by
the king, and the King of Naples, but it was changed to the Champs
Elysées, and the King of France was not present. He is said to be
very courageous himself, and it is only the urgent entreaties of
his family and his ministers which keep him so close. He wished to
have the review on the 29th, but they would not permit him. Just
as I was leaving the Garden of the Tuilleries, the king arrived in
a coach-and-six, preceded by a courier, and escorted by a party of
dragoons. He looked out of the carriage and bowed, and I had a good
opportunity to see him. The face was quite _natural_, and very much
like the prints.

This afternoon I visited one of the most curious and interesting
sights in Paris, the manufactory of the celebrated _Gobelin
Tapestry_, where those copies of the Cartoons of Raphael, exhibited
in New-York, were made. The operation appears perfectly simple, and
yet I cannot understand it. The picture to be copied is hung on
the wall behind the loom; the weaver sits with his back to it, and
works on the _back of the tapestry_. It is done entirely by hand,
and of course it is very slow work, six years being spent on one
piece. There are about ten or twelve rooms, some of them containing
two or three looms. Several of the pieces now on the looms are very
beautiful, and they are, therefore, very expensive. None but kings
and _millionaires_ can afford them. Annexed to the tapestry rooms,
there is a manufactory of carpets, of a most princely description,
uniting the thickness and durability of the Turkey carpets, with the
softness and elegance of the Wilton. The colors and patterns are
really superb. The carpets are always made in one piece. These, also,
are such as the most wealthy only can buy.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PANTHEON, once called the Church of Saint Genevieve, is a sort
of national monument. It is an elegant building, in the form of
a cross, supported within and without by Corinthian pillars. The
dome is particularly lofty and beautiful. On the walls, are four
gilt tablets, on which are inscribed the names of two hundred and
eighty-seven citizens, killed in the revolution of 1830. The crypt
is fitted for the purpose of receiving monuments of distinguished
persons. Our guide, with a lantern, escorted us to this subterranean
region, where we 'meditated among the tombs.' Suddenly he came to
a statue, and raising the lantern to the face, discovered to us
features expressing a scornful sneer, which made me start. It was a
statue of Voltaire. While there, another party came in, preceded by
the guide and lantern, and dodging every now and then from behind
the pillars of the crypt, it seemed like being in the regions of the
dead. In the evening, went to see the celebrated _Taglioni_, at the
Académie Royale de Musique, being her first appearance for some time.
The house was as full as it could be packed, and I could hardly get
a peep; but I saw such dancing as I never beheld before. It is most
appropriately called the 'poetry of motion.' Visited an exhibition
of Sevres porcelain; should like to send home a set, but it rather
exceeds my purse. _The Hotel des Invalides_, is the largest building
in Paris, if not in the world. It is an asylum for maimed and
superannuated soldiers. The chapel connected with it, and especially
the dome, is much admired, and is considered the finest thing of the
kind in Paris. The old soldiers of Napoleon are here to be seen in
their cocked hats and military dress; some with one arm, others minus
a leg. They are all well taken care of, and have nothing to do. Near
the Invalides, is the Ecole Militaire, and the Champs de Mars, where
one hundred and fifty thousand men have been paraded.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the banks of the river, facing the Place de Concord, is the
Palace of the _Chamber of Deputies_, or Palace Bourbon. The Hall of
Sitting is in the form of an amphitheatre, the seats raised above
each other. It is very elegant, and even gay, in its decorations.
The front benches are inscribed _Ministres_. The session of the
chamber does not commence till winter. We were also shown the other
apartments of the palace. Next to this is the Palace of the Legion
of Honor, and farther on is the Hotel des Monnaies, or Mint. This
afternoon, at five o'clock, stepped into an omnibus, in order to be
at Père la Chaise at sunset. It is on an eminence near the barriers
of the city. The street which leads to it was filled with women, who
were making and selling those yellow wreaths, (of which I send you a
specimen,) for the visitors to decorate the tombs of their friends.
Great numbers of these were placed on the tombs, some fresh, and
others faded and dried. The cemetery is on the same plan as that at
Mount Auburn, or rather Mount Auburn is on the plan of this. There
are no less than thirty thousand tombs here, displaying every variety
of taste and whim in the style and pattern, and filling a space of
some hundred acres, the walks through which form quite a labyrinth,
insomuch that the guides charge three francs to go through it, which
I did not choose to pay. I found the tombs of Abelard and Helöise,
Molière and La Fontaine (which are side by side, and very simple, and
covered with names of visiting scribblers,) Rousseau, La Bruyère,
La Place, (the author of Mécanique Celeste,) Moreau, Volney, (a
plain pyramid,) and several other distinguished names. Many of the
monuments are very splendid, particularly that of General Foy, and
others which I cannot recollect. The inscriptions are as various as
the monuments. Some are very simple: 'à mon père;' 'à notre cher
ami;' 'à notre petite Julie,' etc. Many of the monuments are little
chapels, with altars, candles, chairs, etc., and some even with
paintings; having an iron door, of open work, so that you can look
in and see the taste and superstition of the founder. It requires
a whole day, at least, to take even a passing view of all the
monuments. The view from the highest ground in the cemetery is very
fine.

       *       *       *       *       *

12TH. I had sent a note to Prince Czartoryski, desiring to know if it
was his pleasure that I should call on him. This morning I received
a polite and elegantly-written note, in French, saying: 'Le Prince
Czartoryski présente ses complimens à Mr. ----, et s'empresse de le
prévenir qu'il aura le plaisir de l'attendre chez soi, demain à 11 h.
dans la matinée.' Ce 10 Aöut, 1836. 25 Faubourg du Roule.'

I did not receive it till the day after that designated, but still
I went. There did not seem to be even a porter or a servant on the
premises. An old man escorted me up stairs, and knocking, the door
opened where a good looking gentleman was writing. I was at a loss to
know whether he was the prince or not, but he seemed to expect me.
'Monsieur ----?' 'Oui, Monsieur.' He escorted me to the next room,
and took my card into another. In a few minutes, a noble-looking man,
about fifty-five, came out, and taking my hand, was 'very glad to see
Mr. ----;' 'walk in;' and so I was seated on a plain gingham-covered
sofa, with the Prince Czartoryski. The apartments, furniture, etc.,
are plain almost to meanness, and the prince's pantaloons themselves
looked as if they had been washed five or six times; a fact which
I consider highly creditable to him. He has decidedly one of the
finest, noblest countenances I ever saw. It is expressive at once of
dignity, energy, and benevolence. It indicates a contempt of every
thing mean.

I must confess I felt rather awkward in this my first tête-à-tête
with a prince. It was so hard to have to say 'your highness' at
every sentence, that I finally dropped it entirely, and answered
yes, Sir, or no, Sir. He evidently expects this form, but does not
insist upon it. He inquired about the condition of his countrymen
in the United States; if they had obtained employment; if they
conducted themselves well; what gentlemen had interested themselves
for them. He had not heard of Mr. Wilder, and told his secretary to
take down his name. He asked if any association for the Poles existed
in New-York, and if one could not be formed; if the Americans were
not rather partial to Russia, and thought she had done right. This I
answered very warmly, and said that, on the contrary, our country had
watched with astonishment the conduct of the other powers of Europe
in not interfering in behalf of Poland. That the wrongs of Poland
were a favorite theme for our school-boys and school-girls.

After a conversation of half an hour or more, I took leave, the
prince inviting me very cordially to call on him when I returned to
Paris. The morning papers state that 'the government (of France)
yesterday made an application to Prince Czartoryski for three hundred
Poles to go to Spain'--for which 'party,' I did not notice.

FOOTNOTE:

[11] I am particular in the mention of these pecuniary facts,
believing that they will be useful to American readers, who may
contemplate going abroad.




LAY.


    I.

    A LAY of love!--ask the lone sea,
      For wealth its waves have closed upon--
    A song from stern Thermopylæ--
      A battle-shout from Marathon!
    Look on my brow--reveals it nought?
      It hideth deep rememberings
    Eternal as the records wrought
      Within the tombs of Egypt's kings.
             Take thou the harp! I may not sing:
               Awake the Teïan lay divine,
             Till fire from every glowing string
               Shall mingle with the flashing wine!

    II.

    The Theban lyre but to the sun
      Gave forth at morn its answering tone;
    So mine but echoed when the one,
      One sun-lit glance was o'er it thrown.
    The Memnon sounds no more!--my lyre,
      A veil upon thy strings is flung;
    I may not wake the chords of fire--
      The words which burn upon my tongue.
            Fill high the cup! I may not sing;
              My hand the crowning buds will twine:
            Pour, till the wreath I o'er it fling,
              Shall mingle with the rosy wine.

    III.

    No lay of love!--the lava stream
      Hath left its trace on heart and brain;
    No more! no more! the maddening theme
      Will wake the slumbering fires again.
    Fling back the shroud on buried years--
      Hail, to the ever blooming hours!
    We'll fill Time's glass with ruby tears,
      And twine his bald old brow with flowers.
            Fill high! fill high! I may not sing--
               Strike forth the Teïan lay divine,
            Till fire from every glowing string
               Shall mingle with the flashing wine!

                                                       IONE.




THE CHIEF OF HIS TRIBE.

A SKETCH OF THE LIFE AND TIMES OF JOHN THOMAS TUMBLER, JR.

    'AND here let me charge you, my son, that you consider
    nothing which bears the image of God beneath your notice, or
    unsusceptible of valuable lessons. The beggar imploring alms
    at your hands, the unhappy victim of vice, or the prey of evil
    passions, may speak with a voice so loud, that during your
    whole life, the monitory tones shall not wholly die away in
    your ear.'

                                            MAGNUS GONSALVA.


