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THE KNICKERBOCKER.

VOL. X. DECEMBER, 1837. NO. 6.




AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.

NUMBER FOUR.

    'KINGDOMS are shrunk to provinces, and chains
    Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt
    From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt
    The sunshine for a while, and downward go.'


IN view of the reasons heretofore suggested, why it is improbable
that either the Egyptians, the Carthaginians, or the Romans, were the
first inhabitants of this continent, and why, from the present state
of our knowledge, no other distinct nation of people is entitled to
the exclusive reputation of having been the primitive discoverers
of America, the reader is very naturally led to inquire for the
evidences assigned by the advocates of particular theories for the
sources of their origin. These evidences, although important to the
antiquarian, cannot, from the brevity and popular mode proposed
by us in treating this subject, be critically stated. We have,
nevertheless, offered some reasons and inferences of our own, why
those evidences cannot be conclusive; and we would refer others to
our own or other means of information, should they feel disposed to
make farther investigations. However plausible the story of Votan
may have appeared, as testimony in point, the reader shall judge,
from a few facts which will be here noticed, whether even that has
much probability to support it. No one at least can deny the greater
safety of doubting, where there is no better proof, should he not,
with others, arrive at the ultimate conclusion, that the best
evidence of all may be in favor of the opinion that these people
originated where their relics are now found.

It has been said that the occasional resemblance observed among the
ruins of Tulteca to those of the Egyptians, Romans, etc, affords
no just grounds for attributing their origin to those nations, any
more than to others whose remaining arts they equally resemble.
Almost every ancient people might, in fact, from similar points of
resemblance, claim the same distinction. Beside the particulars
noticed in previous numbers, it might be mentioned, _en passant_,
that had the Tultecans been Egyptian, they would most certainly have
retained the language of Egypt, the signs, the worship, etc.; but
this was not the fact. Had they been Romans, they would likewise have
continued the language, the customs, and the religion of Romans;
yet this was not the case; and so it would have been, had they been
derived from any other nation. Above all, perhaps, would they have
borne a personal resemblance to their progenitors, a circumstance
far from truth. Religion, without doubt, is the last thing in which a
people becomes alienated; yet we see no cöincidence in this respect
between these people and their reputed originals. How then shall
we account for their origin, but by supposing them, _sui generis_,
Tultecans? Finally, it will be admitted, that unless the story of
Votan presents some clue by which to solve the problem--and we do not
see that it has even the claim of probability--we are not permitted,
by the facts in evidence, to attribute the first American population
to any other people of the earth.

The illustrious Fegjro, quoted as the best authority by the
very author of Votan's story, and himself as much interested in
propagating a theory favorable to popular Catholic opinions as any
one of his clerical brethren, says upon this subject: 'After long
study and attentive examination of so many and such various opinions,
I find no one having the necessary appearance of truth, to satisfy
a prudent judgment, and many that do not possess even the merit
of probability.' Again, Cabrera says: 'To the present period, no
_hypothesis_ has been advanced, that is sufficiently probable to
satisfy a mind sincerely and cautiously desirous of arriving at the
truth.' And yet this is the man who holds forth the story of Votan
as a true 'hypothesis.' It is plain, in all this writer says, by way
of comment, that he himself doubts the truth of the whole matter,
although he has pompously styled his treatise 'The Solution of the
Grand Historical Problem of the Population of America!' The bishop,
we will do him the justice to say, manifests much candor in speaking
of the conduct of his brotherhood toward the relics of the people
whose religion they had resolved to destroy. 'The injudicious and
total destruction of the annals and records of the American nations,'
says he, 'has not only proved a most serious loss to history, but
very prejudicial to _that religion_ whose progress it was supposed
would thereby have been accelerated.' He asserts what is very true,
in this; and also in his conclusion, that 'both in the means and the
object, this practice is too frequently the result of prejudice or
of ignorance.' Antonio Constantini, also cited as primary authority,
declares, that 'whatsoever may be advanced upon this subject does not
pass beyond the limit of mere opinion, as we have neither histories,
manuscripts, nor traditions of the Americans!' And with the design
farther to prevent all belief by posterity that their conquered
subjects, whose admirable relics and records they had destroyed,
possessed any knowledge of the arts, or the means of governing
themselves, he says, 'when they were discovered, they were ignorant
and uncultivated!' etc. Clavigero justly concludes, likewise, that
'the history of the primitive population of Anahuac, (Central
America,) is so obscure, and so much involved in fable, as to render
it not merely a most difficult matter for solution, but totally
impossible to come at the truth.' These and similar declarations of
the most accredited writers upon the early history of the inhabitants
of Central America, one would think quite conclusive. If there had
been other facts to be obtained, calculated to settle the question as
to the origin of the first Americans, these, or other writers would
have obtained them. Instead of this, however, they merely speak of
works which '_probably_' contained the facts announced as truth,
without ever having seen them themselves, or stating plainly that
they had, in reality, _any_ facts within their reach. Thus numerous
authors, whose means of information are _said_ to have been complete
on this subject, are mentioned by Cabrera; yet he professes to know
nothing beyond conjecture or hearsay of the contents of their works.
We will notice one or two instances, to show what confidence can be
placed upon his assertions and gratuitous inferences in relation to
Votan, and as samples of the whole.

After parading the titles of a great number of works, which may or
may not exist, so far as his own knowledge of their contents is
concerned, or perhaps that of any one else, he says: 'There is in the
Jesuits' College of Tepozotlan,' (preserving the same particularity,
as to titles, localities, dates, etc.,) 'a history of the voyages
of the Aztecas to the country of Anahuac, written by a noble Mestee
Mexican. The _title_ of this manuscript,' he continues, 'shows it to
be one of importance, as it _very probably_ contains an account of
the voyage of the Mexicans, who are the Aztecas, and of the primitive
families of the _Culebras_, (snakes) who, _I shall demonstrate_,
were from the old continent to the new, with an account of the first
empire they founded in America, its duration, and their _expulsion_
from the first settlements of Anahuac!' Again, after enumerating
a list of works, to which he would have the reader infer he has
had access, he says: 'The fourth is some historical memoirs of the
Tultecas, and other nations of Anahuac, all of which works _were_
preserved in the library of the college before-mentioned. _It is
probable_, that the last production treats of their coming from
the old to the new continent, of their _expulsion_ from the first
settlement at the city of Palenque, in the kingdom of Amaguemecan,
and the cause thereof,' etc. Thus there is, from beginning to end,
the same ambiguity, the same want of personal inspection, and yet the
same display of authority. How important such works would have been
to him and to the world, had they existed, in satisfactorily settling
this question! The author of Votan's account does not seem to have
known a solitary fact himself, which bears upon the subject matter of
his story, though he proposes to '_demonstrate_,' etc. The several
representations, of a mysterious character, which he has so wofully
distorted to an agreement with the said story, mean and represent, in
fact, any thing else than the incidents of that story; indeed, this
is the lamest part of the fabrication. Truly unfortunate is it for
all the materials concerned in the case, 'that they were,' to use his
own language, '_unfortunately_ lost;' 'did not appear, in consequence
of his death,' etc., 'very probably,' so and so. Again he says: 'It
is to be regretted, that the place is _unknown_ where these _precious
documents_ of history were deposited, but still more that the _great
treasure_ should have been _destroyed_!' And, in the next paragraph
he says: '_It is possible_ that Votan's historical tract, _alluded_
to by Nunez de la Vega'--for he is indebted, after all, for the sum
total of this now simple _historical tract_, to the _allusions_ of
some unknown writer--'or _another_,' he says, '_similar_ to it, _may
be_ the one now in the possession of Don Ramon de Ordonez y Aguiar,'
(though before pronounced to have been destroyed!) So much for the
proof of this story, good, bad, or indifferent. To have continued out
these observations, we could have more clearly shown its folly and
untruth; but, though necessary to satisfy the mind of the curious on
so important a subject, yet we would avoid unnecessary minutia, and
deem what has already been stated, quite sufficient to establish our
position.

Now for the story itself. This, he says, was 'communicated' to him by
some 'valuable notices,' (how, we are left entirely to conjecture,)
'by the above writer,' (Aguiar,) 'who' he says, 'is engaged at this
time in composing a work, the _title_ of which I have seen!' The said
title is '_Historia del Cielo y de la Tierra_!' (History of Heaven
and Earth!) 'that will not only embrace the original population of
America, but trace its progress from Chaldea, immediately after the
confusion of tongues, its mystical and moral theology, its mythology,
and most important events!' Such a work we should be glad to see,
and so would all the world beside; but 'unfortunately' it has never
appeared, though 'this time' spoken of, was more than forty years
ago! The title of the work, and the abilities which he ascribes to
its author, he says, 'lead us to anticipate a work so perfect in its
kind as will completely astonish the world!' Let the reader notice
the agreement between this source of 'communicated' information, and
that 'alluded to' by Nunez de la Vega. 'The memoir in his possession,
(Aguiar's) consists,' he continues, 'of five or six folios of common
quarto paper, written in ordinary characters in the Tzendal language;
an evident proof,' he farther adds, 'of its having been copied from
the original in hieroglyphics, shortly after the conquest.' We do
not see, in this circumstance, the 'evident proof mentioned, or 'the
shadow, thereof;' but this is in keeping with all his 'proofs.'

The tract is then stated to go on by means of a painted description,
on the first leaf, in different colors, of the two continents. This
is declared to be characterized by the letters _s_ and _ss_, with
works which _he_ made, (Votan, it is supposed,) signifying on the
margin, the places he had visited on the old continent. Between
these squares stands the title of his history, viz: 'Proof that I
am Culebra,' (a snake) which title he proves in the body of his
work, by saying, that he is Culebra, _because_ he is Chivim.' This
is 'demonstration,' of course! He then states that _he_ conducted
seven families from Valum Votan to this continent, so says Cabrera,
and assigned lands to them; that _he_ is the third of the Votans;
that having determined to travel until he arrived at the root of
heaven! (who can tell where the _root_ of heaven is, and what road
should be taken to get there?) in order to discover his relations,
the Culebras, and make himself known to them; (mark, his relations
in America,) he made four voyages to Chivim, which is expressed by
repeating four times from Valum Votan to Valum Chivim, from Valum
Chivim to Valum Votan; that he arrived in Spain, and that he went
to Rome; that he saw the great house of God building; that he went
by the _road_ which his brethren Culebras had bored; that he marked
it, and that he passed by the houses of the thirteen Culebras. He
relates that, in returning from one of his voyages, he found seven
families of the Tzequil nation, who had joined the first inhabitants,
and recognised in them the same origin as his own, that is, of the
Culebras. He _speaks_ of the place where they built their first town,
which from its founders received the name of Tzequil. He affirms that
he taught them refinement of manners in the use of table-cloths,
dishes, basins, cups, and napkins; that, in return for these, they
taught him knowledge of God, and of his worship, his _first_ ideas of
a king, and obedience to him, and that he was chosen captain of all
the united families!

Having announced all this badinage from a work not read nor even
written, with as much confidence as if he had seen the narrated
circumstances, he says: 'Let us now follow the progress of this
celebrated chief of the first inhabitants of the American continent!'
He then goes into the descriptions of Del Rio, and his ingenious
but labored and wordy commentaries. How much there may be to
'demonstrate' with these premises, we shall not undertake to prove;
but it would excite a smile in the reader, to notice with what
avidity he seizes hold of the supposed hieroglyphical drawings of
the before-mentioned explorer, and explains what they mean, from the
wonderful light thrown in his path by the _title_ of a work not then,
nor yet now, written, and also from the 'allusions' of some reputed
writer, unknown even to himself!

What the curious specimens of sculpture and of phonetic
representation, before referred to, actually mean, is alike unknown
to all inquirers, notwithstanding Bishop Cabrera's commentaries.
The 'historical treasure' respecting Votan's Voyages, etc., is
represented by the author first mentioned, viz. Vega, among other
historical manuscripts, to state, or rather _he_ states _for_ Votan,
that 'Votan is the third gentile placed in the calendar; that he
wrote an historical tract in the Indian idiom, wherein he mentions
by name the people with whom, and the places where, he had been.
Up to the present time,' says he, 'there has existed a family of
the Votan's in Teopizca.' He says, also, that 'he is lord of the
Tapanahuasec; that he (Votan) saw the great house,' meaning, as the
writer says, the Tower of Babel, 'which was built by order of his
grand-father, Noah! from the earth to the sky; that he is the first
man who had been sent hither to divide and portion out these Indian
lands.' (How came the Indian here so soon after his grand-father
Noah's flood?) We had thought himself and his seven families were
the first; and that, at the place where he saw the great house, (the
Tower of Babel,) a different language was spoken!' This 'historical
tract,' so invulnerable to the effects of time, under the varied
circumstances to which, 'it is very probable,' it had been exposed,
was indeed a treasure; but the venerable prelate, not having the fear
of antiquity before his eyes, and intent only on destroying all 'the
means of confirming more strongly an idolatrous superstition,' says,
'he did give them up, when they were publicly burned in the square at
Heuguetan, on our visit to that place in 1691!' (One hundred years
before Cabrera wrote.) The Indian tradition of this treasure, says
Cabrera, though he omits any reference to authority, 'was, that it
was placed by _himself_ (Votan,) as a _proof_ of his origin, and a
memorial for future ages, in the _casa cabrega_, 'house of darkness,
that he had _built in a breath_!' He committed this deposite to a
distinguished female, and a certain number of plebeian Indians,
appointed annually for the purpose of its safe custody. His mandate
was scrupulously observed by the people of Tacoaloya, in the province
of Socanusco, where it was guarded with extraordinary care, until,
being discovered by the prelate before-mentioned, he obtained and
destroyed it.

'It 'consisted,' observes Vega, who now speaks for himself, 'of
some large earthen vases, of one piece, and closed with covers of
the same material, on which were represented, in stone, the figures
of the ancient Pagans, whose names are in the calendar, with some
Chalchihnites, which are solid, hard stones, of a green color,
and other superstitious figures!' All this looks a good deal like
a 'historical tract,' as Cabrera calls these earthen pots, etc.
These 'historical treasures' were taken from a cave by the Indian
lady herself!' Quite an accommodating and antique-looking lady, we
imagine, having held in charge the venerable relics from the time
of Votan, the grandson of Noah, according to the document itself,
until delivered in person to the trusty and veracious bishop, and by
him burned as aforesaid! This, then, is the whole of the story of
Votan! Forbid, Muse of History! that we should weaken or destroy one
syllable of the description, or a jot of its meaning--its force or
probability!

The pious bishop, it should be said, in proof of his blind devotion,
whatever may be thought of his acts by liberal-minded men, faithfully
expressed his reckless bigotry and wild fanaticism, by destroying
all the valuable remains of the Tultecan people, 'lest,' as he
says, 'by being brought into notice, they should be the means of
confirming more strongly an idolatrous superstition!' History weeps
over the ruins created by such mad and superstitious zealots; and
no where with more reason than in Central America. The history of
man is, indeed, but a record of persecution for opinion's sake, the
result only of peculiar yet mainly unavoidable circumstances; and
that record is black with deeds of shame and bloodshed. Poor human
Nature!--we could almost wish that oblivion had hidden for ever thy
acts from posterity!

Having, as we presume, satisfied the curious in respect to the
foundation of the 'hypothesis' for peopling America, as proposed by
the story of Votan, we shall next notice some interesting particulars
in the early history of the Tultiques, which may shed light upon
our inquiries. After this, we shall describe other and not less
remarkable ruins of ancient time, in the various provinces of Central
America; notice their connection with the relics and people of North
America, the singular works of art, and the primitive inhabitants of
portions of this country.

The Tultecan people, or Chiapanese, being the original inhabitants
of America, and having quietly dwelt within the central provinces
before-mentioned for an unknown period of time, all intelligence
respecting them--if, in fact, we have any thing on which to
rely, save the remains of their magnificent arts--is completely
disconnected from all other people prior to the destruction of their
capital. At what period this occurred, we are equally ignorant,
notwithstanding the assurance with which some have given dates,
and attempted to establish epocha in the history of the primitive
American people. It is certain that the evidences of their antiquity
are coëval at least with the most ancient of the human family.
Tradition, at best, is a very uncertain guide for the antiquarian;
that, therefore, of the grandson of Noah coming 'from the north' to
people this continent by express command of God, may be regarded as
hypothetical. Still, if the first Americans were to be considered the
immediate descendants of Noah, the ruins of Central America might be
aptly compared with the date at which the deluge and the dispersion
at the Tower of Babel are reported to have occurred. Votan, according
to this tradition, is said to have been one of those who built the
great tower, which was to reach to heaven, that he was selected from
among those which tradition likewise made to attempt building so high
a structure, and that he was commanded to travel 'off north,' with
a colony of the people, for the purpose of inhabiting this unknown
land. How he and his colony got here by travelling north, we shall
not attempt to explain, and particularly with a trackless sea, of
three thousand miles in extent, intervening. This colony, it is
said, also divided on their arrival at _Soconusco_, South America, a
part remaining in the province of Chiapa, and the others proceeding
on to Nicaragua. But from what we have already stated, this colony
consisted, according to Votan's records, of only seven families;
each colony, therefore, comprised three whole families! The form
of government of this people thereafter, until they numbered many
millions, was vested in two military chiefs, chosen by the priests.
So says tradition.

Humboldt thinks that there existed other people in Mexico, previous
to the arrival of the Toultecs, the date of whose appearance in
Mexico he has put down at 648, of the Christian era. It matters not
by what name the people who first inhabited America are called; nor
does this writer name the people he supposes to have preceded the
Toultecs. We have called the primitive inhabitants _Tultecans_; and
we are justified by the best authorities, certainly by the most
numerous, in giving them this appellation. But we think Humboldt was
mistaken in the antiquity of the Tultiques. The date assigned by
him for their appearance may have been when they were driven by the
northern nations of Chicemecks, or perhaps by the Olmecas, from their
ancient city, and forced to mingle with the other nations that about
that time made their appearance in Mexico, from the north. It is
possible that the dates given by writers, and purporting to have been
derived from the hieroglyphic paintings of the ancient inhabitants,
may have some truth for their bases; but these, liable as they were
to misinterpretation, have induced writers to come to the conclusion,
that no certainty exists in the dates which have been given for the
population of Central America. Whether the inhabitants of Palenque,
the famous ruins of which we have noticed, are the _Toultecs_ known
at a subsequent period, or whether the name of that people is 'past
finding out,' our means do not allow us to determine at present. That
they had a different name, prior to the appearance of the Toultecs
in 596 of Clavigero, or 548 of Humboldt, may be admitted. Still,
it is not improbable that they may have left their country in 544,
as thought by some, arrived in the valley of Mexico in 648, and
founded the city of Tula in 670; but to suppose that this people
afterward reared the monuments we have before mentioned, is not at
all probable; on the contrary, the period of their origin supposed
by the 'hypothesis' already mentioned and some three thousand years
since, would be altogether more in accordance with their ruins. The
Tultiques were evidently the first people known in Mexican history;
but from whence they came, and the date of their first establishment
in Central America, is unknown. Humboldt himself says, 'We do not
know on what authority these dates are founded.' We shall speak
of the people here mentioned as the _Toultecs_, and as entirely
distinct from the ancient inhabitants of Palenque, though we have
designated the latter by a similar name, for the sake of preserving
cöincidence with others. All must be agreed, in accordance with our
statement, and with Humboldt, that a people existed in Anahuac long
previous to the appearance of these Toultecs we now speak of, though
this distinguished traveller had no knowledge of the great ruins of
Palenque.

The history of the Toultecs, like that of all the nations which
have subsequently peopled Central America, is involved in fable.
It is said, however, that their history relates that they were
banished from their own country of _Huehuetapallan_, in their year
1, (Teepatl,) which is likewise said to correspond with our year
596; that proceeding southerly, under the direction of their chiefs,
they arrived, after sojourning at various places on the way, for
the space of one hundred and twenty-four years, on the banks of a
river, where they built a city, and called it Tollan, or Tula, which,
as Clavigero thinks, was the name of the kingdom they had left,
situated north-west of Mexico. This then was the oldest, as it was
one of the most celebrated cities in the history of Mexico, and the
capital of the Toultec kingdom. This kingdom lasted three hundred
and eighty-four years, which was divided into cycles of fifty-two
years each; and each cycle was occupied by the reign of one king.
Seven kings had thus ruled the people, when, during the twenty-eighth
year of the reign of the eighth monarch, the nation was destroyed
by a pestilence. If a monarch died during one of these cycles, the
government was administered by the nobles. Tradition, as well also
as the paintings of this people, beside Tollan and Huehuetapallan,
mention _Aztlan_ as their first residence. This fact, in connection
with the remaining arts of a numerous and highly civilized people,
now found in Wisconsin Territory, and near St. Louis, Missouri, have
given rise to the opinion that there was their first residence. It
has been contended that the Castine Ground, in the vicinity of that
city, was the identical Aztlan of the wandering Toultec nation. We
shall hereafter refer to the facts which induced us to announce in
our first numbers that a connection existed between the inhabitants
of Mexico and the original people of the western valleys of the
United States.

The Toultecs, as has already been said, exhibited a high state of
civilization, and an astonishing knowledge of the arts and sciences,
at the earliest periods of their history. Their government was the
most permanent, efficient, and happy; and to them have all succeeding
nations acknowledged their indebtedness for their knowledge of the
arts, and of agriculture. They were familiar with the working of
metals, cutting gems, with hieroglyphical paintings, etc.; and in
their divisions of time, they were much more perfect than the Greeks
or Romans. 'But where,' inquires a distinguished writer, 'is the
source of that cultivation? Where is the country from which the
Toultecs and Mexicans issued?' If we have no evidence that they came
from the United States, nor from Asia, is not the query solved, by
supposing that they were the Palencians? dispersed by the pestilence
which deprived them of their eighth and last monarch, with the bulk
of the Toultec people. The magnificent arts still presented to the
curious traveller in Mexico, are the work of this people, and they
exhibit a degree of skill, industry, and intellect, which astonish
those of our times. But they differed from all others in these
arts. Where then shall we find their analogue? Did they come from
China, as De Guignes would prove from the Chinese annals, subsequent
to 458? Horn, in his 'De Originibus Americanis,' and M. Scherver,
would make this by no means difficult, nay, extremely probable.
They 'might have been a part of those Hiongnoux, who, according to
the Chinese historians, emigrated under Punon, and were lost in the
north of Siberia; or, were they the Indians of North America? The
pastoral character of the Toultecs resembled that of the Asiatics,
and their arts those of Egypt; but they cultivated no other gramina
than maize, while the Asiatic tribes cultivated various cereal
gramina, at the earliest periods of their history. To the Chinese,
and particularly the Japanese, they bore a striking similarity, so
far as regards the state of civilization; yet, in their facial and
cranial characteristics, they differed materially. On the whole, it
is much more reasonable to suppose that the people of whom we are now
speaking, were of the Mongol race, than that the Palencians were any
particular race now known.

Whether the last mentioned people, after their dispersion from their
great capital in the province of Chiapa, were or were not the nucleus
around which the many distinct tribes that afterward constituted the
people of the great Mexican empire, all our inquiries are unable
clearly to establish; still, there are strong evidences in favor of
that opinion. Hence the name Tultecan, by which we have designated
the primeval inhabitants of this continent, and the authors of
the extensive arts, the ruins of which have been noticed, may be
identical with the _Toultecs_. All agree that there was a race of
people existing for an unknown period of time in Central America
before the Toultecs, the Aztecs, or the Chichimecas appeared in
the beautiful Mexican valley. This agreement, in connection with
the antique relics found on the site of the famous Palencian city,
and the indisputable evidences of the superior knowledge of the
ancient Palenquans, renders the conclusion to which we have arrived
inevitable.

It is also extremely probable, from the analogy observed among the
arts of succeeding inhabitants of Mexico, the similarity of their
manners and customs, and their knowledge of the arts and sciences,
in which the original Tultecans were so highly distinguished, that
a part of the latter people, after the destruction of their great
capital, was united with the former. This probability, though
unnoticed by writers upon the early inhabitants of Mexico, amounts,
in our mind, to conviction. It forms a basis to the only conclusion
which presents itself in attempting to explain the origin of the
extraordinary arts now found throughout the Mexican valley, and in
other parts of that once extensive empire. The inference is not less
conclusive in relation to the people with whom the original Tultiques
became united, and with whom they in part constituted the subsequent
great nation of Mexicans. This people were clearly the previous
inhabitants of our own western states. Their arts are distinctly
traced from Wisconsin and Missouri Territories, all the way into the
valley of Mexico. Among those which now characterize that valley,
are to be seen numerous specimens so closely resembling the relics
of the United States, that no other inference can be drawn from the
fact, than that they were the work of the same people. Still, it
will be observed that others exist in Mexico, which as plainly show
the existence of a distinct and peculiar class of men. The most
remarkable of these are found among the ruins of Palenque, Copan, and
at other places in the province of Chiapa, Yucatan, and Guatemala.
Others again exist, scattered throughout both Peru and Mexico, among
the Pacific Islands, and west of the Rocky Mountains, which differ in
many striking particulars from those of this country, from those of
Palenque, and among themselves. This is strongly in evidence of the
historical fact, that the ancient Mexicans were composed of numerous
and very different tribes of people. That various tribes have also
dwelt in our western valleys, is quite certain; and that our whole
country has, at remote periods, been the theatre of strange events,
and the residence of peculiar people, cannot admit of doubt. While
some of that people were unacquainted with the use of metals, others
must have possessed a very good knowledge of them, and withal the
mode of working them. A well-finished steel bow, found in one of
the western tumuli, and the scoria, evidently the product of forges
discovered among the works which have been left by some previous
inhabitants of the Ohio valley, are among the proofs of this fact.
Hieroglyphical writing, long a desideratum among the remains of the
primitive inhabitants of the United States, has also been discovered.
Descriptive paintings similar to those executed by the Mexicans, may
in like manner have been left by this people, but they would have
disappeared, had they been so left, from the effects of time. No
stone edifices resembling those of Mexico have however been found
among us; no piles of rude masonry, stone fortifications, bridges,
viaducts, etc., as at Palenque and other places. There are some
traces, if recent accounts be true, of tumuli and walls in this
country, which were built in part of burnt bricks, not unlike those
with which the great pyramid of Chollula was built; yet there are
none in the same style and magnificence. Enough, however has been
noticed, among the ancient arts of this country, to satisfy us that
our primitive inhabitants may have been among the builders of that
stupendous structure. The same form may now be noticed in a tumulus
near Cincinnati. Others have been destroyed, which had the same
pyramidal form, with regular off-sets. On the tops of these, and
particularly those of a large size, it has been conjectured that
structures similar to those of Mexico were built. The one ruthlessly
destroyed at Circleville, Ohio, affords strong evidences of its
having been devoted to the worship of the sun, and to the offering
of human sacrifices. But more of this anon. Subsequent remarks will
tend to show, when we shall have furnished other particulars of
newly-discovered ruins in Central America, how far those of our own
country agree with the ancient arts of Mexico.




THE ENCAGED BIRD TO HIS MISTRESS.


    LADY, sweet lady! let me go,
      To breathe again my native air;
    Where mountain streams unfetter'd flow,
      And wild flowers in profusion bear;
    Where mingled notes of feather'd throng
    Pour forth their free, harmonious song,
    In praise to Him who bids them fly,
    Bound only by the lofty sky:
      I pine! I pine! to stretch my wings,
    And feel the sun's enlivening glow--
      To join the lay the free-bird sings;
    Kind lady! let thy prisoner go!

    Long have I cheer'd this summer bower,
      Where oft thy fairy footstep treads;
    Beguiled for thee the tedious hour,
      And chased the tear that sorrow sheds:
    Or, when beneath these clustering vines,
    Thy lovely form for rest reclines,
    I charm thy spirit still, in dreams,
    Wakening by music heavenly themes.
      And, lady, thou hast charms that win
    Even the bird encaged to love;
      Without so fair, sure all within,
    To meek compassion's touch must move.

    Yes, thou art fair; but those blue eyes
      Are not to me the azure heaven;
    Nor is the food thy hand supplies,
      And in such rich abundance given,
    Sweet as the crumbs by labor earn'd,
    Ere I of luxury had learn'd;
    Nor is this splendid cage a home
    Worth the free woods I long to roam:
      Think'st me ungrateful for thy care--
    That all thy fondness I forget?
      No! songs my warmest thanks shall bear;
    But, lady, I'm thy prisoner yet!

    Say, is there not some kindred-one,
      Absence from whom 'tis pain to bear--
    And thus, when thou art here alone,
      So often falls the pearly tear?
    Lady, I too had once a mate,
    When freedom was my happy state;
    And for that mate I yet do pine,
    And sorrow oft at day's decline:
      God hath ordain'd that nought which lives
    Should live alone, far from its kind;
      Not only man the bliss receives,
    Which he in fellowship doth find.

    Birds of the air are paired above,
      By Him who hears the raven's cry;
    And shall man break the bonds of love
      'Twixt harmless songsters of the sky?
    No! let the little life we live
    Enjoy the sweets that God doth give;
    Unshackled sail the ambient air,
    And carol forth our music there.
      And thus, by thine own freedom blest--
    By all the kindness thou canst show,
      And by the love that heaves thy breast,
    Lady, sweet lady! let me go!

_Cedar-Brook, Plainfield, (N. J.), 1837._           E. C. S.




THE SOUL'S TRUST.

    'WHY art thou cast down, O my soul, and why art thou disquieted
    within me? Hope thou in GOD; for I shall yet praise HIM, who is
    the health of my countenance and my GOD.'

                                                     PSALMS.


    THOUGH troubles assail me, and dangers surround,
    Though thorns in my pathway may ever be found,
    Still let me not fear, for thou ever wilt be
    My God and my guide, while I lean upon thee.

    The sweet buds of promise may fade ere they bloom,
    The hopes which are earth-born, lie low in the tomb;
    And though my life's pathway seem weary to me,
    I shall gather new strength, as I lean upon thee.

    Though bound to the world by the heart's dearest ties,
    Though earth's fairest scenes are outspread to my eyes,
    Oh never, my Father! permit me to be
    Found trusting to reeds--let me lean upon thee.

    And in that dread hour when my aw'd soul may stay
    No longer on earth, but is summon'd away--
    Amid those great scenes which no mortal may see,
    Let me know naught of fear, as I lean upon thee!

                                                    G. P. T.




MR. AND MRS. TOMPKINS.

A SIMPLE TALE.[1]

BY THE LATE ROBERT C. SANDS, ESQ., AUTHOR OF 'YAMOYDEN,' ETC.


IN a certain village--pleasant enough to behold, as you ride or
walk through it, but abominably unpleasant to remain in, on account
of the unconquerable propensity of its inhabitants for scandal and
tittle-tattle, which prevails to a degree infectious even among
decent people--in this village, about ten years ago, a man and his
wife, of plain appearance, both in person and dress, came to reside,
having the fear of God before their eyes; and in that fear, I trust,
they died. But they were the subjects of much speculation; and the
presidential question has not, to my certain knowledge, called forth
so much original argumentation among the people of that village,
as did the arrival of this couple; unpretending, unquaint, and
inoffensive as they were.

They came in a stage, with but small incumbrance of luggage for
persons who meant to remain in one place for any long time; and
according to an arrangement previously made, took up their quarters
in the house of a respectable widow, whose modest mansion afforded
to them the only room they wanted, and whose modest circumstances
made their coming to board with her, in that single room, a decided
convenience.

The fact being ascertained, in an hour's time, throughout the
village, that the widow Wilkins had got two boarders who were to
occupy her spare room, it became a subject of conversation at the
post-office, the tavern, the grocery, the prayer-meeting, and in
every domestic circle. But nobody was able, that evening, to throw
light upon the question of who the new comers were; and conjecture
was left free to range through the mazes of its own world of
imagination.

Three ladies, a widow, a widow bewitched, and a middle-aged single
woman, namely, Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Hawkins, and Miss Cross, had gone
immediately, on observing that the stage had dropped two passengers
with the widow, to ascertain who they were, where they came from,
what they had in view, and whither they were going next. All the
information, however, that Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Hawkins, and Miss Cross
had been enabled to obtain, (albeit they would have wormed the one
secret which a man ought to keep from his wife out of him, after
the Holy Inquisition had given him up in despair,) was, that Mrs.
Wilkins had taken a man and his wife to board at her house; and that
their name was Tompkins. They had retired to their own apartment,
and had not been seen by the respectable triad; yet Miss Cross said,
she thought from the looks of an old pair of boots, which were
tied to one of Mr. Tompkins's trunks, which was standing in the
entry, that 'they were no great shakes.' As to this point she had
a right also to speak her opinion, seeing that her father had been
a respectable retail shoe-maker. So, therefore, the report of Mrs.
Steele, Mrs. Hawkins, and Miss Cross, did but whet the curiosity
of the congregation as to the private history, present estate, and
future prospects of poor Mr. Tompkins and his wife. Many supposed
that his name was assumed for the occasion. So many, they urged,
were indicted or sued, who had such an alias, that he must have
broken out of the state prison, or run away and left his bail in the
lurch. An inveterate reader of all the newspapers observed, that
a Mr. Tompkins was advertised as having left his wife without any
means of subsistence, who would pay no debts contracted by him. It
was probable that he had a female partner of his flight; and the
circumstance of his coming in such a clandestine way to the house of
the widow Wilkins, was certainly a singular coincidence. It would
be endless, and scarcely amusing, to mention all the suppositions
broached on the subject. One, which was quite popular, was, that this
Mr. Tompkins must be the man who had been hanged in Alabama some
months before, and who, it was rumored, had been resuscitated.

The most speculatively benevolent hoped that these people would
be able to pay their board to the widow, as she was a good sort
of woman, though none of the wisest, and could not afford to lose
it. The most scrupulously decorous hoped this couple were actually
married, and had not come to bring disgrace into Mrs. Wilkins's
house, as she had always passed for an honest woman, as had her
mother before her, though there had been some strange stories about
her aunt and the Yankee doctor.

The next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Tompkins came forth from the
widow's house, and walked through the village to the barber's shop.
His gait was that of a grave gentleman who has passed the meridian
of life, and has nothing to excite him immediately to unnecessary
action. There was nothing in his manner that was at all singular,
nor was there even the inquisitive expression in his countenance,
which would be natural in that of an entire stranger in the place. He
walked as a man walks who is going over ground he has trodden all his
life, in the usual routine of his occupations. His clothes were plain
black, cut after no particular fashion or fancy, but such as old
gentlemen generally wear. His walking-stick was plain, with a horn
handle. He wore apparently no ornaments, not even a watch. Those whom
he met in the street, or passed as they stood in their doors, looked
hard and sharply at him; but he neither evaded nor responded to their
glances of interrogation.

The barber who shaved him, extracted from him the facts that he
had come last from York city, where there was no news; and that he
meant to stay for some time in the village. After leaving him in
possession of this valuable information, Mr. Tompkins sallied forth,
and strayed, at the same leisurely pace, up a hill, the summit
of which commanded a picturesque view of the village, and of the
adjacent country. The barber observed something like a cicatrix, in a
rather suspicious part of his neck, but he did not feel justified in
pronouncing an opinion as to whether he had ever been actually hanged
or not.

In the mean time, or not long after, Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Hawkins, and
Miss Cross, paid a visit to the widow, to tell her not to forget
to come to a charitable sewing society that afternoon, and to make
another effort to relieve their minds about the case of poor Mrs.
Tompkins. They found the latter lady sitting with her hostess. She
was knitting cotton stockings. She was a plain middle-aged woman,
forty years old or upward, attired in a dark-colored silk dress, with
a cambric ruff and cap, not exactly like those worn by the straitest
sects of Methodists and Friends, but without any ornament. An
introduction having been effected, the ingenuity of the three ladies
was immediately exercised in framing interrogatories to the stranger.
She was civil, amiable, and apparently devoid of art or mystery;
but never was there a more unsuccessful examination, conducted
with so much ability on the part of the catechists, and so much
seeming simplicity in the witness. Without resorting to downright
impertinence, these ladies could extract no more from Mrs. Tompkins,
than that she had come with her husband last from New-York, where
they had left no family nor connexions, and that they meant to spend
some time in the village.

'Had she always lived in New-York?'

'No--she had travelled a great deal.'

'Was it her native place?'

'No--she was born at sea.'

'Had her husband been long settled in New-York?'

'No--he had lived there some time,' etc., etc., etc.

With this highly unsatisfactory result, the fair inquisitors were
compelled to return from their mission. Something, however, in the
placid manner of Mrs. Tompkins, had produced an influence upon them
which counteracted the natural effects of the irritability arising
from ungratified curiosity. Their hypotheses in relation to her were
by no means so uncharitable as might have been expected. Mrs. Steele
actually maintained that she believed her to be Mrs. Fry, travelling
incog. through the United States. Mrs. Hawkins had no doubt it was
Dorothy Ripley, a woman who had a call to straggle through the
country, vending her religious experience; and that her escort was
no less a personage than Johnny Edwards, a lay enthusiast of great
notoriety. Miss Cross, the least complimentary in her conjectures,
supposed it was Mrs. Royal, a travelling authoress, and bugbear to
book-sellers and editors.