THE primary study of all mankind ever has been, and ever will be,
the end by which they may attain happiness. All our energy, all our
reason, and all our ingenuity, are directed to the prosecution of
this one common object; but with what success, we leave those to
answer who have grown old in the game of human life. Our existence is
commenced and continued in its pursuit. We toil in its chase, from
birth until death, with the most assiduous and unceasing application.
But do we obtain it, at last? Go ask the worn-out debauchee, or the
chartered libertine. Go ask the rich man in his castle, or the poor
man in his hut. Ask the faded beauty, or the blooming girl. Ask the
monarch, the mendicant, the world, if they have yet enjoyed one
hour of real happiness--one hour, unalloyed by the remembrance of
the past, or the fears of the future. It is, in truth, a shadow as
intangible as our own; an _ignis fatuus_ of our being. But ah! we
cannot discover this until too late. When death is about to drop the
curtain upon the closing scene of the drama of life, we may become
sensible of our error; until that moment, we are in chase of a gilded
phantom, that often drags us through paths of guilt and sin, and
repaying us nothing in the end.

Real happiness is far from being an attribute of existence. It is,
in fact, a moral impossibility that they should cöexist; and Reason
never deceives herself so much, as when she deems it is within the
pale of our enjoyment. Do we not know, by actual realization, that
the jewel for which we have labored for years, loses its value with
possession, and becomes scarce worth the purchasing? And though we
may cast it aside, recognising in some other object the El Dorado of
our hopes, does not that too, when obtained, like the fruit upon the
shores of the Dead Sea, resolve to ashes in our grasp?

We may be partially contented, but never perfectly happy; and oh! if
man but knew this, how much of sorrow and remorse would it not spare
him, when the hand of Age is heavy upon him! How much alleviation
would it not bring to the bed of sickness--how much of hope to the
departing spirit!

Yet, although it is written in the book of destiny, that the
principal aim of our lives shall be for ever perverted, it is not
to be supposed that this disappointment will render us miserable.
The evils of existence act differently upon mankind; and where you
will find one who is made unhappy by the operation of some untoward
circumstance, you will find a second whose equanimity would scarcely
be disturbed by a much more aggravated misfortune.

Among those so happily constituted as to confront adversity with
indifference, may be numbered the hero of this sketch; an individual
whose age was probably three-and-twenty, and whose name was
universally admitted to be John Thomas Tumbler, Jr., his sire bearing
the like Christian appellatives.

Mr. Tumbler, Jr., was an individual whom those in a more elevated
sphere would term a 'loafer.' Now why one body of the human family
should classify another by so impolite a distinction, may be, to the
uninitiated in the ways of the world, a matter of surprise. To us,
however, it is perfectly explicable, since it serves to carry out
one of the immutable principles of our nature, which is ----. But no
matter; we will not animadvert; for as well might the wave that foams
at the foot of Gibraltar, essay to destroy the mountain rock, as we
to change, by censure or deprecation, that gigantic and inveterate
evil.

John Thomas Tumbler, Jr. was not rich; on the contrary, he was very
poor, and, indeed, but little versed in the knowledge of the coin
of his country. But John Thomas had that opulence of feeling which
supplies the place of wealth, and which wealth itself cannot at all
times supply; that internal independence, which buoys up the spirit,
and defies adversity. In his youth, he had been industrious, and
no boy was more persevering and successful in researches for old
copper, nails, bits of lead, and such little valuables; but as he
verged into manhood, his ideas expanded, and those pursuits were
abandoned, as vocations too insignificant for one who bore the image
of the universal Creator. In fact, Mr. Tumbler, Jr. considered it
undignified to labor at all, and so determined to lead a life of ease
and relaxation.

When first our gentleman came to this resolve, he was tolerably well
attired. His coat, though thread-bare, and somewhat greasy in the
vicinity of the elbows, looked, nevertheless, partially genteel; and
though many parts of it were preserved in a state of adhesion by
divers pins, it was still without that symptom of poverty, a patch.
His breast, at this interesting period of his life, was defended from
the inclemencies of the weather, by a double-breasted velvet vest,
which had been manufactured some twenty years before for the comfort
of some corpulent citizen, and which now hung about Mr. Tumbler with
the graceful foldings of a Roman toga. Of his pantaloons and hat, we
shall say little, save that they were somewhat venerable; and of his
shirt, we can have _nothing_ to say, he having long since repudiated
that garment, as an article of dress totally superfluous.

It was customary with Mr. Tumbler, Jr., in those halcyon days, to
drop (or rather, as he expressed it, 'happen') in the coffee-houses,
at about eleven o'clock, every day, that being the hour when the
lunch was set out for customers. At such times, Mr. Tumbler was
frequently known to make some very odd mistakes, such, for example,
as drinking the liquor of some other individual, who might have been
so negligent as to put his glass down for a moment, while he helped
himself to a mouthful of the eatables. But these little errors are
incident to an absent-minded man, and might have been passed over
unnoticed, had not Mr. Tumbler, on a later occasion, been discovered
in the act of abstracting a handkerchief from the coat-pocket of a
gentleman who was standing at the bar; for which offence he was very
unceremoniously ejected from the premises, with an invitation from
the keeper to call, in future, 'once in a great while.'

Mr. Tumbler was, happily for his circumstances, not a particular man.
He dwelt any where and every where, and might justly be termed a
'promiscuous' lodger. He had, it is true, a particular stall in the
market-house, which he sometimes occupied at night; but Mr. Tumbler
had serious objections to sleeping there. 'The flies' he said, 'made
it inconwenient in the morning, and the benches was werry often left
dirty, by the negligence of the butchers:' beside, he was 'roused
out, o' market mornings, at early day-light, vich was uncommon
uncomfortable!'

He was a constant attendant upon horse-races, and the like
gatherings. He usually repaired thither with a small capital of two
or three dollars, and a 'sweat-cloth,' 'merely,' as he said, 'to
occupy his mind, and turn an honest penny or two.' He was, moreover,
an accomplished thimble-player, and would bet 'twenty-five, fifty, or
seventy-five cents, that no gentlemen could tell where the ball was!'
At a certain cock-fight, Mr. Tumbler was exceedingly vociferous in
his encouragement of a certain white bantam, engaged in the combat.

'Go it my darling!' exclaimed he, looking exultingly upon his
favorite. 'That's the way to tell it, my bully! Give it to him, my
little whitey!'

'Hurra for dat red cock!' said a colored gentleman, looking sideways
at Mr. Tumbler, in a species of defiance.

'Hurra for the white cock!' again ejaculated Mr. Tumbler.

'Hurra for de red cock!' responded his sable adversary.

'A dollar on the white cock!' exclaimed our hero.

'Done! I take dat bet!' answered the colored gentleman.

The stakes were accordingly produced, and deposited in the hands of
a gentleman of rather inelegant appearance, in a rough bell-crowned
hat, who by-the-by was one of Mr. Tumbler's particular friends.

'Hurra for the white cock!' again shouted Mr. Tumbler.

'Hurra for de red cock!' again shouted the colored gentleman.

Presently the red cock gave his white adversary a thrust with
his gaff, which put out one of his eyes, and nearly closed the
engagement. As soon as Mr. Tumbler perceived this, he thrust the
spectators aside, and going close up to the ring, he sung out: 'Hurra
for the red cock, as I said before.' 'What you hurra for _dat_ cock
for!' exclaimed Sambo; hurra for your _own_ cock, 'f you please!'

'Hurra for the red cock, as I said before!' exclaimed Mr. Tumbler,
unheeding the remark of his opponent--'Hurra for the red cock!'

At length the white cock was fairly defeated, and Mr. Tumbler turned
to the holder of the stakes, and demanded the money, which was given
him, in spite of the remonstrances of the 'gen'leman o' color,' who
claimed to have won the bet. The conduct of Mr. Tumbler in this
affair appeared certainly not very honorable; but it would be unjust
to censure him, without knowing whether or not he was in error as
to the cock he bet upon. At all events, the subsequent coldness
and self-possession which he maintained, under a strain of abuse
showered upon him by the colored gentleman, was commendable in the
extreme. He listened to it all as mildly as if it had been a glowing
eulogium upon the excellence of his character; and when the enraged
Ethiopian had finished, he turned leisurely upon his heel, and
walked away. This was perhaps one of the most striking illustrations
of Mr. Tumbler's mental superiority. It was indeed a feature of real
greatness; for he who conquers his passion, as Mr. Tumbler evidently
did, does more than he who commands armies; at least so said, I
believe, the sage Socrates; an authority which none of us moderns
have presumed to dispute.

There are many inclinations of our youth which are even strengthened
with our years; and a slight tendency to a particular object in
our boyhood, often becomes with us a passion in after life. Mr.
Tumbler had, at a very early age, evinced a particular affection for
saccharine substances, which affection had grown with his growth,
until it became a leading disposition of his character. And even
so late as the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and
thirty-seven, John Thomas Tumbler, Jr. might be often seen in the
interior of a sugar hogshead, assiduously scooping out with his
thumb-nail, and appropriating to the gratification of his palate,
such small quantities of the article as had been left by the
improvident grocer in the crevices of the staves. But, on the other
hand, there are predilections far more dangerous, which we sometimes
suddenly conceive, and of which we become totally unable to divest
ourselves. Among these evils, the greatest is undoubtedly the love of
stimulus. Mr. Tumbler at length became fond of his toddy; and from
that moment we may date his decline. There were, however, palliations
to be admitted for Mr. Tumbler--excuses which many who plunge into
the vortex of dissipation sadly lack. His was a monotonous life,
void alike of excitement, object, and interest. It was, then, a
matter of course, that he should seek artificial means to supply a
natural deficiency. In fact, this was almost necessary to existence.
But alas! the gratification of this propensity brought on his ruin;
and in the small space of six months, so complete a revolution was
effected in the appearance of our hero, that he could scarcely be
recognised as the same individual who was wont to frequent the
market-house but a very short time before.

One day he was leaning against a post, reflecting upon the expedient
he should next devise to obtain a 'horn,' when his forlorn appearance
attracted the attention of a gentleman, who stopped a moment to
observe more completely his wretchedness. John Thomas perceived this,
and thought it a moment and an opportunity not to be disregarded.
So, crossing the street, he addressed the stranger, informing him,
in moving accents, that he was 'a poor miserable cre'tur, 'at hadn't
had nothing to eat for upwards of some time, and 'at hadn't seen
a bed, for God knows when!' The stranger, in consideration of his
distressing situation, gave him a small piece of money; and the
mendicant, after satisfying himself of its value, very politely
invited his benefactor to go and take a drink with him!

It may not be amiss here, to describe the habiliments of John Thomas,
in contrast with the appearance they presented some months before.
The article which adorned his head, would not, at first sight, have
been taken for a hat. The crown and body were not as closely allied
as they had once been. The former now hung back, attached only by a
slight ligament to the latter. Interesting pieces of rim were here
and there observable; and its original color had long since been
changed to a greasy brown. His coat, the donation of some charitable
Falstaff, might have been altered to have fitted better, infinitely
better. The body hung down some three or four inches below the hips,
while the skirt, as he promenaded, almost swept the ground. The
sleeves were rolled up at the elbows, much to the prejudice of the
appearance of the lining; and the collar behind formed an admirable
barricade for the preservation of the latter part of Mr. Tumbler's
head. In truth, that gentleman himself was once heard to remark, that
'it was wastly conwenient as a pillow.' Of his vest we have already
spoken; and it needs but to add, that time had somewhat impaired
it, and that although but one button graced its ample front, it was
still a garment not to be deemed entirely valueless. His pantaloons
could not have been derived from the same source as the coat, for
they fitted him with a tightness which absolutely jeopardized them
at every movement, and gave to his person, as he moved along, the
appearance of a huge penguin. His boots were likewise very venerable,
and but for the sake of appearances, as John Thomas himself very
truly observed, he might as well be entirely bare-footed. The sole
of one of them, however, though but partially attached to the upper,
was perfect of itself; although the big toe protruded from the
breach with an obstinacy truly mortifying to the sensibility of the
wearer, who would sit upon a fire-plug, and contemplate it with that
humiliation which we are all apt to feel on similar occasions. The
sole of the other boot had 'long since vanished,' as Count Rhodolpho
sings in 'La Somnambula;' and the upper, which was immensely
capacious, would sometimes slew so far round, as to disclose to
observation the whole of his right foot. This was a matter of more
vexation to him than the imperfection of its fellow; for he was often
obliged to confine its sides with pieces of twine, in order to keep
it in its proper place; an occupation extremely irksome, and but ill
adapted to his easy propensities.

Mr. Tumbler was not only a lover of music, but was likewise a
professor of the divine art. During the delightful summer evenings,
he would sit for hours on some cellar-door, producing strains from
a jews-harp, whose melody floated enchantingly upon the air, adding
still more to the witchery of the time, and causing a secret wish
to arise, that it might be evening all the year round. There is a
sympathy in music not to be withstood; and when a particular chord
is struck, if it find a unison in human feeling, the sternest heart
must melt at its thrill. Upon a particular moonlight night, our hero
established himself upon a door-sill, and taking out his instrument,
commenced the beautiful and pathetic ballad of 'Lord Lovell and
Lady Nancy.' For a while he played on with no more interest than a
performer usually exhibits in the execution of a piece. At length,
however, he began to revert to the sorrows of the Lady Nancy, and the
tears were seen stealing, one by one, down his countenance. Thought
begat thought, and sympathy begat sympathy, until Mr. Tumbler,
overpowered by his feelings, took the jews-harp from his mouth, and
commenced sobbing like a child. For a full half hour he continued
to weep, and might have kept on for an hour longer, had not a
hard-hearted servant girl emptied a bucket of ancient soap-suds upon
him, from the third-story window. This libation at once cooled his
sorrows. Shaking the unpleasing liquid from his garments, he crossed
over to the market-house, in order to seek that repose which always
waits upon innocence and self-approbation.

We come now to one of the darkest passages of our hero's life; an
event which we chronicle with a tear; and which nothing but an
imperative sense of duty, as faithful biographers, would compel us
to narrate. There breathes not the man, no matter where you may seek
him, whose career has been, in every instance, one of purity, who can
look back upon his past life, without remembering _some_ action that
brings a feeling of remorse, and who can declare upon his honor that
he has done nothing but what has been perfectly justifiable in the
eyes of God and his fellow-men. Why then should it be expected that
Mr. Tumbler should prove an exception to all mankind? It is not to
be--it ought not to be.

Mr. Tumbler was one day passing along the street, when his attention
was arrested by a stone jug, which he observed beside an awning-post.
He stopped, looked a moment at the vessel, and then at the pavers
who were working in the street, and to whom the jug evidently
belonged. Mr. Tumbler then reflected a moment, turned about to
satisfy himself that no one observed him, picked up the jug, shook
it, reconnoitred again, hesitated an instant, and placing it under
his coat, leisurely walked on. Unfortunately, however, for his
success, the jug was missed. He was seen, suspected, pursued, caught,
and taken by the collar before his honor the mayor. That dispenser
of justice was induced to believe that he was an old offender; and
accordingly ordered his pockets to be examined. But however Mr.
Tumbler might have erred, in regard to the abstraction of the jug, he
was nevertheless innocent of other crimes of the kind; and nothing
rewarded the search, save an onion, and the fragment of a Bologna
sausage. He was, however, in consequence of the affair on hand,
imprisoned in the city gaol for the space of thirty days; which
confinement, we have been informed, he bore with the resignation of
a Christian, and the fortitude of a hero. At length he was released;
but he came out an altered man. His spirits had been broken down by
the disgrace he had suffered, and he now plunged deeper than ever
into dissipation, seeking in its excitement to drive away the memory
of the past. Happy, indeed, would it have been, had his sensibilities
been less refined; but, like the flower which shrinks from the touch,
he avoided all intercourse with his fellow-men, wrapping himself
up in the gloom of his own thoughts, neglecting his jews-harp,
neglecting himself, and neglected by the world.

Not a great while after our hero's release from incarceration, he
might have been observed strolling leisurely along the wharf, with
the manner of one who has no definite object of pursuit, and who
is willing to amuse himself with whatever the time and place might
present. As his eye rolled onward, he espied a cask, upon the head of
which was written, in large black letters, the word '_Cogniac_.' But
he little thought that fatal word was to him what the hand-writing
upon the wall had been to the mighty Belshazzar. He little thought
that the simple word 'Cogniac' was applied to him, at that moment,
in as terrible a warning as was the 'Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin!'
which foretold to the Chaldean king the destruction of his life and
empire.

He regarded the cask for a moment, and then throwing his right leg
over, he mounted it. Seating himself firmly, he looked briefly about
him. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he very deliberately drew a
large gimlet from his pocket, and commenced boring a hole in one
of the staves, gazing over the river the while, as if attracted by
some interesting object on the opposite shore. When the perforation
was complete, he returned the instrument to his pocket, and took an
additional survey of the premises. Seeing that he was not watched by
any one, he produced the end of a tin tube--manufactured expressly
for such occasions--from beneath his vest, and inserting it in the
hole, applied his mouth to the other extremity of the conductor,
which protruded from the upper part of the garment, and in this
manner commenced extracting the contents of the cask. For the space
of an hour, he remained in one position, not even stirring a limb. At
length the curiosity of a passer-by was excited by his appearance;
and going up to the cask, he was surprised to find a man, as he
thought, asleep. The stranger shook him for a moment, as if to awaken
him; and when he relaxed his grasp, our hero tumbled to the ground.
Astonished that the fall did not rouse him, the stranger stooped
down to examine his features. They were fixed and rigid. He took
his hand; it was cold as marble. He felt for his pulse; but it had
ceased for ever. To make use of a novel phrase, 'the vital spark was
extinguished.' Mr. Tumbler had gone to a land of 'pure spirits;' a
place which he often said he longed to visit; since the spirits he
was in the habit of imbibing here were generally any thing but pure.

Thus died, in the prime of life, John Thomas Tumbler, Jr., a man
whom nature had endowed with many excellent qualities, which were,
however, all perverted by one vicious and unconquerable propensity.
Under more favorable circumstances, he might have proved an ornament
to society. Avoided, on all occasions, by the respectable of his
species; treated with broad indifference, if not contumely; a subject
of jest and ridicule for every body; how can we suppose he could
burst these shackles, and soar to distinction? Emulation withered
beneath the persecution which attended him through life, and which,
we blush to say, did not cease with his death; for the papers, in
noticing his demise, merely remarked, with cruel brevity: 'A loafer
was found dead upon the wharf this morning.'




DEATH-BED REMORSE.


      HOW awful is that hour, when conscience stings
      The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears,
      Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings,
      In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years,
      And screaming like a vulture in his ears,
      Tells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame;
      How wild the fury of his soul careers!
      His swart eye flashes with intensest flame,
    And like the torture's rack, the wrestling of his frame!

                                             J. G. PERCIVAL.




LITERARY NOTICES.


    MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. By J. G. LOCKHART.
    Part Second. pp. 198. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.

IN a notice of the first part of these Memoirs, we expressed an
intention of renewing our broken intercourse with them, as they
should appear, at intervals. The publication of two additional parts
gives us ample scope for selection; and indeed this is all that a
reviewer, not inclined to iterate, or 'bestow his tediousness' upon
the reader, will be disposed to do. The pages before us are crowded
with incidents, and with characteristic sketches of the personal and
literary every-day life of their subject; and these, in themselves
abundantly attractive, are rendered still more so, as we have already
elsewhere remarked, by the pleasant style of the biographer, who will
win enduring fame by this contribution to a literature which he had
before not a little enriched.