After a walk of two hours or more, Mr. Tompkins returned from his
perambulations, and stopped in at the tavern or stage-house, where
he seated himself in an unobtrusive place, and began to read the
newspapers. He perused these budgets of literature systematically
and thoroughly; and the anxious expectant of the reversion of any
particular journal he had in hand, waited in vain for him to lay
it down. When he had finished one broad-side, and the fidgetty
seeker after the latest news had half thrust forth his hand to
grasp the prize, Mr. Tompkins, gently heaving a complacent sigh,
turned over the folio, and began to read the next page with the
same quiet fixedness of attention, and unequivocally expressed
purpose of suffering nothing it contained to escape his attention.
It thus took him about two hours to finish his prelection of one of
the issues of that great moral engine, as it is called, by whose
emanations the people of this country are made so wise and happy.
Advertisements and all he read, except poetry, which he seemed to
skip conscientiously, generally uttering an interjection, not of
admiration. Notwithstanding he thus tried the patience of those who
wanted a share of periodical light, he was so quiet and respectable
a looking man, that not even a highwayman, or a highwayman's horse
(supposing that respectable beast to be entitled to its proverbial
character for assurance,) would have attempted to take the paper away
from him by violence. His person was in nobody's way. His elbows and
knees were kept in; and there was no quarrelling with his shoe or his
shoe-tie. There was a _simplex munditiis_--a neat-but-not-gaudiness
about him, which every body understood without understanding Latin.

When he had apparently exhausted the contents of all the periodicals
that lay on the bar-room table, just as the village clock struck one,
Mr. Tompkins asked for a glass of cider, which he drank and departed.
I need make no apology to an intelligent reader for a detail of these
minute particulars; because they engrossed the attention of many at
the time, and were severally the subjects of conflicting hypotheses.
And beside, the history of his first day's residence was so exactly
that of every other which followed, that it is expedient to be
particular in recording it.

He returned then to his lodgings, and after dinner was seen sitting
in the porch of the widow's house, smoking a cigar, and reading in
an ancient-looking volume. Toward sundown he again walked forth,
with his wife (if wife she was) under his arm; and they strolled to
some distance through the lanes and among the fields adjacent to
the village. Thence they returned at tea-time, and at an early hour
retired to their apartment.

Mrs. Wilkins had not for a long time received so many visiters as
called upon her that evening, to inquire after her health, and the
'names, ages, usual places of residence, and occupations' of her
boarders. For the best of all possible reasons, she was unable
to satisfy them on many of these points. The appearance of Mr.
Tompkins at the tavern, however, had produced a rëaction in the
opinions of the men, as that of his wife had in those of the ladies;
and he was supposed to be some greater character than a runaway
husband, a fraudulent insolvent, or a half-hanged malefactor. They
were determined to make an Æneas under a cloud out of him. One was
convinced that he was Sir Gregor McGregor; another that he was Baron
Von Hoffman, (a wandering High-Dutch adventurer, much in vogue at
that time,) and a third ventured the bold conjecture that he was
NAPOLEON himself. A rumor, then rife, that the most illustrious of
_dêtenus_ had effected his escape, gave greater accuracy to the last
surmise than to any other. Napoleon was then in ----!

The post-master advised the speculative crowd, whose imaginations
were perturbed and overwrought by this suggestion, to keep themselves
quiet and say nothing about it for the present. Letters and packages
must necessarily come to the mysterious visiter, which would be
subject to his inspection; and from the post-marks, directions, and
other indices, which long experience had taught him to understand,
he assured them that he should be able to read the riddle. By this
promise, the adult population were controlled into forbearance from
any public manifestation of astonishment. The little boys, however,
whose discretion was not so great, kept hurraing for Bonypart to a
late hour, around the widow's house; for which the biggest of them
suffered severely next morning at school; their master being what was
called an old tory.

'Days, weeks, and months, and generations (in the chronology of
curiosity) passed;' but the post-master was unable to fulfil his
promise. Nothing came to his department directed to _our_ Mr.
Tompkins; nor did that gentleman ever inquire for any letters. During
this period, which was about half a year, the daily occupations of
Mr. T. were almost uniformly the same with those mentioned in the
diary I have given. So punctual was he, that a sick lady, having
marked the precise minute at which he passed before her house, on
his return to dinner, set her watch regularly thereafter by his
appearance, and was persuaded that it kept better time than those of
her neighbors. One would have thought that she ought to have felt
grateful to the isolated stranger who thus saved her the trouble of
a solar observation; but whether it arose from the influence of the
genius of the place, the irritability of sickness, or her association
of Mr. Tompkins with ipecacuanha, certain it is, that her guesses
about his identity, and his motives for coming to that town, were of
all others the most unamiable.

I must mention, however, some of the other habits of Mr. Tompkins,
and some of the peculiarities of his character. For, though the
former were systematic, and the latter monotonous, he was yet not a
mere animated automaton; and was distinguished from other male bipeds
by certain traits, which his acutely observant neighbors of course
did not fail to note.

Neither he nor his wife ever bought any thing for which they did
not pay cash. Their purchases were few in number, and small in
amount; and they generally seemed to have exactly the requisite sum
about them, rarely requiring change, and never exhibiting any large
surplus of the circulating medium. On Sunday, unless the weather was
very bad, they attended at the Episcopal church regularly, sitting
in Mrs. Wilkins's pew; and regularly did Mr. Tompkins deposite a
sixpenny-piece in the plate which was handed round. They did not,
however, partake of the communion in that church; why, I know not.
It was in vain that Mrs. Tompkins was urged by the ladies with whom
she became acquainted, to attend religious meetings of different
kinds, held in the evening. It was also in vain that either her
husband or she was solicited to subscribe to any charity, of whatever
description. They severally answered, 'I cannot afford it,' so
naturally, that the ladies and gentlemen on the several committees
appointed by the several charitable meetings, gave them up in
despair. They rarely accepted invitations to tea-drinkings; and yet
there was nothing unsocial in their manner or conversation. They
could converse very agreeably, according to the opinions of many
of the people; and what was strange, was, that they neither talked
about scandal, religion, or politics. Sometimes they spoke of other
countries so familiarly, that the question, 'Have you ever been
there?' was naturally asked; and the answer was generally 'Yes.'
Avoiding, however, any communion other than what was inevitable,
with those who were decidedly gross and vulgar in intellect and
feeling, and forming no intimacies in the small social circle into
which they were thrown, the barrier was never passed by their
acquaintances, which precluded familiarity. The amusements of Mr.
Tompkins, other than those I have stated--to wit, walking and reading
the newspapers--were extremely limited in kind or degree, so far
as they were observed. Books of his own he had none. The widow's
collection was small: but he availed himself of it occasionally, when
smoking, or when the weather was bad. As it was more than a quarter
of a century since any of the volumes had been purchased, and they
were mostly odd ones, his studies could neither have been profound
nor extensive. He also very frequently played backgammon with an
old Danish gentleman, Mr. Hans Felburgh, who had brought his wife
from the West Indies, to reside in this village for the benefit of
her health, and had buried her there. It had been a subject of much
dispute why he remained; whether from regard to her memory, want of
funds, or because he was afraid or too lazy to go back. My readers,
I trust, are troubled with no such impertinent curiosity. No human
being can long move and live in the same society, without contracting
a preference for somebody or other; but the intercourse between these
two gentlemen arose very naturally, as they were near neighbors
and both strangers, and as the Dane was without kith or kin in the
country.

Thus, as I have said, six months passed away, and the mystery which
enshrouded Mr. Tompkins yet hung about him 'as a garment.' Curiosity,
'like the self-burning tree of Africa,' had almost consumed itself in
its own ardors; but the vital fire yet glowed under the embers. The
people had worn threadbare all the arguments on the questions who Mr.
Tompkins was, and why he did not publish to them his autobiography.
The all-absorbing topic of conversation now was, 'How did he live?
what were his resources?' He ran in debt to no one, borrowed from no
one, and kept no account in either of the four village banks; he paid
his board regularly, as was regularly ascertained from the widow,
who became indignant, however, at the frequent recurrence of the
question. The tax-gatherer in his rounds called upon him, and found
him only liable to be assessed at the same rate as those were who had
neither realty nor personalty subject to taxation.

It was now suggested, and became the current report, that Mr.
Tompkins and his wife were secretly connected with a gang of
counterfeiters, for whom they filled up bank notes, and with whom
they had means of holding clandestine intercourse. Often were they
both dogged, on their rambles, by gratuitous enthusiasts in the cause
of justice. Mrs. Tompkins was seen to stoop for some time, removing
a stone that lay under a hedge. The observer in his eagerness,
approached too incautiously, and trampled among the dry leaves. She
turned her head and saw him, and went onward, making a pretext of
pulling up a handful of violets. Nothing was to be found under the
stone, or near it; but there could have been but little doubt, it
was supposed, that she had intended to deposite counterfeit bank
notes, where her accomplices knew how to find them. Mr. Tompkins was
observed in his morning walks, to stop occasionally to talk to some
very poor people, who lived in the outskirts of the village, and even
occasionally to enter their ricketty and tumble-down habitations.
Many inquiries were of course made of them, both in an insinuating
and a fulminating tone, as to the object of Mr. Tompkins's visits,
and the purport of his communications. But these virtuous, though
impecunious democrats, made no other reply, than that Mr. Tompkins
was a good man, and a better man than those who came to examine them;
and, when threatened, they stood upon their integrity as individuals,
and their rights as free citizens, and contrived to empty their tubs
and kettles 'convenient,' as the Irish say, to the ankles of the
questioners.

But now an event occurred--or rather seemed likely to occur. One
afternoon, a horseman, dusty with travel, rode up to the tavern, and
having alighted, inquired if a Mr. Tompkins lived in that town. Now
there was also a shoe-maker of that name who had long dwelt there.
But when the stranger added, that the person he sought for could
not long have been a resident, all doubts vanished. Between their
impatience, however, to assure him he had come to the right place,
and uneasiness to get out of him the facts which were to explain the
mystery, the dusty traveller had much difficulty in obtaining answers
to his first question, and to his second, 'where Tompkins lived?'
All the information he gave, in exchange for that which he received,
was, that he had business with the gentleman. He also asked, where
he could find the nearest justice of the peace? A bandy-legged
individual, with a hump-back, and a strange obliquity in both his
eyes, who was drinking beer, came forward immediately, and said _he_
was the 'squire. The traveller looked as if he thought the people
had a strange taste in selecting their magistrates; but, telling the
crooked functionary that he might have occasion to call on him in a
short time, set forth in the direction indicated to him, to find the
person he was in search of.

He marched at a round pace; but not so fast that others were not on
the ground before him. Several persons who had heard what had passed,
scudded off in different ways for the same point, announcing as
they ran, in half-breathless accents, to every one they met, that a
sheriff had come for Mr. Tompkins. A party kept at no great distance
behind the stranger, among whom was the justice himself, who seemed
disposed not to be out of the way, should his services be demanded.

As Mr. Tompkins, who was sitting in the porch of the widow's house,
reading a volume of the Gentleman's Magazine for 1749, and had just
exhaled a cloud of many-colored smoke, was watching the delicate
spiral curve of sapphire hue, which did not intermingle with the
other vapor, but wound through it like the Jordan through the Dead
Sea, (to give the _coup de grace_ to a figure worn to tatters, and
beggarly tatters too,) I say, as Mr. Tompkins lifted up his eyes and
beheld the prospect before him, he was aware of a man in riding trim,
lifting the latch of the widow's little court-yard; behind whom a
small crowd, headed by the cross-eyed and cross-legged Coke of the
parish, advanced in a huddle, all earnestly gazing upon himself. And,
glancing around, through the rose-bushes, lilac-trees, and pales
which surrounded the modest enclosure in which he was ensconced, he
beheld, peeping and chuckling, the quaint and dirty faces of divers
boys and girls, with dishevelled hair and goblin expressions; and he
marvelled what in the world was the matter.

The stranger entered the court-yard, and touching his hat
respectfully, asked if Mr. Tompkins was at home?

'That is my name, Sir,' said the gentleman.

'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said the stranger. 'I have been mistaken. I
was looking for another gentleman.'

So saying, he again touched his hat, and retired, looking rather
surlily upon the people who gathered round him, and followed in a
cluster his retiring footsteps. My tale does not lead me to tell how
he got along with them, nor do I know more than what I have heard,
which was, that having proceeded a little distance, and feeling them
treading upon his heels, he got upon a stump, and looking around him,
asked if the place was a Sodom or Gomorrah, that a Christian man,
dressed like themselves, could not come into it without being mobbed
in that manner? Upon which he marched on at a quicker step, some of
the men shouting, and a few of the little boys following and throwing
stones after him, till he remounted his horse; and mingling with the
clatter of the charger's retiring hoofs was heard the rider's hoarse
and coarse malison upon the town, and all the people that lived in it!

    ----'But with Mr. Tompkins
    Abides the minstrel tale.'

'Time rolled his ceaseless course,' as he does now while I write;
and I shall record but one more anecdote, being an incident which
happened several months after that last mentioned.

A fondness for getting up charitable societies had always prevailed,
to a greater or less extent, in this village. But at this particular
time it became a _rage_, in consequence of the organization in
larger towns of associations on a grand scale; the notices of whose
meetings, with the names of the several official dignitaries, as
published in the newspapers, inflamed the ambition of the country
folks. A society for the Suppression of Pauperism was immediately
formed. Under its auspices, at the same time, was organized a society
for the relief of the poor and destitute; and, subsidiary to the
latter, an auxiliary branch was instituted, for the purpose of
seeking out and examining the condition of such poor and destitute
people, with a view of reporting their cases to the parent society.
The executive committee of the auxiliary branch consisted of four
ladies and three gentlemen; who met twice a week regularly, with the
power of calling extra meetings, for the purpose of reporting and
consulting.

It was certainly most unfortunate that a system so complicated and so
admirable should be framed, without any subjects being found to try
it upon. It was like a fine new mill, with a double run of stones,
without any grist to be ground in it. The executive committee were
not inactive; but, strange to relate, unless they patronised some of
the members of one or all of the three societies, thus compacted like
Chinese boxes, there was never a soul in the place upon the causes
and actual extent of whose poverty and destitution they could report,
without going to the gentiles whom I have mentioned before, who lived
in the crazy and deciduous tenements in the outskirts.

To them, however, the three gentlemen, urged partly by their zeal in
the cause, and partly by some sly intimations from the four ladies,
that they were afraid of receiving injury to their clothes or to
their persons, were induced to repair. Their mission was fruitless
enough. While they were talking to some of the members of this small
Alsatia below, others from above contrived accidentally to administer
libations of ancient soap-suds and dish-water to the philanthropists,
which sent them back in no amiable mood, and in a pickle by no means
prepossessing, to report to the executive committee of the auxiliary
branch.

What was to be done? It was necessary that some report should be
made, which, having been approved by the branch and the parent
institution, and laid by them before the Pauperism Society of the
village, might be transmitted to the great Metropolitan Branch of the
General State Association. The grand anniversary was approaching;
and what a contemptible figure their returns would make. Under these
circumstances Miss Cross called an extra meeting of the executive
committee.

I do not intend to report the proceedings of this illustrious
delegation, but merely the upshot of them. They actually appointed
a sub-committee, consisting of Miss Cross, who was all of six feet
high, and a pot-bellied tinman who was only four feet eleven, to
wait upon Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins; and to inform them, in a delicate
way, that the auxiliary branch had viewed with satisfaction their
efforts to maintain a decent appearance, and had taken into very
particular consideration the causes of their poverty, and the mode
of applying suitable relief. It was well known, the committee were
instructed to say, that they were destitute people, because nobody
wrote to them, and it was a universal subject of wonder how they
lived. They were growing paler and thinner under the influence of
hope deferred, or more probably of no hope at all; and if they would
quit Mrs. Wilkins's, whose charge for board was too high, they might
yet have bright and pleasant days before them, under the patronage of
the society. They might lodge with the aunt of Miss Cross, who had
a nice room in her garret, and took as boarders half a dozen of the
cabinet-maker's apprentices. Mrs. Tompkins could improve her time by
washing and ironing; and something might be done for her husband, in
the way of getting him accounts to cast up for grocers, running about
to collect them, dunning, etc.

So Miss Cross and the tinman went the next afternoon; and, I believe,
that with all the importance they assumed or felt, as members of the
auxiliary branch, there was a little hesitation in their entrance
into the demesne of Mrs. Wilkins. At any rate, I know, that in
mounting the three steps before the door, Miss Cross, by a twitch of
her foot, either nervous or accidental, kicked her colleague, who was
behind her, on his back, or some other part; and set him a rolling
with such emphasis, that he found it troublesome to stand up again
fairly; or, indeed, to know the four points of the compass.

Mr. Tompkins was playing backgammon with his Danish friend, when his
wife opened the door suddenly, with her face flushed, and said, 'My
dear, here are a lady and gentleman, who wish to inquire into the
causes of our poverty, and the means of relieving it.' She laughed
as she spoke, but as she turned away and went up stairs, cried
hysterically.

Mr. Tompkins, who had a man taken up, as the phrase is, and had
just thrown doublets of the very point in which he could not enter,
rose, and issued forth to talk to the sub-committee. I believe, most
devoutly, that he was an amiable man; and as to the vulgar practice
of profane swearing, I do not think he ever had indulged in it before
in his life. But when he discharged this sub-committee, I am credibly
informed, that he availed himself of as round and overwhelming a
volley of blasphemy as ever was heard on board a man-of-war. I hope
it has been pardoned him, among his other transgressions.

Time rolled on, and five years had passed away since the arrival of
Mr. Tompkins and his wife at ----. Curiosity as to them had become
superstition; though the vulgar imaginations of the mechanical
_bourgeois_ of the village had not enabled them to conjure up any
spirit or demon, by whose assistance this inoffensive couple were
enabled to exist without getting into debt. No letters had come,
during all this period, through the hands of the conscientious and
intelligent post-master. No deposite had been made by Mr. Tompkins
in any one of the four banks; nor, to the best of my knowledge and
belief, had he ever seen the inside of either of them; for he never
went to a place where he had no business to transact, or was not
required by courtesy to go.