Before entering upon our extracts, we cannot avoid remarking, that
throughout the minuter history of the illustrious poet and novelist
here presented, we are enabled to see the great secret of a literary
career, unparalleled since the era of Shakspeare, if he who wrote
for all mankind may be said to have had, or to have, an era. He
stands forth, in these volumes, a shining example to all authors
who would win a permanent hold upon the public regard. He _studied_
humanity, and the works of nature. He did not content himself with
portraying the invisible and non-existent, and with _conceiving_
scenes and personages which have no counterparts in nature or in
common life. He held rapt intercourse with the mountains, rivers,
and vales of Scotland; and he sought the teachings of those natural
instructors, the green fields. His ear was ever open to the 'silent
voice of Nature, speaking in forms and colors.' The humblest peasant
was a picture, and his qualities a study; and the lightest shade of
character, in high or low, was not beneath his scrutiny. To this
careful perception of nature, in all its forms and phases, he added
a course of reading more various and extended, we cannot doubt, than
any contemporary on the globe. But, unlike the many who lard their
lean books with the fat of other authors, he read only to digest,
and to _fuse_ his mind; hence, his resources were never exhausted,
even when he was a gray soldier in the literary field, wherein he had
borne arms so nobly and so long. How numerous the chaotic fictions,
how many the trumpery novels, how large the amount of still-born
poetry, now sunk into waste paper and oblivion, which might have been
saved to the world, had their producers but followed the example
of the author of Waverley! How much worse than useless labor might
have been saved to the thousands who, unable to inform have striven
to please, and have borne their ponderous loads into the literary
mart, and expanded them on the stalls of their hapless publishers!
We cannot but hope that, primarily, the publication of these Memoirs
will be widely beneficial to novelists and poets, and secondarily,
to the reading public; that they will improve the taste of those
authors who are content to indulge in superficialities merely; to
amuse the imagination, and convey infection to love-sick damsels,
without satisfying the judgment, or touching the heart. So mote it be!

We commence our extracts with a brief history of the Lay of the Last
Minstrel, a poem 'which has now kept its place for nearly a third of
a century:'

    "It is curious to trace the small beginnings and gradual
    development of his design. The lovely Countess of Dalkeith
    bears a wild rude legend of Border _diablerie_, and sportively
    asks him to make it the subject of a ballad. He had been
    already laboring in the elucidation of the 'quaint Inglis'
    ascribed to an ancient seer and bard of the same district,
    and perhaps completed his own sequel, intending the whole to
    be included in the third volume of the Minstrelsy. He assents
    to Lady Dalkeith's request, and casts about for some new
    variety of diction and rhyme, which might be adopted without
    impropriety in a closing strain for the same collection. Sir
    John Stoddart's casual recitation, a year or two before, of
    Coleridge's unpublished Christabel, had fixed the music of
    that noble fragment in his memory; and it occurs to him, that
    by throwing the story of Gilpin Horner into somewhat of a
    similar cadence, he might produce such an echo of the later
    metrical romance, as would serve to connect his _Conclusion_
    of the primitive Sir Tristrem with his imitations of the
    common popular ballad in the Grey Brother and Eve of St. John.
    A single scene of feudal festivity in the hall of Branksome,
    disturbed by some pranks of a nondescript goblin, was probably
    all that he contemplated; but his accidental confinement in
    the midst of a volunteer camp gave him leisure to meditate his
    theme to the sound of the bugle; and suddenly there flashes
    on him the idea of extending his simple outline, so as to
    embrace a vivid panorama of that old Border life of war and
    tumult, and all earnest passions, with which his researches
    on the 'Minstrelsy' had by degrees fed his imagination, until
    every the minutest feature had been taken home and realized
    with unconscious intenseness of sympathy; so that he had won
    for himself in the past another world, hardly less complete
    or familiar than the present. Erskine or Cranstoun suggests
    that he would do well to divide the poem into cantos, and
    prefix to each of them a motto explanatory of the action,
    after the fashion of Spenser in the Faëry Queen. He pauses for
    a moment--and the happiest conception of the frame-work of
    a picturesque narrative that ever occurred to any poet--one
    that Homer might have envied--the creation of the ancient
    harper, starts to life. By such steps did the 'Lay of the Last
    Minstrel' grow out of the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.'

    "A word more of its felicitous machinery. It was at Bowhill
    that the Countess of Dalkeith requested a ballad on Gilpin
    Horner. The ruined castle of Newark closely adjoins that seat,
    and is now indeed included within its _pleasance_. Newark had
    been the chosen residence of the first Duchess of Buccleuch,
    and he accordingly shadows out his own beautiful friend in the
    person of her lord's ancestress, the last of the original stock
    of that great house; himself the favored inmate of Bowhill,
    introduced certainly to the familiarity of its circle in
    consequence of his devotion to the poetry of a by-past age, in
    that of an aged minstrel, 'the last of all the race,' seeking
    shelter at the gate of Newark, in days when many an adherent of
    the fallen cause of Stewart--his own bearded ancestor, _who had
    fought at Killiekrankie_, among the rest--owed their safety to
    her who

        'In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
        Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.'"

The profits, to Scott, from the several editions of this poem were
£769. The sales are given as follows:

    "The first edition of the Lay was a magnificent quarto, 750
    copies; but this was soon exhausted, and there followed an
    octavo impression of 1500; in 1806, two more, one of 2000
    copies, another of 2550; in 1807, a fifth edition of 2000,
    and a sixth of 3000; in 1803, 3550; in 1809, 3000--a small
    edition in quarto (the ballads and lyrical pieces being
    then annexed to it,) and another octavo edition of 3250; in
    1811, 3000; in 1812, 3000; in 1816, 3000; in 1823, 1000. A
    fourteenth impression of 2000 foolscap appeared in 1825; and
    besides all this, before the end of 1836, 11,000 copies had
    gone forth in the collected editions of his poetical works.
    Thus, nearly forty-four thousand copies had been disposed of
    in this country, and by the legitimate trade alone, before he
    superintended the edition of 1830, to which his biographical
    introductions were prefixed. In the history of British Poetry,
    nothing had ever equalled the demand for the Lay of the Last
    Minstrel."

Subsequently to a very interesting account of Scott's partnership
with Ballantine, and of his entering actively upon numerous literary
projects--including his editions of the British poets, Ancient
English Chronicles, Dryden, commencement of Waverley, etc.,--we find
the following account of his personal habits of industry:

    "He rose by five o'clock, lit his own fire, when the
    season required one, and shaved and dressed with great
    deliberation--for he was a very martinet as to all but the
    mere coxcomberies of the toilet, not abhorring effeminate
    dandyism itself so cordially as the slightest approach to
    personal slovenliness, or even those 'bed-gown and slipper
    tricks,' as he called them, in which literary men are so apt
    to indulge. Arrayed in his shooting-jacket, or whatever dress
    he meant to use till dinner time, he was seated at his desk by
    six o'clock, all his papers arranged before him in the most
    accurate order, and his books of reference marshalled around
    him on the floor, while at least one favorite dog lay watching
    his eye, just beyond the line of circumvallation. Thus, by the
    time the family assembled for breakfast between nine and ten,
    he had done enough (in his own language) '_to break the neck
    of the day's work_.' After breakfast, a couple of hours more
    were given to his solitary tasks, and by noon he was, as he
    used to say, 'his own man.' When the weather was bad, he would
    labor incessantly all the morning; but the general rule was to
    be out and on horseback by one o'clock at the latest; while,
    if any more distant excursion had been proposed over night, he
    was ready to start on it by ten; his occasional rainy days of
    unintermitted study forming, as he said, a fund in his favor,
    out of which he was entitled to draw for accommodation whenever
    the sun shone with special brightness.

    "It was another rule, that every letter he received should
    be answered that same day. Nothing else could have enabled
    him to keep abreast with the flood of communications that
    in the sequel put his good nature to the severest test; but
    already the demands on him in this way also were numerous; and
    he included attention to them among the necessary business
    which must be despatched before he had a right to close
    his writing-box, or, as he phrased it, 'to say _out damned
    spot_, and be a gentleman.' In turning over his enormous
    mass of correspondence, I have almost invariably found some
    indication that, when a letter had remained more than a day or
    two unanswered, it had been so because he found occasion for
    inquiry or deliberate consideration."

In illustration of the correctness of the remarks which introduce
these extracts, we give the following passage from a letter of an
early friend of Scott to his biographer. It is unnecessary to say,
that it is kindred with numerous others which might be selected:

    "One of our earliest expeditions was to visit the wild scenery
    of the mountainous tract above Moffat, including the cascade of
    the 'Gray Mare's Tail,' and the dark tarn called 'Loch Skene.'
    In our ascent to the lake, we got completely bewildered in the
    thick fog which generally envelopes the rugged features of
    that lonely region; and, as we were groping through the maze
    of bogs, the ground gave way, and down went horse and horsemen
    pell-mell into a slough of peaty mud and black water, out of
    which, entangled as we were with our plaids and floundering
    nags, it was no easy matter to get extricated. Indeed, unless
    we had prudently left our gallant steeds at a farm-house below,
    and borrowed hill ponies for the occasion, the result might
    have been worse than laughable. As it was, we rose like the
    spirits of the bog, covered _cap-à-pie_ with slime, to free
    themselves from which, our wily ponies took to rolling about
    on the heather, and we had nothing for it but following their
    example. At length, as we approached the gloomy loch, a huge
    eagle heaved himself from the margin and rose right over us,
    screaming his scorn of the intruders; and altogether it would
    be impossible to picture any thing more desolately savage
    than the scene which opened, as if raised by enchantment on
    purpose to gratify the poet's eye; thick folds of fog rolling
    incessantly over the face of the inky waters, but rent asunder
    now in one direction, and then in another--so as to afford us
    a glimpse of some projecting rock or naked point of land, or
    island, bearing a few scraggy stumps of pine--and then closing
    again in universal darkness upon the cheerless waste. Much of
    the scenery of Old Mortality was drawn from that day's ride.

    "It was also in the course of this excursion that we
    encountered that amusing personage introduced into Guy
    Mannering as 'Tod Gabbie,' though the appellation by which he
    was known in the neighborhood was 'Tod Willie.' He was one of
    these itinerants who gain a subsistence among the moorland
    farmers by relieving them of foxes, pole-cats, and the like
    depredators--a half-witted, stuttering, and most original
    creature."

The subjoined extract will serve to show the great humility with
which Scott bore his literary honors, at a time when he was
beleaguered by the importunities of fashionable admirers. His
bearing, says Mr. Lockhart, when first exposed to such influences,
was exactly what it was to the end. The Border Minstrel is writing
from London, whither he had proceeded upon business connected with an
important prospective situation as Clerk of the Edinburgh Sessions,
a lucrative and desirable station:

    "It will give you pleasure to learn that, notwithstanding
    some little rubs, I have been able to carry through the
    transaction which your lordship sanctioned by your influence
    and approbation, and that in a way very pleasing to my own
    feelings. Lord Spencer, upon the nature of the transaction
    being explained in an audience with which he favored me, was
    pleased to direct the commission to be issued, as an act
    of justice, regretting, he said, it had not been from the
    beginning his own deed. This was doing the thing handsomely,
    and like an English nobleman. I have been very much fêted and
    caressed here, almost indeed to suffocation, but have been made
    amends by meeting some old friends. One of the kindest was Lord
    Somerville, who volunteered introducing me to Lord Spencer,
    as much, I am convinced, from respect to your lordship's
    protection and wishes, as from a desire to serve me personally.
    He seemed very anxious to do any thing in his power which might
    evince a wish to be of use to your protegé. Lord Minto was also
    infinitely kind and active, and his influence with Lord Spencer
    would, I am convinced, have been stretched to the utmost in
    my favor, had not Lord Spencer's own view of the subject been
    perfectly sufficient.

    "After all, a little literary reputation is of some use here.
    I suppose Solomon, when he compared a good name to a pot of
    ointment, meant that it oiled the hinges of the hall-doors into
    which the possessors of that inestimable treasure wished to
    penetrate. What a _good_ name was in Jerusalem, a _known_ name
    seems to be in London. If you are celebrated for writing verses
    or for slicing cucumbers, for being two feet taller or two feet
    less than any other biped, for acting plays when you should be
    whipped at school, or for attending schools and institutions
    when you should be preparing for your grave, your notoriety
    becomes a talisman--'an Open Sesame' before which every thing
    gives way--till you are voted a bore, and discarded for a new
    plaything. As this is a consummation of notoriety which I am by
    no means ambitious of experiencing, I hope I shall be very soon
    able to shape my course northward, to enjoy my good fortune at
    my leisure."

Elsewhere, a friend thus describes his bearing, in the presence of
his London entertainers:

    "'Scott,' his friend says, 'more correctly than any other
    man I ever knew, appreciated the value of that apparently
    enthusiastic _engouement_ which the world of London shows to
    the fashionable wonder of the year. During the sojourn of 1809,
    the homage paid him would have turned the head of any less
    gifted man of eminence. It neither altered his opinions, nor
    produced the affectation of despising it; on the contrary, he
    received it, cultivated it, and repaid it in his own coin. 'All
    this is very flattering,' he would say, 'and very civil; and if
    people are amused with hearing me tell a parcel of old stories,
    or recite a pack of ballads to lovely young girls and gaping
    matrons, they are easily pleased, and a man would be very
    ill-natured who would not give pleasure so cheaply conferred.'
    If he dined with us, and found any new faces, 'Well, do you
    want me to play lion to-day?' was his usual question; 'I will
    roar, if you like it, to your heart's content.' He would,
    indeed, in such cases, put forth all his inimitable powers
    of entertainment; and day after day surprised me by their
    unexpected extent and variety. Then, as the party dwindled, and
    we were left alone, he laughed at himself, quoted, 'Yet know
    that I one Snug the joiner am--no lion fierce,' etc.,--and was
    at once himself again.

    "He often lamented the injurious effects for literature and
    genius resulting from the influence of London celebrity on
    weaker minds, especially in the excitement of ambition for this
    subordinate and ephemeral _reputation du salon_. 'It may be a
    pleasant gale to sail with,' he said, 'but it never yet led to
    a port that I should like to anchor in.'"

In relation to the delightful introductory epistles to Marmion, we
find the following:

    "He frequently wandered far from home, attended only by
    his dog, and would return late in the evening, having let
    hours after hours slip away among the soft and melancholy
    wildernesses where Yarrow creeps from her fountains. The lines,

        'Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,
        By lone Saint Mary's silent lake,' &c.

    paint a scene not less impressive than what Byron found amidst
    the gigantic pines of the forest of Ravenna; and how completely
    does he set himself before us in the moment of his gentler and
    more solemn inspiration, by the closing couplet,

        'Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
        So stilly is the solitude.'

    But when the theme was of a more stirring order, he enjoyed
    pursuing it over brake and fell, at the full speed of his
    _Lieutenant_. I well remember his saying, as I rode with him
    across the hills from Ashestiel to Newark one day in his
    declining years: 'Oh, man, I had many a grand gallop among
    these braes when I was thinking of Marmion, but a trotting
    canny pony must serve me now.' His friend, Mr. Skene, however,
    informs me, that many of the more energetic descriptions, and
    particularly that of the battle of Flodden, were struck out
    while he was in quarters again with his cavalry, in the autumn
    of 1807. 'In the intervals of drilling,' he says, 'Scott used
    to delight in walking his powerful black steed up and down
    by himself upon the Portobello sands, within the beating of
    the surge; and now and then you would see him plunge in his
    spurs and go off as if at the charge, with the spray dashing
    about him.' As we rode back to Musselburgh, he often came and
    placed himself beside me to repeat the verses that he had been
    composing during these pauses of our exercise."

We should be glad to follow the biographer through his account of
the production of 'Marmion,' and to present some of the numerous
criticisms which were received from the various personal friends
of the author. Our space, however, will not permit. The popularity
of the poem may be estimated from the fact, that more than fifty
thousand copies of the work were subsequently sold in Great Britain
alone.

Scott's personal appearance, at this period, is thus described by
Miss Seward:

    "'On Friday last,' she says, 'the poetically great Walter Scott
    came 'like a sun-beam to my dwelling.' This proudest boast of
    the Caledonian muse is tall, and rather robust than slender,
    but lame in the same manner as Mr. Hayley, and in a greater
    measure. Neither the contour of his face, nor yet his features,
    are elegant; his complexion healthy, and somewhat fair, without
    bloom. We find the singularity of brown hair and eye-lashes,
    with flaxen eyebrows, and a countenance open, ingenuous, and
    benevolent. When seriously conversing, or earnestly attentive,
    though his eyes are rather of a lightish gray, deep thought
    is on their lids; he contracts his brow, and the rays of
    genius gleam aslant from the orbs beneath them. An upper lip
    too long prevents his mouth from being decidedly handsome;
    but the sweetest emanations of temper and heart play about
    it, when he talks cheerfully, or smiles; and in company, he
    is much oftener gay than contemplative. His conversation--an
    overflowing fountain of brilliant wit, apposite allusion, and
    playful archness--while on serious themes it is nervous and
    eloquent; the accent decidedly Scotch, yet by no means broad.
    On the whole, no expectation is disappointed which his poetry
    must excite in all who feel the power and graces of human
    inspiration."

We pass the details of his extraordinary literary labors and
successes, to present two or three extracts, which serve to show
us the _man_. A friend of the biographer's thus compares Scott and
Jeffrey, whom he met at a dinner-party in Edinburgh:

    "'There were,' he says, 'only a few people besides the two
    lions--and assuredly I have seldom passed a more agreeable day.
    A thousand subjects of literature, antiquities, and manners
    were started; and much was I struck, as you may well suppose,
    by the extent, correctness, discrimination, and accuracy of
    Jeffrey's information; equally so with his taste, acuteness,
    and wit in dissecting every book, author, and story that
    came in our way. Nothing could surpass the variety of his
    knowledge, but the easy rapidity of his manner of producing
    it. He was then in his meridian. Scott delighted to draw him
    out, delighted also to talk himself, and displayed, I think,
    even a larger range of anecdote and illustration; remembering
    every thing, whether true or false, that was characteristic
    or impressive; every thing that was good, or lovely, or
    lively. It struck me that there was this great difference:
    Jeffrey, for the most part, entertained us, when books were
    under discussion, with the detection of faults, blunders,
    absurdities, or plagiarisms. Scott took up the matter where
    he left it, recalled some compensating beauty or excellence
    for which no credit had been allowed, and by the recitation,
    perhaps, of one fine stanza, set the poor victim on his legs
    again."

Here is a picture of his fine feeling of domestic attachment:

    "Mr. and Mrs. Morritt reached Edinburgh soon after this letter
    was written. Scott showed them the lions of the town and its
    vicinity, exactly as if he had nothing else to attend to but
    their gratification; and Mr. Morritt recollects with particular
    pleasure one long day spent in rambling along the Esk by Roslin
    and Hawthornden,

        'Where Johnson sat in Drummond's social shade,'

    down to the old haunts of Lasswade."

    "'When we approached that village,' says the memorandum with
    which Mr. Morritt favors me, 'Scott, who had laid hold of my
    arm, turned along the road in a direction not leading to the
    place where the carriage was to meet us. After walking some
    minutes towards Edinburgh, I suggested that we were losing the
    scenery of the Esk, and, besides, had Dalkeith Palace yet to
    see. 'Yes,' said he, 'and I have been bringing you where there
    is little enough to be seen--only that Scotch cottage' (one
    by the road side, with a small garth); 'but, though not worth
    looking at, I could not pass it. It was our first country-house
    when newly married, and many a contrivance we had to make it
    comfortable. I made a dining-table for it with my own hands.
    Look at those two miserable willow-trees on either side the
    gate into the enclosure: they are tied together at the top to
    be an arch, and a cross made of two sticks over them is not
    yet decayed. To be sure it is not much of a lion to show a
    stranger; but I wanted to see it again myself, for I assure
    you that after I had constructed it, _mamma_ (Mrs. Scott)
    and I both of us thought it so fine, we turned out to see it
    by moonlight, and walked backwards from it to the door, in
    admiration of our own magnificence and its picturesque effect.
    I did want to see if it was still there: so now we will look
    after the barouche, and make the best of our way to Dalkeith.'
    Such were the natural feelings that endeared the Author of
    Marmion and the Lay to those who 'saw him in his happier hours
    of social pleasure.'"