Death!--which we must all expect, and meet as we can--Death came, and
makes tragical the end of a narrative which I have written, perhaps,
in a strain of too much levity. A fever, occasioned probably by local
influences, seized Mrs. Tompkins, and after a few days' illness,
unexpectedly even to the doctor, she died. Such was the fact; and if
I had all the particulars, I know not why they should be given. It is
hard, however, to realize that any body is dead, with whom we have
long associated; still harder, if we have dearly loved the friend who
has gone before us. I suppose this was the case with Mr. Tompkins,
who did not long wear his widower's weeds. He died too, only eight
weeks afterward.

He followed his wife to the grave, leaning on the arm of his friend,
the Dane--for I may be allowed to call him his friend, as he had no
other--and shed no tears that any body saw. His habits of life were
ostensibly the same as before. He took his morning's walk, and his
afternoon's walk, although he had no wife to accompany him then. He
caused a plain white marble tomb-stone to be erected at the head of
her grave, on which was simply inscribed, 'SUSAN TOMPKINS: Died in
the 49th year of her age.' A fever of the same type with that which
carried off his wife, seized him, and he died as I have already
mentioned.

There is no difficulty in getting up a funeral procession in such
country places. Those who would have cheerfully consigned their own
blood connexions to Don Pedro or the Dey of Algiers, while living,
will make it a matter of business to follow any body's corpse to its
last home: and there is no religion, sentimentality, or poetical
superstition, in their so doing. It is a mere way they have.

Therefore there was no lack of people to make up a procession,
either at the funeral of Mrs. Tompkins or of her husband. There was
a group of rather ragged-looking people, men, women, and children,
who remained after the crowd had gone away, near the graves on both
occasions. They had reason to cry, as they honestly did, for the loss
of those who had been kind to them.

It was a strange circumstance, but it was actually true, that when
Mrs. Wilkins, under Mr. Felburgh's inspection, came to settle up what
was due for the funeral expenses of Mr. Tompkins, and to herself,
they found exactly the amount required, and neither a cent more nor
less. What papers he might have burned after his wife's death I know
not; but the lady and gentleman above-mentioned, who acted as his
legatees, did not find the smallest memorandum or scrap of paper left
by him. The wardrobe of both husband and wife was not extensive, and
the trunks containing their wearing apparel were preserved inviolate
by the respectable Mrs. Wilkins. She has since died. Mr. Felburgh
went shortly after Mr. Tompkins's death to Denmark. If any private
revelations were made to him, he has never divulged them, and I
know he never will. When I saw him in Copenhagen, in the summer of
1826, I did not think he looked like a man who was to stay much
longer in this world of care. He had not any thing to trouble him
particularly, that I know of; except that he had nobody to inherit
his property, and that was not much.

There was another strange circumstance, which I must not pass over. A
few weeks after Mr. Tompkins was buried, a plain tomb-stone, shaped
exactly like that which had been erected by his order over his wife,
appeared at the head of his grave; and on it was inscribed, 'HUGH
TOMPKINS: Died in the 58th year of his age.' Who put it up, no one
could tell, nor is it known to this day.

The burying-ground is as forlorn a place as can well be imagined.
There is only a ragged fence around it, and nothing but rank common
grass, dandelions, and white-weed grow in it. There is nothing
picturesque in or about it; and a Paris belle would rather never die
at all, than be stowed into such vile sepulchral accommodations.

These are all the facts in my knowledge, relating to my hero and
heroine, as to whom and whose resources curiosity is yet so lively,
in the village which I have referred to, but not named, in order to
avoid scandal.

    'The annals of the human race,
      Its records since the world began,
    Of them afford no other trace
     Than this--there lived a man'

and his wife, whose name was Tompkins.

I superscribe my story 'A Simple Tale,' and 'simply,' as Sir Andrew
Aguecheek has it, I believe it is such. It can possess no interest
save from the mystery which hangs over its subjects; no pathos,
except from their loneliness on the earth, into whose common bosom
they have been consigned, leaving only such frail memorials behind
them as their laconic epitaphs and this evanescent legend.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] We have no doubt, that in presenting this inimitable sketch of
the lamented SANDS, we are conferring an _original_ favor upon a
large majority of our readers; while the few to whom it will not be
wholly new, will thank us for reviving it in their recollection. It
was first published in 'The Talisman,' a New-York annual for the year
1829, at which time this costly species of 'butterfly literature' had
attained but very limited circulation. When we remember that it was
while writing an article for the KNICKERBOCKER, to which he was to
have been a regular contributor, that the right hand of our departed
friend suddenly forgot its cunning, and his well-stored mind its rich
and varied resources, something of selfish sorrow mingles with our
regret, that he was so early called away.

                                         EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.




ROSALIE.


    I SEEK thy pleasant bower,
      My gentle Rosalie,
    To win its richest flower,
      And find that flower in thee.
    No more, though spring advances,
      I seek her shining train;
    I only meet thy glances,
      And my heart is young again.

    Thou art the morn, fair creature,
      That wakes the birds and roses,
    Thine, is the living feature
      Where light and joy reposes.
    All day, young joy pursuing,
      I've found, when caught, that she
    Was the maid I had been wooing,
      The wild, young Rosalie.

    When first the morning's lustre
      Lights up the fleecy plain,
    When first the shy stars cluster,
      When the moon begins to wane;
    Then do I seek thy bower,
      With a spirit fond and free,
    To win its richest flower,
      And find that flower in thee.

                                            G. B. SINGLETON.




STANZAS.

    'To live in hearts we leave behind
              Is not to die.'

                                                   CAMPBELL.


I.

    I GO, my friend, thank heaven! at last I go,
    Beyond yon clouds that sail, yon stars that glow,
    And every thing that liveth here below
                       Is dead to me!
    The stream on whose green bank I've often read,
    The mountain-sward that felt my twilight tread,
    The flowers around, the leaves above me spread--
                       All--all but thee!

II.

    Yet, idol of my spirit! from thy heart
    And memory, I shall not all depart,
    And thou wilt then remain what now thou art;
                      And friendship's spell
    Will with our pleasures people each lov'd scene,
    The cascade's fount, the glade's romantic green,
    The woodland with the sunset's gold between,
                      And classic dell.

III.

    Oh! is it not a pleasure and a pride,
    To think that we on earth shall be allied
    With those who loved us, when we shall have died,
                       And sunk to rest--
    And that fond aspirations will arise
    To HIM who ruleth earth, and sea, and skies,
    That we be, by His saving sacrifice,
                       Among the blest!

_Philadelphia, October, 1837._           JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA.




'NURSERIES OF AMERICAN FREEMEN.'

NUMBER TWO.


THE preparation and selection of suitable text-books for schools is
a matter of great importance. Books are the great means by which the
mind acts, in the acquisition of knowledge. But it is not every thing
which bears the name of a book, that is to be regarded as the means
of mental improvement. Since the invention of the art of printing, an
immensity of paper and ink has been wasted in giving a wide extension
to works which display the ignorance and imbecility of their authors,
while at the same time, this noble art has placed within the reach
of all the result of the mental labors and inquiries of the most
gifted minds. The choice of books is of vast moment in the business
of education, and text-books for schools require to be selected with
great judgment and care.

School-books constitute the only species of American literature
which has hitherto met with adequate encouragement. Stimulated by
the vanity of authorship, by the desire of wealth, or by a wish to
be useful, or by all these principles combined in different degrees,
hundreds of competitors have started in this race. American talent
has been very prolific in this species of authorship; and that
person must be well versed in the subject, who can give even the
names of those who have produced spelling-books, reading-books,
English grammars, arithmetics, geographies, astronomies, natural
philosophies, and other books of school literature and science. In
order to avoid the character of plagiarism, or from an ambition
to produce something new, or from whim and caprice, changes have
perpetually been made in text-books for schools, until there has come
to be among them a confusion like that of Babel. Innovation, without
substantial improvement, is the bane of school authorship.

That person has a very inadequate idea of the subject, who supposes
that it requires only ordinary talents and acquirements to produce
good text-books for schools. There is a great difference in these
works, indeed, as it respects the ability necessary to produce
them. It may require, for example, less talent to compile a good
reading-book, made up merely of selections from different authors,
than to compose a good text-book on natural philosophy, where the
matter requires to be thoroughly digested; but the hand of a master
is required to mould every species of material into a proper form.
It is a high effort of genius to simplify knowledge, and to bring
down the loftiness of science to the familiar comprehension of the
youthful mind. A mind of a high order will generally leave its
impress on whatever it undertakes; and although it may compose a
primer for children, there will generally be something in its matter
or form, which will show that it is not the production of ordinary
talents and acquirements. Dr. Watts displays the same genius in the
books which he wrote for children, as in those profound works in
which he developed the philosophy of mind. When the storm of the
French revolution was raging, and sending forth its lightning and its
thunder, and threatened to rive the British nation in pieces, Hannah
More was one of those master-spirits that rode upon this whirlwind
and directed this storm. By her small 'Cheap Repository Tracts,'
addressed to the common people of England, who in a mental point of
view were a kind of children, she became the safe-guard of the morals
of her country; and the principal men in church and in state hailed
these simple publications, as most happily adapted to their purpose,
and as saying that which they could not themselves have said so well.

While distinguished talents and extensive knowledge are necessary
for those who would write good books for children, a familiar
acquaintance with young minds, the fruit of much study or of
experience in instructing them, is of essential importance. For this
reason, some practical teachers have succeeded better in producing
school-books than some other men, who have possessed greater talents
and superior knowledge. But talents and knowledge, when combined
with experience, will give superior advantages. THOMAS H. GALLAUDET,
of Hartford, whose sermons have received high commendation from
English criticism, and which are among the best specimens of fine
writing which Americans have produced, if he had never engaged in
the business of teaching, might have been an elegant scholar and
a fine writer, but he could never have composed the 'Child's Book
on the Soul.' His capacity to produce works of that description
was acquired in teaching the deaf and dumb. In the institution
for their instruction, over which he presided, being concerned
with minds peculiarly uninstructed, he learned by experience the
avenues to untaught minds, and his simple works are among the finest
exhibitions of his talents. An English Review of his 'Class-Book
of Natural Theology for Common Schools and Academies,' has the
following remarks: 'This work has much heightened our opinion of
Mr. Gallaudet's talents as a writer for the young. He has learned
(by educating the deaf and dumb,) what gentle patience, and what
clear and precise explanation must be used to convey instruction
to, and fix correct ideas in, minds not yet unfolded, nor imbued
with knowledge. A book like this is no work of chance, but is the
result of great expense of time, thought, and tact, in devising and
perfecting it.'

To produce text-books for schools, such as are needed, the best
talents of the country should be put in requisition. In some
instances, such talents have been engaged on this subject; but there
is a necessity that they should be much more extensively employed
than they have hitherto been. How utterly unqualified many authors
have been to produce good school-books, their crude and ill-digested
works bear abundant testimony.

It cannot be expected that text-books for schools should contain
treatises very much in detail on some of the sciences to which they
relate, and hence they should be very select in their materials. In
constructing them, it requires as much judgment to know what to omit,
as what to insert. Text-books on the sciences for schools should be
peculiarly simple and perspicuous in their language, and clear as
day-light in their arrangement and their illustrations.

Very considerable advances are supposed by many to have been
recently made in school-books. These pretended improvements have
often consisted more of show than of substance, and much remains
yet to be done, although it is not to be denied that some advances
have been made. In works of this kind, there was, in former times,
too little adaptation to the comprehension of the youthful mind.
In recent times, school-books have been made more simple and more
intelligible to children, and it is questionable whether the tendency
be not, at present, to an unprofitable childishness. It is not
necessary to adopt all the familiarities of children, in order to
be understood by them; and the language used in instructing them
should always be a little in advance of their present attainments,
that they may be continually raised to a higher standard. The Roman
women were peculiarly attentive to the language of their children,
and by habituating them from early childhood to a pure and elevated
diction, they prepared them, under great disadvantages for education,
compared with those which are now enjoyed, to be either themselves
distinguished orators, or if not, to be capable of apprehending
the beauties and feeling the force of the highest efforts of their
orators.

In school-books, a great deal of noise and useless parade has been
recently made about the introduction of the 'Analytic Method.' Many
persons seem to consider this improvement to be like the exchange of
the logic of Aristotle for that of Lord Bacon. The analytic method
begins with the particular parts of a subject, and after having
surveyed them in detail, combines them into a systematic whole; while
the synthetic method takes a general view of a subject, and then
proceeds to an examination in detail of its several parts. Now it is
a well-established opinion in metaphysical philosophy, that while the
analytical mode is the only true method for the discovery of truth
not always known, the synthetic system has important advantages in
teaching well-settled truth. That person must be a novice in the
business of communicating instruction, who has not learned that a
summary, general view of a subject is an important preparation for
a profitable consideration of its several parts, and that great
confusion will result from attention to particular parts, without
some general and connected views of the whole subject.

A great improvement was supposed to have been made, some years since,
in geography, by a new method of classification and arrangement.
The subjects on which it treats were associated according to their
relation to each other, and not according to their relation to a
particular country. Thus, a chapter would be devoted to colleges,
and these institutions would be treated of in connection with each
other, throughout the world, instead of being separately treated
of, when the particular country in which they are 'located' was
under consideration. The author of this system was Mr. WILLIAM C.
WOODBRIDGE, and his larger work contains, perhaps, a greater variety
of valuable matter than any work on the subject, of equal size, in
the language. His geography has had a circulation sufficiently wide
to satisfy a reasonable ambition, or even cupidity itself. But it is
questionable whether his system of classification is, after all, the
best. One principle of association is laid hold of, while another and
more important principle of association is abandoned. Location of
place is every thing in geography; and an association of particular
facts with the country to which they belong, is more important than
an association of these facts with similar facts, in other parts of
the world. After an abundant trial of this plan, it is believed that
public opinion is reverting back to the old method of classification.
Other geographies, on a different plan, have in a considerable
measure superseded Woodbridge's smaller geography, while as yet no
work has been produced on a different plan, which has sufficient
merit to occupy the place of his larger geography, unless the recent
work of Bradford, taken chiefly from Balbi's Geography, be of this
character. This work will be found to be exceedingly rich in its
materials, and peculiarly lucid in its arrangement.

Among the attempted improvements in arithmetic, what is generally
denominated 'mental arithmetic,' stands conspicuous. That arithmetics
in former times were too abstract, too little applied to the business
of life, is undoubtedly true. To obviate this, mental arithmetic has
been introduced. This exercise the scholar generally commences at the
beginning of his course. A little of it might not be unprofitable;
but it is believed that the tendency, at present, is to give it
too great a prominence. It would seem as if, in the view of some
writers on this subject, the first efforts of the child in numbers
should be to invent to himself rules of arithmetic, a work to which
he is utterly unequal. In some recent arithmetics, vulgar fractions
will be found mingled, with simple addition, and the child will be
required to solve difficult questions in the former, before he is
well acquainted with the latter. This is altogether preposterous.
Mental arithmetic has much less application to the business of life,
than is often supposed. Few men of business rely very extensively
on mental calculations, in preference to their pen or their slate,
for two reasons. The one is, that in written calculations there
is more certainty of correctness, and the other is, that they are
incapable of inventing shorter and better rules for arriving at their
results, than the rules of a good arithmetic. As an exercise of the
mind, mental arithmetic may serve to sharpen the ingenuity, and give
vigor to the faculties. But there is another exercise, which has
been strangely overlooked by the writers of arithmetics for schools,
which would be superior to it as a mental discipline, and that is, a
demonstration of the rules of arithmetic, in which the reasons for
every operation, in every rule, should be scientifically unfolded.
The scholar would thus be led, in the true analytical method, to
unravel the mental process by which the inventor of the rule arrived
at it as a conclusion. Not more than two or three arithmetics,
intended for common schools, have attempted this, in a general and
scientific manner.

Among the improvements in regard to text-books for schools,
many familiar treatises on general science stand conspicuous.
School-literature is taking a wider range than formerly. Even in
common schools, by the introduction of such a work as the 'Scientific
Class-Book' as a reading-book, two important objects would be secured
at the same time; while youth are learning to read with propriety,
their minds will also be stored with many of the principles of
natural philosophy, astronomy, chemistry, botany, and political
economy, with other important subjects. Reading-books for schools
have extensively been of that character usually denominated 'light
reading.' But too much light reading, it should never be forgotten,
is exceedingly well calculated to make light heads. Works for
the youth of our schools, should be filled with substantial and
systematic knowledge.

Among reading-books for schools, the Bible holds a distinguished
place; and there is reason to apprehend that, of late years, it has
been too often excluded from these institutions. Moral instruction in
schools is of equal importance with that which is intellectual; and
no means of moral instruction can be compared to the Scriptures. And
even aside from their sublime doctrines, their pure morality, their
immense practical bearing upon the heart and the life, there is no
book where grandeur of thought is equally combined with simplicity
of language, and where lofty ideas are so completely brought down
to the comprehension of children. It will hence be found, that the
reading of the Scriptures will be to them the most easy kind of
reading, and well calculated to produce that natural tone and manner
which constitute its perfection. They contain no high-sounding words,
introduced to give a factitious dignity, where real dignity is
wanting; no inversion, for the purpose of surrounding an idea with a
mist, which may magnify its importance. Whether the whole Bible is
used, or the New-Testament only, or extracts from different parts of
the whole Scriptures, may be safely left to the decision of those who
are charged with the selection of school-books. Several volumes of
sacred extracts, well fitted to this object, have from time to time
been made; and among them, one was executed, some years since, with
great judgment and taste, by Dr. MCKEAN, Professor of Rhetoric and
Oratory in Harvard University, and another, more recently, by Dr.
PORTER, President of the Andover Theological Seminary.

To undertake to discuss, at large, the subject of school-literature,
or the merits of the more prominent text-books for schools, would
greatly exceed the limits of this paper. But it is a subject of great
importance, and one of which no person should be ignorant, who has
any concern in the management of schools. Such is the ignorance of
many teachers, and even of the most intelligent men in the community,
in regard to school-books, that many works of this kind have obtained
a circulation to which they are not entitled. No person of general
information should suffer himself to be uninformed in regard to
school-literature. School books need a literary censorship, very
different from that to which they have hitherto been subject. If
all the literati of the country were well versed in this matter,
and would bring their opinions to bear on school-authors, a public
opinion might be formed which would fix the seal of approbation on
valuable school-books, and a mark of censure, which would help to
consign them to speedy oblivion, on those of a different description.
If teachers should not be suffered to instruct without having their
qualifications put to a strict test, still less should text-books be
introduced into schools, until they have undergone a still more rigid
scrutiny, by persons competent to decide on their merits.