A brief paragraph or two, descriptive of Scott's feelings when he
first called the now classic grounds of Abbotsford his own, must
close our quotations for the present:

    "As my lease of this place is out, I have bought, for about
    4000 pounds, a property in the neighborhood, extending along
    the banks of the river Tweed for about half a mile. It is
    very bleak at present, having little to recommend it but the
    vicinity of the river; but as the ground is well adapted by
    nature to grow wood, and is considerably various in form and
    appearance, I have no doubt that by judicious plantations it
    may be rendered a very pleasant spot; and it is at present
    my great amusement to plan the various lines which may be
    necessary for that purpose. The farm comprehends about a
    hundred acres, of which I shall keep fifty in pasture and
    tillage, and plant all the rest, which will be a very valuable
    little possession in a few years, as wood bears a high price
    among us. I intend building a small cottage for my summer
    abode, being obliged by law, as well as induced by inclination,
    to make this country my residence for some months every year.
    This is the greatest incident which has lately taken place in
    our domestic concerns; and I assure you we are not a little
    proud of being greeted as _laird_ and _lady_ of _Abbotsford_.
    We will give a grand gala when we take possession of it, and
    as we are very _clannish_ in this corner, all the Scots in the
    country, from the duke to the peasant, shall dance on the green
    to the bagpipes, and drink whiskey-punch." * * * "The same week
    he says to Joanna Baillie: 'My dreams about my cottage go on;
    of about a hundred acres I have manfully resolved to plant from
    sixty to seventy; as to my scale of dwelling, why, you shall
    see my plan when I have adjusted it. My present intention is
    to have only two spare bed-rooms, with dressing-rooms, each
    of which will, on a pinch, have a couch-bed; but I cannot
    relinquish my Border principle of accommodating all the cousins
    and _duniwastles_, who will rather sleep on chairs, and on
    the floor, and in the hay-loft, than be absent when folks are
    gathered together; and truly I used to think Ashestiel was very
    much like the tent of Paribanou, in the Arabian Nights, that
    suited alike all numbers of company equally; ten people fill it
    at any time, and I remember its lodging thirty-two without any
    complaint."

Speaking of a species of his visitors at this time--'the go-about
folks, who generally pay their score one way or other'--he says:

    "I never heard of a stranger that utterly baffled all
    efforts to engage him in conversation, excepting one whom an
    acquaintance of mine met in a stage-coach. My friend, who
    piqued himself on his talents for conversation, assailed this
    tortoise on all hands, but in vain, and at length descended to
    expostulation. 'I have talked to you, my friend, on all the
    ordinary subjects--literature, farming, merchandise--gaming,
    game-laws, horse-races--suits at law--politics, and swindling,
    and blasphemy, and philosophy; is there any one subject that
    you will favor me by opening upon?' The wight writhed his
    countenance into a grin: 'Sir,' said he, 'can you say any thing
    clever about _bend-leather_?' There, I own, I should have
    been as much nonplussed as my acquaintance; but upon any less
    abstruse subject, I think, in general, something may be made
    of a stranger, worthy of his clean sheets, and beef-steak, and
    glass of port."

We shall resume our notice of these admirable Memoirs, as they appear
in the successive 'parts' of the American edition. 'Part Four' is in
course of publication, and will soon be issued.




EDITORS' TABLE.


'SISTE 'VIATOR!'--But a little while ago, we published in these pages
a brief tribute to the memory of a gifted and distinguished female
contributor to the poetical department of this Magazine; and it now
becomes our painful duty to record the recent demise of another child
of song, with whom our readers have not unfrequently held pleasant
communion. We gather from a letter before us, from an attentive
literary friend, now in Massachusetts, that J. HUNTINGTON BRIGHT,
ESQ. died recently at Manchester, (Miss.,) at the early age of
thirty-three. He was the only son of JONATHAN BRIGHT, ESQ., of Salem,
(Mass.) Early in life he came to this city, where he resided until
the death of his parents, when he removed to Albany, and subsequently
to Norfolk, (Va.,) where he married. Last autumn he sailed for
New-Orleans; and, soon after his arrival, was induced to ascend the
Mississippi, to take part in an important mercantile interest at
Manchester, a new town, hewn but recently from the forest. Here,
undue exposure to the night air brought on the fever of the country;
and in this cheerless frontier region, away from his kindred and
friends, after an illness of a few hours, he yielded up his gentle
spirit. There is an irrepressible melancholy in the thought, that one
so open to all the tender influences of affection, should breathe
his last far from the endearments of home, and lay his bones among
strangers. Yet, to adopt a stanza of a charming fragment written by
him for the KNICKERBOCKER:

    'Yet it matters not much, when the bloom is fled,
      And the light is gone from the lustrous eye,
    And the sensitive heart is cold and dead,
      Where the mouldering ashes are left to lie:
    It matters not much, if the soaring mind,
      Like the flower's perfume, is exhaled to heaven,
    That its earthly shroud should be cast behind,
      To decay, wherever a place is given.'

Mr. BRIGHT, under the signature of 'VIATOR,' has contributed many
gems of pure feeling, imbued with the true spirit of poetry, to the
fugitive literature of the day. The 'Albany Argus' gave to the world
many of his choicest effusions, previous to his appearance before our
readers. Of his later efforts, it is unnecessary to speak. They will
recommend themselves to every affectionate and sympathetic heart, not
less by the graces of composition, than the spirit which pervades
them. When the depressing influences which have so seriously affected
the book-market shall cease to be operative, we hope to see a volume
of poetry collated from the literary remains of Mr. BRIGHT; and we
cannot doubt that it will be well received by the public at large,
as it will certainly be most acceptable to his numerous friends and
admirers.

We are confident that Mr. BRIGHT was capable of even higher and more
sustained flights than characterize any of the fine productions
which he has given to the public. There was promise of _varied_
endowments, too, of which we had scarcely deemed him possessed. Parts
of the 'Vision of Death,' published in these pages, would have done
no discredit to our best poets. The reader will recall its wild,
German-like air, from the opening stanzas:

    'The moon rode high in the Autumn sky,
      The stars waned cold and dim,
    While hoarsely the mighty Oregon
      Pealed his eternal hymn;
    And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads
      Far over the river's brim.

    'An impulse I might not defy,
      Constrained my footsteps there;
    When through the gloom a red eye burned
      With a fixed and steady glare,
    And a huge misshapen form of mist
      Loom'd in the midnight air.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Upon what tender filaments the fabric of existence hangs! Death, an
unseen spectre, walked by the far-travelling poet's side; and when
he deemed the journey of life but just begun, '_Siste Viator!_' rang
in his dying ear. Well did Sir Thomas Browne exclaim, 'Our life is
indeed but short, a very dream; and while we look about, eternity is
at hand!'

Mr. BRIGHT has left an amiable and accomplished wife, with two
pledges of an affectionate union. May the blessing of the widow and
the fatherless be theirs, in full fruition!--and may consolation in
bereavement be found in the reflection, that, to use the beautiful
language of the dear departed,

    'Though his bowed head be with Death's blossoms decked,
    Warm in the smile of God his spirit walks erect.'


THE DEBUT OF MISS HILDRETH.

    'And smooth success be strew'd before thy feet.'--ANTONY AND
    CLEOPATRA.

AT the close of the late summer season, at the Park Theatre, a young
lady from Massachusetts, of about the age of eighteen years, made her
'first appearance on any stage,' as the play-bills phrase it, in the
character of 'The Wife of Mantua.'

We learn from authentic sources, that this was by no means the
ordinary case of a stage-struck-heroine, gratifying a long-indulged
desire to dash upon the boards, with the fond anticipation of
achieving immortal renown at a stroke. Nor was it necessity which
drove the _débutante_ to the choice of a profession, in which every
department is so full of toil, and often of unrequited labor and
suffering. Of good family, and having an excellent education, she
was early smitten with the love of poetry, especially that of the
better and the elder bards; and contracted a habit of reading aloud,
which developed, gradually, the talent of expressive and forcible
recitation, to a degree which astonished and deeply interested her
friends. This talent, strengthened with her increasing knowledge of
books and its exercise, led her to think of the histrionic profession
as one congenial with her feelings, and enabling her to give such
utterance to her appreciations of her favorite poets, as would
gratify her own ambition, and that of her friends for her. But of the
stage she knew literally nothing, even when this idea found a place
in her imagination. She had seen only two or three plays performed,
and had gleaned no lessons in the art from any fields but those of
her own mind and fancy; and from these, we are happy to predict, she
will yet reap an abundant harvest of success and renown.

Having taken some lessons in 'stage business' of one of the most
accomplished actresses on the Park boards, and recited some passages,
as a specimen of her powers, in the presence of the manager, she was
permitted a trial, and chose the night of Mr. Chippendale's Benefit
for her _début_. She had never seen the character she was to appear
in performed, and never fully rehearsed the part, until the very
day she came out: and even then, it was hastily rehearsed, and with
reference less to the language than the positions, attitudes, etc.,
of the different characters. Thus, and thus only prepared, she came
before a crowded house, to make her first attempt.

Her fine figure, expressive face, and tasteful attire, joined with
her modest mien, and graceful, dignified carriage, struck the
audience very favorably, and she was received with cheering applause.
Soon, to these recommendations she added a clear, distinct and
well-modulated voice, the first articulations of which, though low
and somewhat timidly tremulous, proved the signal for a repetition of
the plaudits of the audience. As the play proceeded, she gained more
confidence, though still somewhat constrained, as was quite obvious,
by the novelty of her situation, and soon began to give abundant
evidence of her right to claim still higher praise, in the fine
appreciation of the character she was personating, and in the truth
to nature which marked her readings.

Miss Hildreth's performance of Marianna was of course purely an
original one. She had been no play-goer, had seen no acting of any
consequence, and had never witnessed the representation of 'The
Wife.' Her faults were only those which the judicious advice of
experienced friends, added to careful study, and a close but not
servile observation of good models, will be found fully adequate to
remove. These are simply, ignorance of stage-business, and of the
magic art of by-play, a knowledge of which comes slowly, with the
gradual growth of confidence, and that experience of the stage which
a long acquaintance with it gives, and which enables the histrion to
think not of the audience, but of the character he is personating. In
her perfect understanding of the language set down for her, in the
appropriateness of her gesticulation, attitudes, and articulation,
while actually reading her own part, she evinced the possession of
all the primary and fundamental materials of an actress of the first
order; and she has only to work them judiciously, to convince the
world, ere long, that ours has not been an erroneous estimate of her
abilities.