It has been suggested, in some of the public prints, that it should
be the business of the superintendent of common schools to select
text-books for the common schools in the state of New-York. It is
questionable whether any single man could be found, to whom it
would be safe to trust this important concern. DE WITT CLINTON
himself, were he now living, would be unequal to the work, unless
he were to qualify himself for it by an attention to the subject,
such as he never gave. He, in conjunction with other distinguished
literary men, recommended 'Bartlett's National School Manual,' a
work containing many good things, but exceedingly defective as a
whole. Like Pharaoh's lean kine, it is calculated to devour all other
school-books, but after having done so, it would be a meagre skeleton
still. The truth is, that a great majority of the most distinguished
literary men in the country have devoted so little attention to
school-literature, that on their recommendation of school-books but
little reliance can be placed. But such ought not to be the case; for
the subject is too important to be delivered over to less competent
hands.

A systematic arrangement and vigilant inspection of schools,
stands intimately connected with their prosperity. They are a
complicated concern, and like all such concerns, they require
great and systematic attention. School-houses must be provided,
fitted up with neatness and convenience, and worthy of the names of
temples of science. It is disgraceful to science, to have mean and
incommodious school-houses, in the midst of commodious or splendid
dwelling-houses. They should be well lighted, have convenient benches
and desks, and at the proper season, be easily and comfortably
warmed. Every teacher knows how important these things are to
the successful prosecution of the business of a school. If the
school-room be hung round with maps and charts, and scientific
diagrams, it will be so much the better. According to the laws of
association by which the course of thought in the human mind is
regulated, these things will take a strong hold of the susceptible
minds of children, awaken a scientific curiosity, and divert them
from their play to the proper business of the school-room, as well as
afford valuable aids to the teacher in the business of instruction.

A number of well-qualified and laborious inspectors constitute an
essential part of every good school organization. It should be the
business of these inspectors to examine into the qualifications of
teachers, and to see in what manner the business of instruction is
carried on. No teacher should be employed, until his qualifications
have been put to a rigid test. In the case of public schools, this
should be done by public authority; and in private schools, the
patrons should select a suitable number of persons, competent to
perform this work. 'Good recommendations,' as they are called,
are obtained with such facility, and given, even by persons of
respectability, with so much carelessness, that comparatively but
little reliance can be placed on them.

Inspectors of schools should frequently visit them, see them in their
every-day dress, and learn whether instruction is thoroughly and
judiciously given. The competent and faithful teacher will be highly
pleased with such visitation. It will show him that his work is not
undervalued, and will stimulate him to greater exertion, while the
incompetent teacher will be likely to expose his deficiencies in a
way which will lead to their correction. Scholars, also, will be
greatly stimulated to effort by the frequent and judicious visitation
of schools. It will show them that they are engaged in no unimportant
employment, and convince them that an education is worthy of their
strenuous and persevering exertions.

Public inspectors have generally been selected from intelligent men
of business; and experience has proved that, amidst their other
numerous avocations, this is very likely to be neglected. Perhaps a
different arrangement of this business would be more effectual. Let
a thoroughly competent person, a man of large views, and general
knowledge, be selected and appointed an inspector, and receive a
sufficient compensation to devote a considerable portion of his time
to this subject; let him have under his charge the schools of a
sufficiently extensive district; let him spend a considerable time
in these schools in rotation, inspect the manner in which they are
instructed, suggest to the teachers any improvements in the method
of instruction and government, and be, in fact, a kind of regimental
school-master. In some of the states, it has been found difficult
to procure men of sufficient legal attainments for judges of the
county courts. To remedy the evil, a chief judge has been appointed,
of extensive legal science, to travel from county to county, and to
preside, with associate judges, in these courts; and the arrangement
has been found eminently beneficial. The course just proposed would
equally contribute to raise the character and promote the interests
of common schools.

Among the improvements which have been recently introduced into
schools, that of illustrating the sciences by means of simple and
appropriate apparatus, deserves to be particularly noticed. Apparatus
for the illustration of the sciences has long existed in colleges,
and no institution of the kind would be thought worthy of patronage,
which did not possess it. But apparatus is not more necessary in
colleges, than is appropriate apparatus in schools. Indeed, from the
nature of the case, it would seem to be more necessary in schools
than in colleges. Children and youth, in the earlier stages of their
education, are naturally volatile, and need something to fix their
attention. They are less accustomed to abstract reflection than
persons of a more advanced age, and therefore have greater need of a
visible illustration of the sciences.

Apparatus for schools needs to be materially different from that
usually found in colleges, which is generally so expensive, as to
be altogether beyond the reach of ordinary schools. Apparatus for
schools must be cheap, or it will not be generally introduced; it
must be neat, or scholars will turn away from it with disgust, and
science will be disgraced by its slovenly appearance; it must be
scientific, or it will be good for nothing. It may be scientific
without being expensive. The value of a machine for scientific
illustration depends much more upon its peculiar construction, than
upon its mechanical execution.

By the use of apparatus, two avenues are opened to the mind where
but one existed before, and the eye becomes auxiliary to the
understanding, in the acquisition of knowledge. Appropriate apparatus
is alike calculated to illustrate the sciences, and deeply to impress
their principles upon the memory. Some kinds of apparatus have long
been found in schools. Geography has long had the aid of maps, and
no teacher would use a geography which was not furnished with a
respectable atlas. But maps alone are not a sufficient apparatus
in teaching geography. A globular revolving map of the world, a
globe, and a cylindrical revolving Mercator's chart, will furnish
important aid in explaining the globular, polar, and Mercator's
projections of a map of the world. Astronomy and natural philosophy
can no more be successfully taught without the use of machines,
than can geography without the use of maps. No text-book on these
subjects would be thought fit for use, which was not furnished with
plates and diagrams. But plates and diagrams are but an inferior
kind of apparatus; the objects which they represent are extensively
presented in perspective, and the coarse manner in which these
plates are executed, as well as the intrinsic difficulties of the
subject, render them but imperfect substitutes for machines and
models for illustration. The great leading principles of descriptive
astronomy may, by means of a cheap machinery, be made matters
of ocular demonstration, and thus be rendered intelligible to
children. Natural philosophy acquires a greatly increased interest,
in an illustration by experiment. All that variety of labor-saving
machinery by which human toil is so extensively superseded, and the
arts and conveniences of life so signally advanced, are but different
combinations of the mechanical powers. Mechanics, not illustrated by
machinery, is a dry study, but by its use a great interest is created
in the subject, and some slumbering genius may be awakened in a
common school, that may originate discoveries in the arts, which will
tell on the destinies of men, like the cotton-gin of WHITNEY, the
cotton-spinning machines of ARKWRIGHT, or the steam-boat of FULTON.
The time is rapidly coming, when no school will be considered well
furnished, which has not a respectable apparatus for the illustration
of the sciences, nor any teacher well qualified for his work, who
does not understand how successfully to use it. Skill in the use of
apparatus must be the result of much attention to the subject; and
the teacher should labor to acquire it with the same assiduity with
which he strives to make himself acquainted with the sciences which
he professes to teach.

It is interesting to reflect on the cheering prospect which the
advancing cause of education holds out in regard to the perpetuity
of the American government, and the extension of the blessings of
freedom to the civilized world. In passing over the long tract of
time which authentic history discloses to the view, it is painful to
observe how extensively tyranny has swayed an iron sceptre over the
destinies of men; how governments, instead of being calculated to
promote the interests of the people, have been artfully contrived to
cause the multitude to toil and sweat for the gratification of the
pampered few. How few are the green spots in the history of man, on
which the friend of human rights delights to fix his contemplations!
There have indeed existed some commonwealths, under the name of
republics, but they have generally failed to affect, to any great
extent, the purposes of a well-organized government. Greece and Rome,
in their best estates, though denominated republics, were turbulent
democracies, or over-bearing aristocracies, and both by turns.
Deriving their notion of republics from these splendid failures,
European politicians, on the commencement of the American experiment,
predicted for it a disorderly course, and a speedy termination.
They seemed to have overlooked the fact, that the constitution of
the American government, and of American society, is wholly unlike
that of the ancient republics. But while they have been watching,
and waiting, and in many instances, hoping, for its downfall, their
hopes have been signally disappointed. The American government has
indeed been exposed to agitations. The storm of party violence and of
sectional interest has beaten around it. But, like the majestic oak,
instead of being prostrated by the blast, it has only caused it to
strike its roots more deeply, and to obtain a firmer footing in the
soil.

A general and well-conducted education nursed American liberty in
its infancy, and is destined to sustain it in its maturity. The
first settlers of New-England, whose example has told so widely
on the destinies of the American people, after constructing a few
log-houses, for the accommodation of their families, generally
proceeded to the erection of a church, and planted a school-house
by its side. The cause of education has never been regarded with
indifference by the people of the United States, and it is yearly
taking a deeper hold of the public mind. The governors of the states
recommend it in their annual speeches to the fostering care of the
legislatures, as one of the most important public interests, and laws
are frequently enacted for its protection and advancement. Means are
in increasing operation to raise up a nation of intelligent freemen.
There is no fear that the cause of education will become retrograde
in the United States. The old states are laboring to supply their
former deficiencies, and some of the first acts of sovereignty in
the new states consist in legislating for the advancement of the
interests of schools.

Every intelligent citizen of this republic cannot fail to be
convinced of the excellency of the government under which he lives,
and of feeling a deep interest in its stability and perpetuity.
He will perceive how abundantly it secures to him the unmolested
enjoyment of all his rights, and at how cheap a rate all this
protection is afforded. However the great Johnson may scowl upon
the sentiment of the equally great Milton, that 'the trappings of a
monarchy are sufficient to set up an ordinary commonwealth,' many
a man, under an oppressive monarchy, who has been taxed from the
crown of his head to the sole of his foot, and from his cradle to
his grave, has felt the full force of its truth and importance.
Education, by enabling the American citizen to compare the
excellencies of his own government with the defects of different
governments, in other nations, and through all time, has a tendency
to strengthen his love of country, and thus tyranny itself becomes
auxiliary to the support of the American constitution.

One of the greatest dangers to which the government of the United
States is exposed, is party spirit, which arms one portion of the
community against another, and causes measures to be approved or
disapproved, not from their intrinsic excellencies or defects, but
from a blind devotion, or a virulent opposition, to those by whom
they are supported. This is one of the evils incident to freedom.
But party spirit can never put on its most appalling form among an
intelligent people. However a few men, who are seeking for stations
of honor and of profit, may pursue a course which has their own
advancement only for its object, the mass of the people can have
no interest which is separate from that of their country. And with
intelligence to understand the true interests of the republic, and to
judge correctly of public men and public measures, they will be proof
against the arts of ambitious demagogues, and extensively free from
party violence. They will cling to the constitution of their country,
as the ark of their safety, and the charter of their hopes.

Education is not only moving onward in the United States, but it is
also assuming a more promising aspect in other parts of the world.
In Prussia, in Great Britain, in France, in Germany, and in some
other European countries, it is advancing, and in some instances
with surprising rapidity. That this advancement will be favorable
to civil liberty, there can be no doubt. The most intelligent
nations have always been the most free, and the most difficult to
be enslaved. There is not a throne in Europe, but is based, to a
greater or less extent, upon the ignorance of the people, and which
will not totter and fall, or be greatly modified in its structure, by
the general prevalence of education. Oppression and abuses will not
abide the light. The multitude are too strong for their oppressors.
They need only to understand their rights, in order to assert them,
and they need only to assert, in order to maintain them. They now
obey despotic rulers for the same reason that the inferior animals
are subject to man, because they know not how to resist, or that
resistance would be availing. Education will instruct them on both
these points.

Beneath the whole surface of European society are smouldering fires,
which threaten to break forth in some terrible volcano, that may
spread desolation and destruction far and wide. The privileged few
are marshalling themselves against the oppressed many, and the
many are preparing for a conflict with the few, and their several
pretensions must at length be put to issue. The monarchs of Europe,
supported by the prescription of ages, and surrounded by powerful
aristocracies, as so many body-guards, may refuse to listen to
retrenchment and reform, and set themselves in array against the
rights of the people. With the means at their command, they may
oppose powerful obstructions to the progress of civil liberty; but
it will be like damming up a mighty river, the force of which will
be augmented by the resistance with which it is opposed, and which
must at length break loose, and bear all before it. Revolutions in
European governments are as sure as the progress of time; and the
increasing intelligence of the people affords reason to expect that
their result will be the more firm establishment of human rights.
A great intellectual and moral training is necessary, to prepare a
people for freedom; and a great change must take place in regard to
the intelligence and virtue of every nation in Europe, before an
entirely free government would be to them a blessing. LAFAYETTE,
though a republican in principle, judged, and no doubt correctly,
that a limited monarchy was the best government which France is
prepared at present to enjoy, and to the erection and support of such
a government he contributed his influence.

The advancing cause of education, however, is preparing Europe for a
higher destiny; and there is reason to hope that she will not stop in
her career of improvement, until the intelligence and virtue of her
population shall prepare them for the full enjoyment of freedom, and
put them in possession of its substantial blessings. How long it will
be before such an event will occur, no human sagacity can precisely
predict. The struggle of freedom may be protracted and arduous, but
her ultimate triumph is certain; and even the distant prospect of it
will be cheering to every friend of human rights.

                                                          H.




OLD AGE.

BY REV. C. C. COLTON, AUTHOR OF 'LACON.'

    THOU anti-climax in life's wrinkled page,
    Worst end of bad beginning--helpless Age!
    Thou sow'st the thorn, though long the flower hath fled;
    Alive to torment, but to transport dead;
    Imposing still, through time's still rough'ning road,
    With strength diminish'd, an augmented load:
    Slow herald of the tomb! sent but to make
    Man curse that giftless gift thou wilt not take;
    When hope and patience both give up the strife,
    Death is thy cure--for thy disease is life!




HUNTING SONG.


I.

    AWAKE--awake! for the day-beams break,
      And the morning wind blows free;
    The huntsmen strain over hill and plain,
      And the horn winds merrily!
    'Tis the dawn of day; and the shadows play
      O'er the paths in the woody glen;
    And the scent lies still upon field and hill,
      For the hound to thread again.
    Away--away! while the morn is gray,
      And the feathery mist hangs nigh;
    The hound bays deep from the craggy steep,
      And the horn winds merrily!

II.

    Press on--press on! o'er the dewy lawn,
      And through the greenwood still;
    The brook is passed, and the stag breathes fast,
      As he pants on yonder hill.
    The sun peeps now from the mountain's brow,
      And the wild bird carolls free,
    While the hot steeds drink at the brook's green brink,
      And the hounds lag heavily.
    But hark! again through the tangled glen,
      Over meadow, and wood, and lea,
    The deep-mouth'd pack resume the track,
      And the horn winds merrily!

_Wilmington, (Del.,) Nov., 1837._        HACK VON STRETCHER.




THE POOR RELATION.

AN AUTHENTIC STORY FROM REAL LIFE.


It was in the early days of Codman county, that Eldred Worthington
swung his axe upon his shoulder, and departed to seek his fortune
in her almost untrodden wilds. Like thousands of others, the early
pioneers of our land, he 'kept bachelor's hall,' until he had 'made
an opening, and reared his rustic cot.' Then, with buoyant heart, he
returned to the place of his nativity, to claim the plighted hand of
Miss Abiah Perley, to become his help-mate in his future home.

To those who know any thing of the difficulties encountered by the
first settlers, it will be unnecessary to portray the toils and
hardships they had to overcome, before the savage was driven farther
back to his forest-lair. They went forward, growing with the growth
of the place; and, in a series of years, rearing a family of eight
sons and four daughters. It was a natural wish of the parents that
their children should not suffer for want of education, as they
themselves had done in early life; and hence they yielded to their
particular wishes. Benjamin, the eldest, desired to be a limb of
the law; the second was for physic, and had his choice; and Thomas,
the third, also, was much gratified, when arrangements were made
for his departure to a neighboring sea-port, to serve a mercantile
apprenticeship. His father was so fortunate as to place him in the
house of an old acquaintance, Mr. John Howard, one of the first
merchants of the city. This gentleman, having commenced life with
nothing but his hands, had become extensively concerned in commerce.
It was the very field for the mercantile propensity of Thomas. He
devoted himself with unceasing assiduity; won the confidence of his
employer; was made supercargo of his vessels in several voyages; and
finally, as the good ship Ajax was bound on an East India voyage, he
again bade farewell to his friends, and went forth upon the distant
seas. He was faithful to the important trusts reposed in him. The
ship was laden and ready to return; when, to the sad dismay of all
on board, who were greatly attached to him, he could not be found!
Every effort was made, for weeks and weeks, but the ship was finally
compelled to sail without him.

Sad was the news for his disconsolate parents, and his good master,
Mr. Howard. Conjecture followed conjecture, but all was mysterious
and appalling. The Ajax returned again to the Indies. The strictest
injunctions were made by Mr. Howard, that no efforts should be
wanting in the endeavor to discover the fate which had befallen
his young friend. Captain Bradshaw, a most excellent man, was
indefatigable; but deeply did he deplore the day that once more
compelled him to weigh anchor, without the slightest tidings to
cheer the anxious parents. Though no voyage was made to the Indies
for many years afterward, without all possible inquiries, yet the
conviction had almost ripened into certainty, that the young man had
been murdered, perhaps in the hope of booty, at his last visit to the
shore, among an unknown people.

       *       *       *       *       *

YEARS rolled away. The region of Codman county advanced rapidly in
settlement, enterprise, and industry. Where once stood the farm of
the elder Worthington, now the thriving, bustling, and enterprising
village of Weckford shot up its aspiring head, with its immense
factories, its capacious stores, and rich and tasteful dwellings. It
was upon the banks of one of the noblest rivers in the world, where
the elder Worthington had sagaciously sat himself down, relying upon
his axe and his arm. But how little did he think, that ere fifty
years had rolled away, the acres he then reclaimed would become
the abode of thousands, and himself thereby rendered one of the
wealthiest men of Codman county. Yet this is but one case of that
talismanic power which has converted the forest into cities, and
given to the poor great riches, in the mighty march of enterprise,
industry, and intelligence, in the marvellous realm of the New
World. Weckford had become a place of great note. It was a central
point of trade for the surrounding country, which was peopling with
astonishing rapidity; and all contributed to give an importance to
the family of the Worthingtons. They were not only very rich, but
were eminent in the estimation of 'all the region round about.' The
sons had grown up under all the advantages which wealth and connexion
could impart. They had studied learned professions, as a matter of
course, and settled in Weckford, relying upon the immense wealth
which the extraordinary rise of property had poured into the lap of
the family. Honors thickened upon them. Benjamin was twice elected to
congress, and all the brothers were at times elevated to favor in the
municipality, or the honors of state partialities.

The father and mother of this numerous family were now in the vale
of years. The prudence, economy, and simplicity, which won the
esteem of all, and laid the foundation of their wealth, continued
to shed a benign influence over their declining days. They were
the very antipodes of the new races who had come upon the stage of
human action; and often did they deplore, in the bosom of their own
domestic circle, that heartless etiquette and cold formality, which
had rendered their children so ambitious to outshine others, and to
be looked up to as the exclusives of Weckford. But there was a deeper
feeling still, which hung heavily over their wasting years; the
painful disappearance of their son, who had ever been their favorite,
but who had also been regarded by the brothers and sisters with that
unnatural jealousy which such a feeling is apt to beget in the minds
of mere worldlings. In October of this year, the aged veteran was
forewarned, by the insidious influences of flickering mortality, that
he was soon to be 'gathered to his fathers:'

    'For Time, though old, is strong in flight;
      Years had rolled swiftly by,
    And Autumn's falling leaf foretold,
      The good old man must die;'

and, with the prudence, foresight, and calmness, which had actuated
him through all his well-spent life, he sent for his estimable
attorney, the honorable Phillip Longfellow, and by his 'last will and
testament' divided his immense estate equally among his children;
but an especial provision was inserted, reserving in the hands of
a trustee, during the period of twenty years, an equal portion of
the whole estate for Thomas, the income of which was to be annually
divided among all the children. The trustee was to use all diligence
in the almost 'forlorn hope' of endeavoring to gain tidings of the
long-lost son. The widow, beside her 'thirds,' had some benefices,
which were to go to the lost son, should he ever be discovered; but
if no intelligence should be gained, within the twenty years, then
the whole reservations were to be equally divided among the other
children.

Winter at length came, with its awful severity to lengthened life,
and the good old Mr. Worthington, mourned by all the villagers, was
followed to the family vault, in the Oaklands of Mount Pleasant,
at the ripe age of ninety-eight years. There is a wedded sympathy
between those who have been united in true love, that but ripens
with the lapse of time. Sixty-nine years had passed away, since Miss
Abiah Perley left her paternal abode, for the rude but rural cot of
Weckford. She had lived, during this long period, in the bonds of
holy love, a pattern of affection, kindness, and peace; and the death
of her husband severed a chord which nothing on earth had power to
unite. It weaned her affections from this world, and she sighed only
to join him in that 'better country' to which, in the fullness of
time, he had been called away; and in less than two years afterward,
the last rites of earth were performed over her departed spirit, as
her mortal ashes were laid beside his to whom her soul had so long
been wedded.

       *       *       *       *       *

SEVERAL years had now elapsed since the death of the parents.
Weckford had continued to advance in population and wealth; and, as
a consequence, the Worthingtons had grown richer and richer. They
had indeed attained the apparent summit of their ambition, for none
assumed to rival them in fashion, wealth, or importance. They were
the leaders of the ton, and the very apex of the élite, in all things.

There were two principal streets in the village of Weckford,
stretching along the banks of the river, as far as the eye could
reach; and the offices, stores, dwellings, and factories of the
Worthingtons, their children, and connexions, were everywhere to be
seen. Many of the mansions, along Pleasant-street, were embellished
with balustrades, where the residents, at the close of the labors
of the day, came forth to enjoy the sweet odors from the flowers
of the gardens, the ornamental trees of the walks, and the cooling
breezes from off the beautiful river. It was at such an hour, that a
stranger, clad in miserable tatters, with a long beard, dishevelled
ringlets, and leaning upon a rough stick, cut from the woods,
tottered slowly and feebly into the village.

'Will you tell me,' said the stranger, inquiring at the door of
a descendant of the Worthingtons, 'where the dwelling of Thomas
Worthington, Esq. is?'

'It is that noble edifice which you see yonder, beyond the long row
of factories.'

The inquirer moved slowly on, apparently scarce able to sustain
himself, from physical imbecility. He was met at the outer gate by a
servant.

'Will you tell your master that a distant relation, from across the
water, who has experienced many misfortunes, desires to see him?'

The servant returned, and ushered the traveller into the outer hall;
and in a few minutes, the owner of the mansion appeared.

'I am, Sir, your supplicant,' said the stranger. 'You doubtless
recollect, that a brother of your mother, residing in Scotland,
had many sons. Misfortunes have thickened upon one of them. He is
poor, and, from a recent loss of every thing by shipwreck, is now
pennyless. He begs a lodging at your hands, and something wherewith
to clothe his almost naked frame.'

'I have nothing to give to stragglers,' said the lord of the mansion.
'Most persons like you are impostors.'

'_I_ am no impostor,' said the petitioner; 'here is proof that I am
not,' taking a letter from the American consul from his pocket; 'but
I am your poor unfortunate cousin; and if you will but relieve my
pressing wants, Providence may put it into my power to reward your
kindness.'

'I repeat, I have nothing to give; and I should advise you to get
some daily work to supply your wants.'

The stranger heaved a deep sigh, and left the house. He tottered on.
It was impossible to pass many dwellings, without encountering one
owned and occupied by a Worthington, or his descendant. He called
upon many; told his misfortunes, and solicited relief; but _all_ were
deaf to his petition, and most of them shut the door in his face.

Late in the evening, an old Quaker gentleman, who accidentally heard
the 'poor relation's' story, while passing the door of one of the
Worthingtons, offered him a lodging and supper. He went with the
benevolent old gentleman; and on the following morning he again
wandered forth, to renew his calls of the day before. It was observed
that he was very particular not to neglect to call upon every _son_
of the deceased Mr. Worthington. He expended several days in this
way, but every where there appeared the same undisguised dread of a
'poor relation.'

At length, he sought the magnificent dwelling of the Honorable
Benjamin Worthington, which was situated about two miles from
the main settlement of the village of Weckford. It stood upon a
commanding eminence, which overlooked the village, and was justly
regarded as one of the most delightful rural retreats that the
country could boast. After going through the usual ceremonies of
the door, he was introduced to the business-office of the 'Oaklands
Mansion.' Presently, the Hon. Mr. Worthington appeared. The stranger
repeated his solicitation for relief, and his claim as a relation;
but here, too, he met nothing but coldness and neglect.

'Then,' said the stranger, 'if you will not relieve the wants of your
most unfortunate cousin, perhaps I can tell you something that will
move your pity. You had a brother Thomas, who, many long years ago,
most mysteriously disappeared?'

'Yes,' said the honorable gentleman; 'but he is no doubt dead, long
and long ago.'

'He is NOT dead!' said the stranger, 'but after an age of misery and
misfortunes, he has returned in poverty and in rags; and now solicits
you to clothe and feed him.'

'Impossible!' exclaimed the Honorable Mr. Worthington.

'Here is a mark upon my arm, received by a burn, when a child, which
proves the truth of what I say,' said the long-lost son.

Horror seemed to convulse the frame of the lord of the Oaklands.
'Take this note,' said he; 'go to the Swan Hotel, a small tavern
directly upon the road, about two miles beyond this, and I will come
to you with some clothes, and money to provide you a passage over the
seas.'

The stranger departed; but not to the Swan inn did he bend his
footsteps. He wandered to the confines of Weckford, where he was
told that a distant relation of the Worthingtons lived, in a small
cottage, a few miles beyond. Here he resolved once more to make
himself known. He did so; and found the inmate, the widow of a cousin
who had come to this country, and settled many years before, in a
neighboring sea-port. He had died, leaving a very small property
to his widow, and an only child. Mrs. Amelia Perley--for this was
the name of the young widow--was overjoyed to see a relative of her
'dear husband,' although in rags. She bade him welcome to her table;
provided some proper clothing for him at once; and with a sweet
smile, that added new pleasure to the offer, she proffered him a home
beneath her humble cottage, until he should find one more congenial.
The poor stranger accepted the favor of the kind-hearted widow, with
becoming thankfulness, and remained under her roof a short time; but
at length suddenly and mysteriously disappeared! Whither he had gone,
his kind hostess knew not, and the rich Worthingtons took no pains
to inquire. They were not a little delighted to be so easily rid of
a 'poor relation,' who might have been a burthen, and a shame; but
most of all was rejoiced the Hon. Benjamin Worthington, to whom the
disclosure of his relationship had been so alarming.

Time passed on, and the disappearance of the mendicant was forgotten
in the whirl of fashion, business, and pleasure; although the
honorable elder brother was now and then visited by a painful
recollection of the 'unfortunate' mark upon the arm of the returned
wanderer.

       *       *       *       *       *

IT was a holiday in Weckford. Business was suspended, and the people
were abroad, participating in the pastimes of the day. A superb
carriage, with four white horses, and servants in livery, drove
through Pleasant-street, and stopped at the 'Mansion-House,' the
first hotel of Weckford. Parlors were taken in the name of 'Mr.
Edmund Perley, and servants, from Scotland.' Forthwith it went upon
the wings of rumor, that 'the rich Mr. Perley had arrived from
Scotland.' As the Worthingtons were aware that the relations of their
mother were reputed to be very rich in Scotland, they gathered to the
hotel, in great numbers, to offer their respects, and solicit the
pleasure of the Honorable Mr. Perley's acquaintance. Day after day
did the Worthingtons, and all the descendants, down to the lowest
contiguity of blood, pour into the 'Mansion-House,' to 'beg the
honor of the rich and Honorable Mr. Perley's visits.' The carriage
of the 'Hon. Benjamin Worthington' was out from the Oaklands, and
the barouche of 'Edward Worthington, Esq.' from the 'Worthington
Mansion.' There was neither end to the family outpouring, nor to
their solicitude to bestow attentions. The stranger was polite in his
replies; and at last, in return, he invited all his kind relatives to
honor him at his levee, at 'the Mansion.'

There never was such an outpouring of Worthingtons. The great halls
of the 'Mansion-House' were filled to repletion. All was gayety,
beauty, and fashion. It was a magnificent assemblage of the richest
and most respectable families of the town; and each one was most
anxious to outstrip the others in doing honors to 'the rich and
distinguished Mr. Perley, from abroad;' when the 'poor relation' made
his appearance, in the midst of the brilliant assembly, dressed in
precisely the same clothes in which he wandered through the village,
and holding in his hand the same uncouth stick, cut from the wilds,
which supported his feeble steps from house to house!

It would be impossible to delineate the various countenances which
were there exhibited. We must leave the filling up of that picture to
the imagination of the reader. It is only necessary to add, that the
stranger was the long-lost Thomas, who had made an immense fortune
in the Indies. He now immediately took steps to carry out the will
of his beloved parent, receiving all the property it gave him. In
the year following, he purchased the delightful retreat of 'Auburn
Grove,' where he erected a charming residence. He soon after led
to the altar the amiable and affectionate young widow, Mrs. Amelia
Perley, who was not too proud to welcome him to her humble cottage,
as a relative of her departed husband, even though he appeared there
in the borrowed tatters of poverty and misfortune. It was a lesson
which is often repeated by the villagers at Weckford, and will do no
harm by being repeated elsewhere.




TO A BELLE.


I.

    IS IT a bliss to see a crowd
         Gazing on thee,
    Or like a gilded insect proud
         In flattery sun thee?
    Is not there a dearer thing,
    Than when a fop, with painted wing,
    Too poor to bless, too weak to sting,
         Dreams he has won thee?

II.

    Is it bliss to think thy charms
         Are lauded ever;
    That all would rush into thy arms,
         And leave thee never?
    O! is it not a sweeter thought,
    That only ONE thy love has sought,
    And in his soul that love is wrought,
         So deep it cannot sever?

III.

    Is it bliss to hear thy praise
         By all repeated;
    To dream a round of sunny days,
         Then find thee cheated?
    O! happier the hidden flower
    Within a far secluded bower,
    Whither some mind of gentle power
         Has long retreated!

IV.

    Is it not bliss to hear thy name
         From lips so holy?
    O! better than the transient flame
         That circles folly.
    If thou art lovely, thou wilt find
    Pure worship from so pure a mind;
    And love that will not leave behind
         One taint of melancholy.

_Written in 1828._                           J. G. PERCIVAL.




FLORAL ASTROLOGY.

    'Flowrets, that shine like small blue stars in the green firmament
        of the Earth.'--CAROVÉ.


    SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,
      One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
    When he call'd the flowers so blue and golden
      Stars, that in Earth's firmament do shine.

    Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
      As Astrologers and Seers of Eld;
    Yet not wrapp'd about with awful mystery,
      Like the burning stars which they beheld.

    Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
      God hath written in those stars above;
    But not less in the bright flowrets under us,
      Stands the revelation of his love.

    Bright and glorious is that revelation,
      Written all over this brave world of ours,
    Making evident our own creation,
      In these stars of earth, the golden flowers.

    And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,
      Sees alike in stars and flowers a part
    Of the self-same universal being
      Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

    Gorgeous flowrets, in the sun-light shining,
      Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
    Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
      Buds that open only to decay!

    Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
      Flaunting gaily in the golden light,
    Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
      Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

    These in flowers and men are more than seeming;
      Workings are they of the self-same powers,
    Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
      Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

    Every where about us are they glowing;
      Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born,
    Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
      Stand like Ruth amid the yellow corn.

    Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
      And in Summer's green-emblazon'd field,
    But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
      In the centre of his brazen shield.

    Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
      On the mountain-top, and by the brink
    Of sequester'd pools, in woodland valleys,
      Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink.

    Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
      Not on graves of bird and beast alone;
    But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
      On the tombs of heroes, carv'd in stone.

    In the cottage of the rudest peasant,
      In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,
    Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
      Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.[2]

    In all places, then, and in all seasons,
      Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,
    Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
      How akin they are to human things.

    And with child-like, credulous affection,
      We behold their tender buds expand,
    Emblems of our own great resurrection,
      Emblems of the bright and better land.

_Cambridge University._                    H. W. LONGFELLOW.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] The Floral Games of the Middle Ages.




GEOGRAPHICAL DISTINCTIONS OF COLOR.

    'Look through nature up to nature's God.'


PERHAPS the most important benefit resulting to mankind from the
study of the natural sciences, is the invention to which it leads of
new arguments in favor of the being and benevolence of the Deity. And
were this the only advantage arising from this study, it would render
it well worthy the attention of the wisest and greatest of men. For
every discovery which philosophers have hitherto made, whether of
some new material element, or of some law or property of matter, has
invariably disclosed fresh proof of the existence of an All-wise
Intelligence. The chemical constitution and governing laws of a drop
of water, even so far as they are now understood, may afford weapons,
wherewith the weakest champion of religion might prevail against the
most ingenious of the worshippers of the Goddess of Chance. Nay, were
the atheist really in search of truth, no champion would be needed.
The humblest flower, the meanest worm, even the dust beneath his
feet, would seem to disclaim an origin in chance, and to warn him not
to neglect the worship of their common Creator.

There can be no more interesting object of attention, than the
examination of the evidences of design, as exhibited in parts of
the intricate machinery of Nature. Physical principles, which, at
first sight, or indeed after much philosophical investigation, have
appeared of but limited importance, or perhaps wholly accidental
or unnecessary, have, upon farther study, been found to rank among
the number of most beautiful and convincing proofs of creative
intelligence; have formed the most important links in the chain which
holds together the material universe.

Such has been the train of thought suggested to the mind of the
writer of this article, by an examination of the nature and physical
relations of COLOR. This property of matter might appear to a
superficial observer as one of inferior importance. He would admit
that the differences of color add to the happiness of the human race,
inasmuch as they give variety and beauty to material objects, and
afford one of the most easy methods of distinguishing them from each
other, but would probably deny that the existence of animal life
is at all dependant upon color, and that it is essential to the
present constitution of things. But let such an one reflect a little
more upon this property--let him consider attentively all its
relations--and he will doubtless change his opinion.

In travelling from the equator toward the poles, we cannot but
be struck with the fact, that there exists a difference of color
corresponding to a change of climate. Under the equator, the covering
of the earth, that is, the vegetation, is darker than in any other
part of the globe; and, as there is but little change of climate
through the year, this dark covering does not give place either
to the light tints of autumn, or to the snowy robe of winter. In
advancing north, the foliage becomes lighter in proportion to the
increase of latitude. In the temperate zone, the dark, rich robe of
the tropics gives place to one of livelier hue, which, after covering
the earth during a part of the year, assumes the light colors of
decay, and is buried beneath the snow. Thus this change continues
to keep pace with the diminution of temperature, till we enter the
frigid zone, and reach the region of eternal frost.

From this difference of color in the north and south, and in summer
and winter, we may deduce this general fact, that the earth adapts
itself in color to the variations of temperature, presenting a dark
surface to the heat of summer and the tropics, and a light one to the
cold of winter and the frigid zone.

So much then for the fact. Let us now consider the design of such an
arrangement. When a body contains more caloric than the air, or the
other bodies by which it is surrounded, heat is given off from it in
all directions, till the equilibrium is restored. Three, and perhaps
more, physical operations take place in this case; radiation from
the heated substance, reflection and absorption by the surrounding
bodies. Now it has been proved, by repeated experiment, that these
changes depend, as it regards their extent and rapidity, upon the
color of the bodies. The more light-colored the heated substance is,
the more slowly will it part with its superfluous caloric. Were it
entirely black, the change would take place with more rapidity than
in any other case. If the surrounding bodies were of a light color,
a large portion of the heat radiated upon them would be reflected,
and but little absorbed. Just the contrary would take place were
they dark. The caloric would nearly all be absorbed, and but little
reflected.

Similar to these are the phenomena of light. Bright substances
reflect, and dark absorb, the rays from a luminous body. This,
however, is hardly a correct method of expressing the fact intended.
Philosophers believe that darkness of color is not the cause of
the absorption of the luminous rays, but, on the contrary, that
this absorption is the cause of the darkness. The fact in question
then is this; some bodies are of such a chemical constitution,
that they readily absorb light, and, as a consequence, little
being reflected to the eye, they appear dark. Others, differently
constituted, reflect nearly all the light that is thrown upon them,
and, therefore, the lightness of their color bears proportion to such
reflection.