A contemporary critic has objected to Miss Hildreth's performance
of 'Marianna,' that she stood with her arms by her side until her
cue was given, when, he concedes, she went through the part allotted
to her creditably. This objection, it will be seen, refers to her
'by-play.' We have already touched on this point; and in support of
the criticism, would instance the interview of 'Marianna' with St.
Pierre, when they discourse of their own native Switzerland. There
was none of that exquisite aside-play, (so to speak,) representing
the enthusiastic interest which the Swiss girl is supposed to feel
in the eloquent descant of her countryman upon its beauties; a
feature which gives such a fascinating charm to the personation of
the character by Ellen Tree. And was this to be expected, under the
circumstances? The whole scene was new to the young _débutante_. Like
ourselves, she too was a looker-on, during that beautiful apostrophe,
(never better uttered than then, by Charles Mason,) and in short, was
interested, as we were, in all the progress of 'the swelling act;'
seemingly forgetting that she was to act while he was acting, and
listening even as we were listening, until her cue was given; and
then, wherein did she fail?

Certainly, not in the modest yet firm narration of her love-prompted
journey from her mountain-home to Mantua, nor in the trial scene
before the usurping duke, when, to save herself from brutal
violation, she awes the assembled court by threatening 'the slightest
motion of her little hand,' as it held the poisoned vial to her lips.
Nor in the scenes with her confessor, when she so indignantly spurns
the imputation of disloyalty to her lord, and creeps, child-like, to
crave accustomed kindness from her ghostly friend, whose mind has
been poisoned by a villain's arts against her; nor in the interview
with St. Pierre, while she is giving utterance to the heart-felt
joy which fills her bosom upon meeting with her countryman; nor,
lastly, in the camp scene, where she so nobly refuses to go back
to the trusting bosom of her lord, until he had proved that trust
well-founded. We might give more particular citations of natural
and striking points in her performance of all these scenes, but we
forbear. Certainly, we repeat, in none of these was there aught that
looked like failure, so far as her reading and action were concerned;
and in this opinion we are confirmed by the concurrent testimony
of many of the most distinguished members of the profession, who
witnessed the début.

With great confidence, then, do we predict a brilliant career for
this young lady, in the profession she has adopted, if she be only
true to herself, and uses aright the talents she possesses. Careful
study, observation, experience, and 'careful study,' after all, and
with all the rest, will realize the fondest hopes of her friends, and
the proudest of her own most ambitious anticipations.

                                                    J. F. O.


PARK THEATRE.--If an exception to the influence of that mighty
incubus which has borne so heavily upon all trades, business,
corporations, and professions, were demanded, the Park Theatre, in
its undisturbed prosperity, would be selected as the most prominent.
Whether from their old love of the drama, or from a desire to
divert their thoughts from the misery that surrounded them without,
they have sought a refuge in the gay illusions of the mimic scene
within, the theatre has, through the entire period of this pecuniary
pestilence, met with constant support from a suffering public. And
it is well that such has been the case. It is far better that the
mind, depressed with care, and racked with continued anxiety, should
seek, in such rational recreation as the Theatre affords, a healthy
relief, than by shutting out, in gloomy despondency, all amusement
or relaxation, make its great grief to grow by what it feeds upon.
Varied attractions have, during the past season, followed each other
in quick succession. Bright and particular stars have shot their
glories across the theatrical horizon, to the wonder of many, and the
admiration of all. New plays, of every variety of the drama, have
been brought forward, some to receive the stamp of approval, and
others of condemnation. Débutantes have strutted their hour, some
giving promise of growing excellence, and others of quick oblivion.
So far, so good. The establishment has been growing rich, and the
public have been satisfied with these _prominent_ evidences of its
desire to maintain its old renown.

It would be well, if it were in our power, in looking back upon the
past season, to find that _all_ things had been done, which justice
requires to be done, by an establishment so flourishing as the Park
Theatre. But unluckily, there is more left undone, than any excuse
which the management can produce can palliate. We can affirm, without
fear of contradiction, that there is no theatre in the world, whose
immediate support, from the _public_, can bear comparison with the
Park Theatre. No theatre in this country, it is well known, pretends
to boast of the immense and constant patronage of the Park. The
successive bankruptcies of almost every manager who has attempted to
direct the concerns of the principal English theatres, is notorious,
and is quite sufficient proof of their want of support from the
public; and among the uncounted and uncountable theatres of the
gayest and most theatrical nation in the world, those that depend
upon their superior attractions for their great names, depend also
upon government for their principal support. In Germany, there is the
same dependence; and in Italy, the land of song, the very hot-bed
of musical genius, opera itself does not find its support in the
public alone, but is fostered and encouraged, both by the civil and
ecclesiastical authorities. Such being the enviable situation of the
Park Theatre, it is no more than reasonable to expect from it a just
acknowledgment of its incomparable obligations, in the _perfection_
of every thing belonging to its management and direction. A very
brief examination of its present qualifications, will show whether
or not this acknowledgment has been, or is likely to be, promptly
awarded. There is in the stock company of this theatre, _one_ good
comedian, unequalled in America, we _know_, and unexcelled in any
other country, we _believe_; one comic actress, without a superior,
in the characters of the veteran dowagers, venerable and doting
nurses, ancient spinsters, and old women generally; one tolerable
_farceur_, who would be a comedian, if he would be content to be
natural, and had a sufficient knowledge of the eccentricities of
character to be aware that extravagance is not _always_ their
prominent trait. One second comedian for old men, country-clowns,
talkative, officious servants, such as _Pedro_, in 'Cinderella;' one
'actress of all work,' especially good in chambermaids, and never
bad in any thing which the paucity of talent among the ladies of
this company _obliges_ her to undertake; two good light comedians,
one of them always sufficient for second characters in tragedy, and
the other particularly effective in the heavy villains of opera
and melodrama; one interesting and sensible actress for the ladies
of comedy, and never at fault as a hoyden, or the spoilt miss of a
boarding-school;[12] one third-rate singer among the men; one 'ditto
ditto' among the women; one infatuated youth, whose pretty face is
regularly disfigured with the paint that goes to make up the faces
of 'scape-grace nephews' or interesting 'lovers' in sentimental
farces; one good reader, who plays second parts in tragedy; one bad
reader, and worse actor, who rolls though Shakspeare and Sheridan
with equal effect; one man who does the dukes, and plays the kings,
because he is _fat_; these, with sundry female chorus-singers, who
appear constantly as 'walking ladies,' and do occasionally a bit of
heavy business in tragedy, and several individual supernumeraries,
who are constantly sent on as 'gentlemen,' and being so addressed
by the other characters, endeavor, by all sorts of awkward
graces, to stultify the audience into the belief that they _are_
so--these, and these alone, constitute the stock-company of the most
liberally-supported metropolitan theatre in the world! Ask where is
its single tragedian, either male or female; its duplicate comedian;
its additional actor or actress, of any character; its capacity, in
short, to enact any one tragedy or comedy in all its parts, and 'echo
answers where!' And to _manage_ this inefficient company, seek for
the 'stage-manager,' and if we are not mistaken, he will be found
among the things 'that were, but are not.' There are the materials
in this city alone, sufficient to furnish forth a _corps dramatique_
worthy of the Park Theatre. We have shown that the company _needs_
replenishing, and it should be so replenished that every character
in the drama might have a fitting representative. As the company at
present exists, its best members do double duty; playing both tragedy
and comedy, as dire necessity requires; while its subordinates are
constantly forced into characters utterly beyond their ability even
to comprehend, and to shape them even into an outward resemblance
of which, all the efforts of tailors and stage-dressers must prove
totally abortive. It is not proper that Mr. JOHN MASON should play
both _Macbeth_ and _Jeremy Diddler_, unless for his own amusement. It
is not reasonable, that the same person who officiates as tragedian,
should be compelled, after 'doing the terrible' in a five-act
tragedy, to assist in executing the comicalities of a broad farce;
nor is it more in keeping with the illusion of theatrical displays,
that the identical lady who does the 'heavy business' of tragedy,
should throw aside her robes of dignity, and immediately thereafter
come tripping on in the after-piece, as a coquettish chambermaid.
Yet such incongruities have been repeatedly practised, and must of
necessity continue to be so, until the management see fit to supply
their establishment with a full complement of forces.

There are many other things which need reform. The 'wardrobe wants
replenishing.' The orchestra needs both addition and subtraction, as
well as the company on the stage. The police are worse than useless;
being notorious for creating more disturbance than they ever quell.
When all these matters are brought to their just propriety, the Park
Theatre will be worthy of the liberal encouragement which the public
have shown themselves disposed to exhibit toward it, and not before.

FOOTNOTE:

[12] We regret to state, that the lady here alluded to has taken her
farewell of the American public and that the company has thereby
suffered a loss it cannot soon repair.

       *       *       *       *       *

SINCE the above was penned, the Park Theatre, after a brief
intermission, has reopened, to commence another, and we hope a
prosperous season. The interior of the house has been much improved,
in the decoration and thorough painting which it has undergone.
The new drop-curtain, painted by Mr. EVERS, is the most prominent
addition to the local ornaments of the house. It represents the
well-known picture of the court, as convened for the trial of Queen
Catharine, and is well worthy of the high reputation of the artist.
The likenesses, according to the original picture, by Harlowe, are
generally well preserved. The figure of Mrs. Siddons is perhaps
somewhat large and masculine, but the bold, commanding dignity of
her look and action is perfectly maintained. The portrait of Charles
Kemble is true and familiar, even to those of us who have only
seen him when time had somewhat wrinkled his noble front. The face
of John Kemble seems to us, in the copy, more full and round, and
the features more massive, than in the original. Our own lamented
Conway presents a figure on the canvass at the Park, which is hardly
justified by Harlowe. His face and person are not as we remember
them. They are too muscular and broad in their proportions. Conway,
as we knew him, was of a tall figure, but rather delicately than
strongly put together. The other personages do not differ materially
from the pictured originals, and are certainly far superior, as
figures, to any that we have ever before seen from the hand of Mr.
Evers. We think, however, that the artist has committed the common
fault of crowding his figures too closely. The frame seems too small
for so many _tall_ persons, and all of them _prominent_. If the space
within the frame were larger, or the figures smaller, and placed at
more reasonable distances, this production would be almost faultless.
The draperies are naturally and gracefully drawn; the coloring,
perhaps, a little too bright and glaring for the chaste and subdued
white and gold in which the interior of the house is dressed. Of the
good taste displayed in the coloring and decorations of the pannels
of the boxes, and of the whole interior, from pit to gallery, with
the splendid dome which crowns the regenerated arena of our 'Old
Drury,' too much cannot be said in commendation. A rich propriety
characterizes the painting, and ornamental devices, and the whole
reflects abundant credit upon the improved taste of Mr. Evers and his
assistants.