Let us apply these facts to the explanation of the design of the
geographical distinctions of color, of which we are treating. Suppose
that the arrangement were different. Suppose, for instance, that the
portion of the earth near the equator presented, throughout the year,
a white surface to the sun. The rays of heat from that body would
nearly all, upon reaching such a surface, be reflected back into the
atmosphere, and would heat that part of it immediately bordering
the earth, and most exposed to this reflection, to such a degree as
to make the climate insupportable. The consequence would be, that a
large portion of the earth would be rendered uninhabitable. But, by
the existing provision, the rays of caloric pass directly through the
air, heating it comparatively little, and are, for the most part,
absorbed by the earth. The principle is similar in regard to light.
Had the constitution of the covering of the earth in the tropics been
such as to reflect the luminous rays, which are far more numerous
and brilliant there than at the poles, the overpowering glare of
light would alone have been sufficient to render those regions
uninhabitable by any known species of animals.

Again: Let us suppose that the earth were clothed with a dark
covering in the frigid zone. The few and oblique rays of heat, in
that part of the globe would, after imparting but little of their
caloric to the atmosphere, in their passage through it, be absorbed
by the earth. The same effect would take place in regard to the rays
of light, which are similarly few and feeble. It is easy to perceive
the effect these things would have in darkening the polar regions,
in greatly diminishing the temperature of the atmosphere, and, as a
consequence, in contracting the extent of the inhabitable part of the
globe. Thus we see, that by means of the snow, nay, by one, and as
some would think, the least important of its properties, _i. e._, its
color, man and his fellow animals are enabled to live in regions, the
climate of which, without the instrumentality of this property, would
destroy them.

After speaking of the change of color corresponding to change
of latitude, it were superfluous to dwell at length upon the
corresponding change of season, since the principle is precisely the
same in each case. There can be no doubt but that in the temperate
zone, the climate throughout the year is to a great extent equalized
by this happy arrangement; that, without it, our winters would be
much more rigorous, and our summers proportionably oppressive.

In passing, we might speak of another evil that would arise from
snow being of a darker color. Upon a sudden change of temperature,
it would melt very rapidly, and, if collected in any quantity, would
occasion dreadful inundations, which would sweep and desolate the
country. Such accidents occur even now in some parts of the world.
How much more frequent and destructive they would be, in the case we
have supposed, it is easy to conceive.

Who then can deny that we have, in the general principle which unites
these phenomena, a well-attested instance of benevolent design? Who
will assert that so beautiful and necessary a provision could be the
result of chance?

But perhaps some one will say: 'It is true that there appears to be
a happy adjustment of the color of the surface of the earth. It is
true that this adjustment has an important influence in diminishing
the difference of the temperatures of the polar and equatorial
regions, and in rendering them both fit abodes of animals. But then,
unhappily for the symmetry of the whole theory, no exception to
the general principle is made in favor of the animals themselves.
The inhabitants of the torrid zone, and man in a more marked and
invariable manner than all the rest, are distinguished by the dark
color peculiar to that part of the globe; so that they absorb the
heat in an equal degree with, or perhaps greater than, the earth,
since its color is even lighter than theirs. We find the same fact to
exist as we advance from the equator toward the poles. The covering
of the greater part of animals becomes lighter proportionally with
the surface of the earth. In the frigid zone, the light color of man
as well as of other animals, for instance the white bear, ermine,
etc., must necessarily repel from their bodies by reflection a
quantity of heat proportional to that which the atmosphere gains by
reflection from the snow. This fact strikes us still more forcibly
in the temperate zone, where the difference of climate, resulting
from change of season, is greater than in any other part of the
globe. Here our color is actually darkened by the heat of summer, in
proportion to our exposure to it, and becomes lighter at the approach
of winter. So that we are rendered by the heat itself more capable
of absorbing it, and, consequently, of suffering from it. Surely, we
cannot consider these things as evidences of design.'

But let us attentively examine these facts, and we shall find that
the seeming difficulty disappears, and that the truths which gave
rise to it, unite in a symmetrical whole with the others which we
have mentioned, to form a cumulative and unanswerable argument in
favor of the existence of a benevolent Creator.

Animal bodies do not depend for the quantity of caloric necessary
to their existence upon the sun. By chemical changes, not yet well
understood by philosophers, depending upon that subtle ethereal
principle which we call _life_,[3] a sufficient quantity of animal or
vital heat, as it is called, is evolved within the body itself. As
this heat is constantly generated, it is necessary, in order that the
body may not acquire too high a temperature, that it be as constantly
conducted or radiated off. When the atmosphere contains too little
caloric, its power of absorbing heat is so great as to deprive the
animal body of it more rapidly than it is generated; thus producing
the sensation of cold. On the contrary, when the weather is too
warm, the air and other surrounding bodies, having less attraction
for caloric, do not withdraw it as fast as it is generated; thus
producing the feeling of heat. Perhaps, however, this is scarcely a
scientific method of stating the fact in question. It is generally
supposed by philosophers, that all bodies, whether in equilibrium,
as it regards temperature, with surrounding substances, or not, are
constantly radiating and absorbing caloric. When equally heated,
the cause of their continuing so is, that they receive as much as
they give off. When unequally heated, that which contains most
caloric radiates more than the rest, and, of course, absorbs less
than it parts with. By this means, an equilibrium of temperature
is after a time brought about. Now, in cold weather, the heat which
an animal body radiates is greater in quantity than the sum of what
it generates itself, and absorbs from the sun and other bodies. The
consequence is, it experiences the feeling of cold. In warm weather,
the caloric radiated is less than that absorbed and generated; in
which case, the animal suffers from heat. The vital heat of the
generality of quadrupeds and other warm-blooded animals is several
degrees greater in intensity than that of the atmosphere, during the
warmest season in the tropics. The temperature of the human body is
about ninety-eight degrees. The mean equatorial temperature Humboldt
proved by repeated experiment to be eighty-one and a half degrees.
It is evident, therefore, that in warm regions it is more important
that the physical state and constitution of animal bodies should
be adapted to the radiation of internal, than to the reflection of
external heat, since the intensity of the former exceeds that of the
latter.

Now we have before mentioned the fact, that the rapidity of the
radiation of caloric from a heated body is in proportion to the
darkness of its color. This then, taken in connection with the facts
just stated, readily explains the reason why the color of animals
varies with the temperature. The negroes of Africa, for example, are
provided with a dark complexion, in order that the great quantity
of heat which the warmth of their climate causes them to absorb,
may be compensated for by an increased radiation. These unfortunate
people, when they come to the north, as might be supposed, suffer
at first extremely from the cold. They in time, however, become
somewhat inured to it. Nature provides for them by another species
of adaptation, which we cannot stop minutely to describe, but which
may be proved to take place. The effect of it is to increase the
evolution of animal heat, and thus to make up for the excessive
radiation. Natives of high latitudes, however, are white, as has
been said, and consequently their limited absorption of heat is
compensated for by an equally limited radiation. We see, also, from
this general principle, the design of the skin being so formed as to
become tanned by exposure to the sun.

It is needless to dwell longer upon these facts. Taken in connection,
they present perhaps one of the most interesting and harmonious
arrangements that are to be met with in any of the departments
of natural science. But it is by no means one of a few evidences
of design, by which the advocate of religion may strengthen and
confirm his faith. The whole universe is full of such examples.
We have reason to believe, too, that we have but a very imperfect
insight into the philosophy of Nature; that beyond the veil which
separates the conquests of the human intellect from the vast tracts
of knowledge, the possession of which yet remains to be acquired,
there are myriads of beautifully-ordered systems, far surpassing in
extent and grandeur any thing which the fancy of the wildest schemer
has ever suggested to his mind. A few pebbles only have been gathered
from the shore of the great ocean of truth. No wonder that the poet,
impressed with this belief, should exclaim:

    'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
    Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.'

                                                    B. R. W.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] See 'KNICKERBOCKER,' Volume V., for an able series of articles on
'_Life_,' by Dr. SAMUEL L. METCALF.




TO A LOCK OF HAIR.


    THOU'ST played upon that cheek full oft,
      Thou shining tress of golden hair!
    And wreathed thy curl in dalliance soft
      Around that neck so dazzling fair:
    Whence hast thou caught that amber gleam,
      Soft as a fading autumn-sky?
    Part from the sun's enamoured beam,
      Part from that full refulgent eye.

    I fear thou'dst murmur, couldst thou speak,
      And curse the fate that bade thee part
    From thy bright home, a lady's cheek,
      E'en to be pillow'd on my heart:
    And I would give, thou wavy tress!
      To thee earth's warmest, purest breast,
    If thou in turn my lot wouldst bless,
      And give to me thy place of rest.
    Not Zephyr's breath could woo like me,
      Nor sunbeams there so warmly play;
    Nor wander o'er that cheek so free,
      Those wanton curls in sportive play.

                                                    _Delta_.




WILSON CONWORTH.

NUMBER EIGHT.


ALTHOUGH I joined Collins in much of his dissipation, yet I persuaded
myself that I had his good at heart; and thinking a change of scene
might have a beneficial effect, I proposed a jaunt to the Falls
of Niagara. It was the month of June; we were in possession of a
handsome equipage, and plenty of money; we had all the means of
making the journey pleasant.

C---- got wind of this project, and although we had not spoken for
weeks, he came to my room the evening before our departure, and told
me I was a ruined man, unless I gave up this journey. He explained to
me the reasons of his coldness, and the reserve of others; it was to
induce me to give up my association with Collins. He said all were
interested for me, and besought me to listen to his advice; that some
things had leaked out respecting Collins, which he was not at liberty
to tell me. I knew I ought to hear him. I was convinced he was
disinterested; but I remained fixed, for I intended to pass through
N----, and was in hopes to see Alice once more; and this, after once
getting into my heart, I could not get out. We departed upon our
excursion of pleasure, which proved one of pain. With whom is hope
more faithful?

Following the river, we soon emerged from the level meadow country,
and began to ascend the hills of Vermont. The moon was at her full,
and we rode mostly in the night-time. Collins could not bear the day,
and I was willing to give in to his caprices, for the night gave a
calmness and amiable tone to his feelings. His heart was open to the
influences of nature, though he pretended to hate mankind.

The Connecticut river, in the north, has a swift and sparkling
current, so that it makes music as it flows. Tall trees bend over
it, all along its course, as if inclining to kiss its nimble waters.
These trees are of one kind, and resemble the graceful elm. To
the lover of nature, I know of no scene so fitted to call out his
enthusiasm. After toiling up an ascent of three or four miles, as you
stop to breathe your panting steed, which, if bred in the country,
toils so faithfully for you, your eye is filled with all kinds of
scenery. Here on your right reposes a village, with its neat white
houses, in a rich valley, the land rising in hills in every direction
from it, partly wooded, with here and there a wide pasture of
close-cropped green, dotted with the fleecy flock and lowing kine.
The river bounds it, on one side of which is a circle of meadow land,
and on the other a steep rocky precipice, falling abruptly to the
water.

It was twelve o'clock at night--a clear moon-light night--when we
gained one of these elevations of land. No sound broke the stillness,
save the voice of the 'solemn bird of night' marking by contrast the
depth of the solitude of silence. Collins wept like a child. He had
associations he would not communicate to me. Possibly he had been
there before. He refused to speak. We stopped at the first public
house, and he retired to his room without uttering a word.

Until this evening, I had never spoken to Collins of my own love
affair. I had never told him of my difficulties, nor let him know
that I had had any. My object was to divert his melancholy, not to
find relief from my own sorrows. That night, as we sat in silence
contemplating the scene, some lines of poetry had escaped me, which
Alice Clair had been fond of repeating. I felt Collins start as he
listened, and soon after, he gave vent to a torrent of tears, the
first I had ever seen him shed.

The next morning we rode and travelled on in moody silence. Not a
word was exchanged between us. Collins's whole manner toward me had
changed. Now and then I discovered a black look upon his face, as
he glanced toward me. I treated him with my usual kindness. I had,
in the relation of my own unhappy attachment, concealed the name
and personal appearance of Miss Clair, and the place, too. I was
free from suspicion, supposed his reserve was a freak, and waited
patiently for the recovery of his usual manner.

We now left the river, and struck off to the Green Mountains, taking
the road to N----, where we arrived about dark. All the town knew of
our arrival, almost as soon as we were settled in our apartment. I
found that Collins was known there as well as myself, though under a
different name. He was greeted as 'Mr. Cowles,' by every one, and the
people stared at him as they would at a spectre.

When I asked the explanation of this mystery, after we had retired to
a private room, he stared at me for some moments, with the glare of a
maniac in his eyes, and then sprang upon me, drawing his dagger from
his bosom. This was no time for parley. I flung him from me, wrested
the dagger from his hand, and then allowed him to rise. Seeing that
he intended no violence, I sat upon the bed while he walked the room,
gnashing his teeth, and mumbling to himself 'curses not loud but
deep;' then stopping suddenly opposite to me, he said:

'YOU, fiend!--why did you seek me? Can _you_ be the friend who feels
an interest in me? Why have you proved a traitor to my peace?

I assured him his words were inexplicable to me.

'Where,' said he, 'did you learn those words you quoted last
night? Do you know her too? Have you, too, been a victim to those
super-human charms? I am a slave; she bound me; I am helpless. Oh,
God!--but I have wronged you; you could not know; you are not to
blame. I had better destroy myself. I am crazed--mad! I know not what
I say. Oh! leave me, if you value your life or mine!'

This was all strange. What could he mean? He had no acquaintance with
Alice. She had told me that she never had an attachment before the
one she confessed for me. What other lady in town could there be to
excite affections so refined as his? It could not be Alice; this was
a vagary too wild to be listened to. However, determined to solve
the difficulty, I went immediately to the house of Mr. Clair, and
asked for his daughter; 'she was out of town;' for Mrs. Clair; 'she
was sick;' for any of the family; 'I could not be admitted.' This
was as unceremonious as I could bear; so I walked back to the hotel,
and calling the inn-keeper aside, asked him what had become of Miss
Clair. Inn-keepers in a country village know all the small news that
any one does, for they hear the same story assume so many different
shapes over the grog they deal out, that by night they become
perfectly saturated with a piece of scandal, and give forty readings
of the same event to suit the customer.

Mr. Shuffle gave me a full account of the affair. He said that Alice
was with her sister in Albany; that she had been very sick, and not
expected to live. After I had been out of town for a few months,
she returned to her father's; used to go moping about, and people
thought her mind was affected; he wondered that people could be so
unreasonable, as to keep young folks that loved each other separate;
if _he_ had been me, he would have run away with her.

I did not wait to hear farther, or even to inquire about Collins, but
ordered a horse, left a note for Collins, in which I advised him to
return, as important business required my presence at Albany for a
few days; and that I could not undertake our contemplated journey,
after what had happened.

That very night I started across the mountains for Albany, and did
not sleep until I saw the house that contained all I thought I loved
on earth. The visit to old scenes had renewed all the fervor of my
affection. Not wishing to be recognised, I stopped at a dwelling in
an obscure part of the town, and sent a little boy to the house with
a note, directing him only to give it into Miss Clair's own hand. If
her health permitted, I requested an interview; but certainly some
token of recognition by the bearer. She was well enough to meet me,
and we agreed to take a walk that afternoon.

I pass over the agonizing bliss of meeting. All was forgiven in an
instant. She had been sick indeed--sick at heart. She had heard of
my disgraceful course of life in the city, after parting from her,
and then again of my relapse at L----. She had supposed that I had
given up all thoughts of her, and she said that she had tried to
banish me from her thoughts; but, smiling through her tears, her
words were: 'You know, Conworth, you were my first and only love.
I had determined to run the risk of what I feared would happen. I
was willing to risk something for one who might be so much, if he
did truly love me in return as I did him. I have been forsaken, and
forgotten, and disregarded; but the fault was in me in the first
instance in trusting to you. I could hardly expect you to change your
character for one like me.'

I could not bear this; I implored her to accuse me, to upbraid
me--any thing but such words; and then I endeavored to palliate my
faults, and in doing so, I told the exact truth. I led her back to
motives, and temptations, and despairing states of mind, through
which I could distinctly trace my own lapses; convincing her that all
resulted from my separation from her; that 'could I have her with me
to guide, comfort, and encourage me, I should, I felt confident, do
every thing to make her happy.'

The idea of marriage had not crossed my mind until this instant. In
consoling her, and drawing the picture of our union, I was so charmed
with the notion, that I began to speak in earnest, and did, upon the
spot, adopt the resolution of making the attempt to persuade her to
unite herself to me on the instant.

I succeeded. She consented. We were to be married on the next
morning. By good luck, her brother-in-law was absent from home, and I
knew her sister possessed rather a romantic turn of mind. The devil
lent me cunning and eloquence, and I persuaded her it was the only
way to save Alice's life and mine.

To bring this about, I had, without premeditation, to invent plans
which should have the appearance of having been well-digested. I told
her 'that I came authorized from my father to bring Alice to his
house, if I could do so as my wife.' I then showed her the wealth
that I possessed--for beside my own money, Collins, on starting, had
constituted me his banker--and the whole story was so well got up,
that she seemed delighted with the novelty of the scheme.

Behold me then on the eve of perpetrating marriage. Every thing was
prepared. My carriage, (one I had hired, and called mine,) was at
the door; the trunks were lashed on, and we were standing before
the minister, in her sister's parlor; the justice's daughter, and
a friend I had picked up, acting as witnesses. The ceremony began.
Hardly had a word been spoken, when the door flew violently open,
and Collins, wild and haggard, with his dress torn and soiled, and
without a hat, rushed into the room. He looked about him for a few
moments in triumph, and then said, slowly: 'I am come in time,
false woman!' He stepped toward Alice, who, pale and trembling, was
sinking to the floor. A dagger gleamed in the madman's hand. I rushed
forward, and taking the blow aimed at her, I fell senseless to the
earth.

WHEN I awoke from my delirious dream, which followed the wound I had
received, I found myself in a small private house. My father was
standing by my bedside, and my sister was wiping the cold sweat from
my forehead. I had been thus for a fortnight. My father and sister
had arrived upon the earliest intelligence after the accident. They
imagined they were journeying to attend my funeral. Would it had been
so!

My father took my hand, as my eyes closed, upon meeting his anxious
gaze, and said: 'It is all well--all is forgiven. Be calm; you are
better, God be praised! I ask no more.'

I could not speak. His kindness, his affection, wounded me worse
than ten thousand daggers. I covered my eyes with my hand, and wept.
When I was strong enough to bear it, my sister told me all that had
happened. Alice had confessed to her every thing. The substance was
this.