Mr. HUGHES, from the London theatres, has taken the leader's chair
in the orchestra; and from the exhibitions which he has already made
of his skill, seems destined to fill it worthily. Our space will not
allow us to speak of our old favorite, MRS. SHARPE, who made her
first appearance here for some years on the opening evening. She was
greeted with a most hearty welcome, and played with all the spirit
and vivacity which formerly characterized her efforts in comedy. MRS.
CHIPPENDALE also made her courtesy; and her efforts to please, as
Isabella, in the 'Wonder,' were well received.

                                                          C.


PATHOS.--True pathos is not only one of the most striking but the
most durable attributes of real eloquence. It will live in the heart
for years, recurring ever and anon to the memory, 'mournful and
yet pleasant to the soul.' There is nothing so difficult to feign,
as pathos. It is the language of _the heart_; and while the orator
can 'pump up a feeling' of grandeur or sublimity, and wreak it
upon expression, and the bard, under the influence of an imaginary
afflatus, can excite a reader's _pity_ for fanciful misfortune, yet
neither can affect a pathos, which an intelligent auditory or reader
will not at once detect. Of the many scenes or events which have
aroused this emotion in our bosom, since childhood, there is not one
which may not be called up from the dark backward of the past, with
the vividness of an occurrence of yesterday.

These thoughts have been awakened, by meeting the following exquisite
example of pathos in an ancient common-place book. Simple as it is,
we venture to say there is not one under whose eye it will fall, who
can read it for the first time, or re-peruse it, without emotion:

    "MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

    "I had a mother once, like you,
      Who o'er my pillow hung,
    Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,
      And taught my faltering tongue.
    But then, there came a fearful day--
      I sought my mother's bed,
    Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
      And told me she was dead!"

    "IT was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a
    long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred
    mound, beneath which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful
    period, great changes had come over me. My childish years had
    passed away; and with them had passed my youthful character.
    The world was altered too; and as I stood at my mother's grave,
    I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless, happy
    creature, whose cheek she so often kissed in her excess of
    tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen years had not
    effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile. It seemed as
    if I had seen her yesterday--as if the blessed sound of her
    voice was then in my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and
    childhood were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that had
    it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed would
    have been gentle and refreshing. The circumstance may seem a
    trifling one; but the thought of it, even now, agonizes my
    heart--and I relate it, that those children who have parents to
    love them, may learn to value them as they ought.

    "My mother had been ill a long time; and I had become so much
    accustomed to her pale face, and weak voice, that I was not
    frightened at them, as children usually are. At first, it is
    true, I had sobbed violently--for they told me she would die;
    but when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her
    the same, I began to believe she would always be spared to me.

    "One day, when I had lost my place in the class, and done my
    work wrong-side-outward, I came home discouraged and fretful.
    I went into my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual--but
    she met me with the same affectionate smile that always
    welcomed my return. Alas! when I look back, through the lapse
    of thirteen years, I think my heart must have been stone, not
    to have been melted by it.

    "She requested me to go down stairs, and bring her a glass of
    water. I pettishly asked why she did not call the domestic
    to do it. With a look of mild reproach, which I shall never
    forget, if I live to be a hundred years old, she said, 'And
    will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick
    mother?'

    "I went and brought her the water; but I did not do it kindly.
    Instead of smiling, and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I sat
    the glass down very quick, and left the room.

    "After playing a short time, I went to bed, without bidding my
    mother 'good night;' but when alone in my room, in darkness and
    silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how her faint
    voice trembled, when she said, 'Will not my daughter bring a
    glass of water for her poor sick mother?' I could not sleep;
    and I stole into her chamber, to ask forgiveness. She had just
    sunk into an uneasy slumber; and they told me I must not waken
    her. I did not tell any one what troubled me; but stole back to
    my bed, resolved to rise early in the morning, and tell her how
    sorry I was for my conduct.

    "The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hurrying on my
    clothes, I hastened to my mother's room.

    "She was dead! She never spoke to me more--never smiled upon
    me again! And when I touched the hand that used to rest upon
    my head in blessing, it was so cold it made me start. I bowed
    down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart.
    I thought then I wished I could die, and be buried with her;
    and old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to
    give, could my mother but have lived to tell me she forgave
    my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when
    I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of her manifold
    kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she gave me, will
    'bite like a serpent, and sting like an adder.'"

Near this beautiful fragment, in the time-honored receptacle of
literary 'things lost upon earth' to which we have alluded, we find
a kindred specimen, in the affecting 'Lines written by an East-India
Officer on his Return from India.' They are as old as the hills, and
as lasting; and we still sympathize as deeply and sincerely with the

    ----'Stranger in a stranger clime,
    Where stranger voices mock his ear,'

as when we first read of his desolation of heart, we know not how
many years ago. There is a melting tenderness in his musings, amid
the sights and sounds now strange to his eye and ear, and among
the graves of the friends of his youth, who have long since been
'followed to the house of mourning, and forgotten in the dust,'
which is to us irresistibly touching. We feel the holy sadness of
his blighted affection, when he wakes from dreams of departed years,
and the loved ones who blessed his childhood--dreams which come
to him in a sleep finally won to his bed in the late and troubled
night-watches--and in alternate joy and bitterness of soul, exclaims:

    'I see each shade all silvery white,
      I hear each spirit's melting sigh;
    I turn to clasp those forms of light,
      And the pale morning chills mine eye!'

We shall never forget a scene in which deep pathos was a principal
characteristic, which we once beheld, at a country church, in one
of the thinly-populated, humble towns of western New-York. A pious
clergyman, of the Baptist denomination, whose 'three-score years
and ten' had turned his hair to snow, and given to his limbs the
tremulousness of age, was to preach his farewell discourse to his
little congregation, over whom he had presided for nearly half a
century. The place itself, and the time, were accessaries to the
'abiding effect' which was left upon the minds of all who were
present. It was the afternoon of a mild October day, and the sere
leaves of the trees which shaded the church were falling in slow
eddies by the open windows. After recapitulating his long labors
among them--his teachings 'publicly, and from house to house'--his
attendance upon the marriage festivals of those whom he had afterward
consigned to the grave with bitter tears--the christenings and
funerals he had celebrated--after these affectionate reminiscences,
which touched an answering chord in the bosom of every hearer--he
adverted to that day wherein all the actors in the drama of
life must enter at the last scene, to complete and make up the
sublime catastrophe, and warned them to prepare for its momentous
solemnities. 'For myself,' said he, 'I can say--standing upon a
narrow point between two eternities, and looking back upon a world
imperfect and fading, and upon friends dear indeed, but more fleeting
still--that I account myself as nothing, until I was my Saviour's,
and enrolled in the register of Christ.' And raising his trembling,
attenuated hands to heaven, his dim eyes streaming with tears--for,
though he had struggled against emotion, his feelings now overcame
him--he repeated these lines, in the most melting cadence:

    'Ere since by faith I saw the stream
      Thy flowing wounds supply,
    Redeeming Love has been my theme,
      And shall be till I die:
    _Then_, in a nobler, sweeter song,
      I'll sing thy power to save,
    When this poor lisping, faltering tongue
      Lies silent in the grave!

The look which followed these touching stanzas--the subdued emotion,
the pious hope, which beamed in the countenance of the venerable
father--will never fade from the memory of those who heard him. The
heart of the speaker was poured forth; he was embodied Pathos.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW-YORK MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION.--We hear, with sincere
pleasure, of the continued success and improvement of this
widely-useful institution. A large increase of its already extended
list of members; additions of new and valuable books; accessions
of magazines, and the higher order of periodicals; and ample
preparations for a series of lectures from some of the best minds
of the country, are some of the more prominent indications of the
'high and palmy state' to which we have alluded. Let but party
disaffections be religiously avoided--let the members but strengthen
each other's hands in the advancement of the great interests of the
association--and the institution, for whose original foundation we
are mainly indebted to the benevolent efforts of WILLIAM WOOD, ESQ.,
of Canandaigua, will become one of which both our city and state may
be justly proud.

       *       *       *       *       *

LAPLACE.--We have received a small and handsomely-printed pamphlet,
containing 'An Historical Eulogy of M. Le MARQUIS DE LAPLACE,
pronounced in the Public Session of the Royal Academy of Sciences, at
Paris, June 15, 1829. By M. Le BARON FOURIER, Perpetual Secretary.'
Translated from the French, by R. W. HASKINS, ESQ., of Buffalo. We
regard this as an excellent and compendious history of one of the
most eminent scientific men France has ever produced. It is the
tribute of a mind capable of appreciating the labors of one 'who
enlarged the domain of thought, and taught man the dignity of his
being, by unveiling to his view all the majesty of the heavens,'
and whose name the world will not 'willingly let die.' A clear and
forcible style assures us that the original has lost little in the
hands of the translator.

       *       *       *       *       *

    *.* The reply of SAMUEL KIRKHAM, ESQ., to the extract from Mr.
    GOOLD BROWN's 'Grammar of English Grammars,' will appear in
    the October number. Having 'redeemed the time,' it may not be
    amiss to state, 'in this connection,' that the KNICKERBOCKER,
    will hereafter be issued with punctuality on the first of every
    month.