'Collins had some years before met Alice Clair at a boarding-school
in the city, and he fell violently in love with her. He was then an
exile from home for his vices, and was living in the city, without
plan or object. His assumed name was Cowles, to prevent his friends
from hearing of his pranks. Alice had been pleased with his manners,
and received his attentions, in walking in the street, to hold an
umbrella over her when caught in a shower, and to bow with a smile
when she met him; to be at home when he called to see her; as far
as a school miss can go, in a love matter, she had been; which is
just no way at all. The word love never had entered her head; she
was gratified in being noticed and admired, and felt grateful for
his kindness and attentions in bringing her new books and music. But
with the playful coquetry of a child, she had impressed the heart of
Collins with a lasting devotion. She did not know how much he loved
her. The principal of the school had always allowed his visits,
until ascertaining the knowledge of his true character, and seeing
some instances of his misdemeanor one night at the theatre, he was
dismissed from the acquaintance of the ladies, and Alice thought no
more of him.

Soon after, she returned home, and was continually persecuted with
letters, which were returned unread. At last, he went to N----, and
behaved like a madman; threatened to kill himself in the presence of
her father and mother, and committed other extravagances, which would
have subjected him to arrest, had he not left town. All these facts
were never hinted to me, during my stay at N----. Probably they were
forgotten, except by the parties more immediately interested.

No wonder some surprise was manifested at seeing myself and Collins
ride into town together. Well, after I had left Collins, and departed
for Albany, he by a bribe found out my object in going thither,
and immediately followed me on the next day. With a mind already
shattered by excess, and stimulated to insanity, he imagined himself
the victim of treachery, and determined on consummate vengeance on
both of us. The reader knows the rest. The wound I received nearly
proved fatal. My father was summoned, perhaps to attend my funeral.
Mr. Clair followed us, so soon as he got wind of our intended visit,
to protect his daughter from two madmen, and arrived the day after
the result. Alice was taken home with difficulty. Mr. Clair was
inexorable. Some gratitude was expressed in a letter written to me by
him after he heard of my recovery, for saving the life of his child.

'When you are older and more settled,' it said, 'in your views, if
you ever are, I shall be glad to show you how much I am willing to
forget, for the sake of your happiness and that of my child. You have
perhaps unwittingly destroyed the peace of my family. You do not
know the pain you have inflicted. Time must elapse. Your case is not
hopeless. All depends upon yourself.'

My sister in a few days gave me a lock of black glossy hair, tied
with a blue ribbon. It needed not to tell me where it came from. I
have worn it next to my heart ever since that fatal morning. It is
now placed before me, and tears course down my cheeks as I record
this passage in my history, and look upon all that is left in this
world of one who might have made this earth a heaven to any man,
but one incapable of estimating the value, or rather incapable of
profiting by the gift, of her affections.

Collins was released, by my father's request, after the question of
my danger was over, and went I know not whither. From that day to
this, I have never heard of him. The money of his in my possession
was placed in the hands of a lawyer, and no trace can be found of his
connections or of himself, by the most careful search.

We returned to my father's house. Hardly had we arrived, when we
heard of the sudden death of Alice Clair. Worn out by fatigue and
disappointment, she was attacked by fever, which was followed by
delirium; and she went out of a cruel world, unconscious of her
misery. My cup of bitterness was full. I neither hoped, nor excited
expectation. I was considered a broken, ruined man. I remained
some time a burthen upon my father's hands, leading a harmless but
restless, good-for-nothing life, which only doubles the misery of
existence.

Time works wonders. I began to have hopes of myself, and determined
to leave my native city; to give up all old acquaintances; to go afar
from all who knew me. I made arrangements to receive annually a small
sum, to enable me to carry my projects into execution, and bidding
adieu to all those I truly loved, and who I knew still loved me, I
embarked on board a packet bound for New-Orleans.




HOPE.

    HOPE for Experience boldly steers,
      And gains that chilling shore,
    But only to be wrecked on ice,
      And sink to rise no more.
    This is that hope whose sordid views
      To earth alone are given;
    That hope which wreck nor ruin fears,
      Her anchor casts in heaven.
    For he that would outride the storm,
      Though whirlwinds waked the blast,
    Makes that his first and only hope,
      That all must make their last.




A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE.

PART TWO.


    OH steam! most stupendous, astonishing steam!
    Transporting us faster than fleet-footed dream,
    What _could_ make a doctor, with serious face,
    Pronounce a prognosis of death in thy case?
    In thy system's full vigor, to venture to say,
    That 'steam-locomotion had seen its best day?'

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE flush that attended his words was cold,
    Like a thing that happen'd--a tale that is told;
    And his neighbor still vainly attempted to find
    Some loop-hole of vantage to peep at his mind.
    While his wonder was long, and his marvel was deep,
    The man who was wonder'd at fell fast asleep.

    Of every-day chances, there's nothing that seems
    So involv'd in a mist as the dreaming of dreams;
    When the fancies seem fitfully practising o'er
    The parts that their waking realities bore;
    Like the ghosts of departed returning again
    To the scenes where they acted and suffer'd as men.
    Thus the mind of our doctor most readily found
    Its way to his regular visiting-round;
    Now counting how long such a patient could live,
    Now giving a drastic purgative;
    It had tempted a frivolous man to a smile,
    The half-drawing down of his mouth all the while.[4]

    His journey soon ended, his dreaming was done,
    And quickly dismounted the wonderful one.
    Save a handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small,
    No baggage or bag was he cumber'd withal;
    Right glad was his heart that he was not delay'd
    With porters disputing, and people dismay'd.
    At the first man he met, with a citizen's air,
    He propounded a question--it made the man stare;
    The answer was ready, the questioner bow'd,
    And hastily elbow'd his way through the crowd.
    'Oh ho!' said his neighbor, as off he went,
    (The one that had wonder'd,) 'I know what he meant!'

       *       *       *       *       *

    AT a house, (but I cannot tell which it may be,
    Though possess'd of an author's ubiquity,)
    At a house in that city, inhabits a maid,
    Who travels by spirit, and makes it a trade.
    That maid and her sister were sitting alone,
    Employ'd in some manner not certainly known;
    They might have been working, or reading, I guess,
    Or playing at cards, or back-gammon, or chess;
    Whatever employ'd them, a very loud rap
    Disorder'd their nerves like a thunder-clap.

    The sleep-walker quickly adjusted her hair,
    Assuming the look she intended to wear,
    And toss'd on the table, as other maids do,
    Some 'work,' with the needle appearing half through.

    One glance to see ev'ry thing properly plac'd;
    Or derang'd to exactly the limits of taste,
    Then, putting her chair with the back tow'rd the light,
    Prepar'd for the visitor, be who he might.
    The other, who play'd a subordinate part,
    Took the same little process, with little less art;
    And then was directed to 'ascertain straight
    What manner of person it was at the gate.'
    Oh! sleep-walker! sleep-walker! did you but know,
    Who the visitor is, that is waiting below.
    A leech in good practice, and wanting a wife,
    You'd think him a capital venture for life.

    The sister arriv'd at the door in a trice,
    And the man that was waiting she look'd at twice:
    From the crown of his hat to the sole of his shoe,
    She look'd at him twice, as she'd look him all through.
    That hat was low and its brim was wide,
    But the sleep-walker's sister was not inside:
    And his coat was black and his breeches were gray,
    And look'd as a thriving practitioner's may.
    His bosom was clothed in a sombre vest,
    That aptly comported with all the rest;
    Each pocket contriv'd of an ample space
    For holding a portable instrument-case:
    But, far more than breeches, hat, waist-coat or coat,
    His own proper features seem'd worthy of note.
    His locks were grizzled, his beard it was spare,
    As he dieted ev'ry particular hair;
    From a long, long nose, one could fancy how well
    Its owner could practise his organs of smell;
    For it seem'd, as he breath'd atmospherical air,
    He perceiv'd what its physical properties were.
    His eye with occasional glances by stealth,
    Was plainly surveying one's bodily health;
    And in his thin fingers, there seem'd to exist
    A perpetual impulse to feel of one's wrist.
    Whatever he utter'd, his look was profound,
    And an odor of sanity breath'd all around.
    No difficult matter it was to see,
    That a person of science and skill was he.

    Giving time for those matters that pass between
    A bachelor-man and a girl of eighteen,
    And a moment beside for her womanish airs,
    We find him ascending the sleep-walker's stairs.
    With gentlest tread, as if ever before
    He had practised his steps on a sick-chamber floor,
    His handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small,
    He laid on a chair, with the knots tow'rd the wall.
    The maiden insisting on taking his hat,
    He enter'd the room where the sleep-walker sat:
    A neat-looking woman, and fair to behold,
    And (climax of qualities) not at all old.
    Her accents and manner were wondrously sweet,
    As she kindly invited his taking a seat,
    And sweetly she said what she had to say
    Of the weather and wind, in a diffident way.
    And then he presented himself by his name,
    And hinted the matter about which he came;
    He harp'd upon science, and physic, and food,
    Incidentally hoping he did not intrude,
    And then, (what all orators well understand,)
    Digress'd to the subject directly in hand.
    What was it the sister spoke low in her ear,
    It was plain she alone was intended to hear.
    But little the medical gentleman cared,
    Commencing a speech he had ready prepar'd.

    'This _aura-magnetica_-making,' said he
    Is a process as simple as A B C,
    And very agreeable, certainly, where
    The patient is female, and passably fair:
    You hold her hand gently, and look in her eye,
    Succeeding the better, the harder you try;[5]
    Then paw her all over, it comes to you pat,
    Precisely like stroking the back of a cat.[6]
    And now it is holiday-time with the mind,
    It hastens to leave the poor body behind;
    As mischievous urchins escape to the street,
    The pedagogue slumb'ring unmov'd in his seat.
    Hereafter, no 'wishing-cap' ever can be
    Invented to rival the _bonnet de nuit_.
    But though I account myself fully _au fait_
    At dismissing the soul in a technical way,
    (Being funnily call'd by a patient of mine,
    A forwarding agent for Charon's old line,)
    I own that it never came into my head
    To try to converse with it after it fled;
    It might be unpleasant; particular folks
    Object to all species of practical jokes;
    And one might, with reason, resent being made,
    From a person of substance, an unreal shade.
    However, I think we had better prepare
    For one live spirit-walking--another affair.
    The patient appears well inclin'd to repose,
    Or rather, already beginning to doze.'

    He sat himself opposite, look'd in her eye,
    Put his hand in his pocket, and stifled a sigh.
    A striking resemblance there was in the face,
    To one that occasion'd his first-love case.
    Ah, doctor! that love thou wert better forget,
    With symptoms recurring, comes over thee yet.
    'Be still!' said he, boldly! 'nay madam, don't start,
    The caution was private--address'd to my heart.'

    He went through the process; ten minutes expir'd,
    The process was tedious, the doctor was tir'd;
    He hinted that opium, one or two grains,
    Had been quite as speedy, and saved him his pains.
    The patient, at this, to the doctor's surprise,
    Look'd sweetly upon him, and--sleep seal'd her eyes.

    'I'll take the arm-chair, to be more at my ease,
    And then let us travel, as fast as you please;
    Can you tell me what lies at the head of your stairs?'
    (He thought he should take her thus unawares;)
    She said, without any demurrage at all,
    'A handkerchief-parcel, the knots tow'rd the wall;
    Beside it, a beaver; it's brim is wide,
    And an old piece of paper is stuck inside.'
    A very round oath the physician swore,
    ''Twas the self-same hat that he always wore:
    No mortal could see through a six-inch wall--
    An angel undoubtedly whisper'd it all.'
    'You flatter,' the sister said, with a sigh,
    'I never _did_ tell her, I'm sure--not I!'
    'The bundle contains,' said the spirit, 'a shirt;
    Your name and a number are mark'd on the skirt.'
    The doctor said nothing; it came to his mind
    That he _had_ such an one, but had left it behind:
    He marvel'd a woman could tell to a hair,
    Not only what was, but what should have been there!
    'If you've no objections,' ('I have not,' said she,)
    'We'll go to my house, and see, what we can see;
    I hope you'll go too, Miss--it is not too far;
    Beside, you have only to set where you are.
    The spirit, (how pleasant soever the road,)
    Will find 'the more music, the lighter the load!'
    But the sister assured him that no one, except
    Himself, could affect her, so long as she slept;[7]
    'She could not distinguish a word that I said,
    Though loud as the trumpet that summons the dead.'
    'That's true,' said the spirit, 'for talk as she may,
    I'm not a whit wiser for all she can say;[8]
    But I'm at your door, and have given a knock,
    And some one is turning the key in the lock.'
    'That's odd:' said the doctor; 'I can't recollect
    When turning the key would have any effect;
    The lock is a _patent_ one, made with such skill,
    It never yet work'd, and I fear never will.
    But why should we wait till they open the door?
    Let's fly to my study, it's on the first floor!'
    'How nice!' said the spirit; 'you get all the sun,
    With two pretty windows----' 'There is but one.'
    'But one?' said the walker--'ah, that's very true;
    A somnambulist sees _twice_ as plainly as you;
    But truly I'm certain, your fortunate wife
    Must lead a most exquisite sort of a life.'
    'But then I am single;' 'I know it,' said she;
    'I mean, if you _had_ one, how happy she'd be!'
    So sweetly she said it, he look'd at her long,
    The likeness was striking--each moment more strong.
    Alas! poor practitioner, look to thy heart;
    A treacherous weapon is Love's little dart!

END OF PART TWO.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] 'Half-drawing down.' From the control of the sleeper's mind
over his muscles, this most expressive gesture of the Æsculapian
fraternity was but an 'opus infectum.'

[5] The stronger the exercise of the will, the more perfect is the
effect produced.

[6] This experiment every urchin has repeatedly made, to his own
edification and the annoyance of his family.

[7] Those in a somnambulistic state communicate with, and can receive
impressions from, the operator alone.

[8] No better confirmation could be had of the fact, than the
patient's own asseveration.




OUR BIRTH-DAYS.


THE anniversary of our birth-days is always an interesting period,
and should be noticed accordingly. Each of such days is a mile-stone
on the road of life, reminding us of the rapid rate at which we have
been advancing on its journey, and approaching its close. It is true
that in life's _morning_, these mile-stones appear to be farther
apart than they do in later years; still, they are days of hope and
promise. Thousands are then rejoicing that they are one year nearer
to the boasting age of twenty-one, when a young man feels himself
lord of his own actions, and glories in his liberty. To thousands
of the fairer part of creation, these annual monitors are welcome,
as harbingers of the day when they shall shine in the ball-room or
circles of fashion; attract all eyes, and command all attention; or
perhaps fasten some silken chain around the heart of an individual
admirer, and lead him in delightful captivity. To other thousands
of the same sex, the anniversary will tell a tale of sadness; of
departed hours and departed charms; of withered roses and withered
hopes; when the looking-glass has lost its magic power, and speaks
nothing save in the plain language of unwelcome truth and soberness.
Thousands are reminded that many of the intervals, between one
mile-stone and another were distinguished by lovely landscapes and
countless beauties; by health and enjoyment--by joy and gladness of
heart. To thousands of others, such intervals have been gloomy and
cheerless; without the consolations of friendship, the comforts of
society, or the flattering promises of hope. Surrounding prospects
have only increased the gloom of the mind, and made the heart sick.

Yet in all these recollections, we may find instruction and
nourishment for our better feelings. If our course has been checkered
with good and evil, we may profit by tracing consequences to their
proper causes; and thus learn how many miscalled misfortunes are the
offspring of folly, or imprudence, or wrong; the natural results
of our own wanderings from the path of innocence and duty; or else
have been so fortunate as to have discovered by experience, that our
happiness and duty are intimately connected, and that wisdom's ways
are always ways of pleasantness and peace. In both cases, this annual
review of the days and years that have taken their farewell of us,
will be salutary in its effect, and teach us the value of virtuous
resolutions of amendment, when we have gone astray, and the peaceful
feelings and sweet anticipations of those whose desire it is to
preserve their moral health in the bowers of innocence and purity,
and amid the green pastures and still waters of life.

This very day, I have arrived at the _seventy-third_ mile-stone
on the journey to another country, where we all hope to enjoy
happiness unending. And here I must avail myself of the old man's
privilege; that of speaking of himself, and the incidents of exciting
or soothing interest which have marked his onward course. I have
abundant occasion to indulge in the pleasing retrospect. Through
the smiles of heaven, I may truly say, that in the long vista I can
scarcely discover an unpleasant object, to mar the beauty of the
scene. It still appears margined with foliage and flowers, almost
as green and bright as ever. The surface of the way still seems
smooth, and the sky is clear and summer-like, as in the days of my
youth and early manhood. Surely, these are distinguished blessings
to me, and as such I fondly cherish them. Heaven has given me a
firm constitution, and long-continued health. These are precious
foundations to build upon; and I have improved them for that purpose.
But much has been effected by the formation of certain _habits_, and
by an attention to certain _rules_; and I feel their tendency and
effects as valuable medicines. It is not vanity in an old man to
recommend them to others. I am influenced by better motives. In the
first place, when a child,

    ----'I knew a mother's tender care,
    And heard th' instructions of a father's tongue;'

and I hope I have never forgotten them, or in any situation
disregarded their benign influence, but reverenced them as important
safe-guards. The rules I have adopted have never, to any extent,
deceived me.

1. I have always found, that if I had injured any one, especially if
intentionally, I could enjoy no peace of mind, until I had _asked_
and _obtained_ his forgiveness. When forgiven, all was calm and
sunshine in my bosom. I never solicited in vain.

2. Knowing by experience the value of this blessed sunshine, I have
always endeavored so to be on my guard, as not to offend by indulged
passion, suspicion, or want of respect and courtesy. This has always
insured courtesy and kindness in return, from all others.

3. If on a sudden I have for a few moments been guilty of indulging
in passion, the sun never went down on my wrath. I never _did_ and
never _could_ retain resentment against any one, and cherish a
desire of revenge; for such a desire would have been painful and
distressing. A word from him who had excited my momentary anger,
spoken to me in kindness, never failed to disarm every disturbed
feeling. I have always found a peaceful disposition a source of
comfort, and to produce the same calm within, as is caused by gentle
breezes on a summer day, refreshing an invalid who is walking abroad
to inhale them.

4. By the aid of the foregoing rules, I have thus far through life
been habitually cheerful; and cheerfulness is easily diffused, and
cheerful feelings multiplied. It is a sort of letter of introduction,
and insures a welcome, when duly exhibited. It adds to the charms of
society, while at the same time it gives a youthful movement to the
pulsations of the heart.

5. In order to preserve this youthful feeling of our nature, while
advancing in years, I have steadily maintained the custom of
associating freely with the _young_ as well as the _old_; of joining
in the social or fashionable circle, and breathing the atmosphere
of the library or the drawing-room, with ladies and gentlemen, more
especially with those whom I am in the habit of meeting, on other
occasions, upon terms of easy intercourse. By this practice, my
social feelings have remained almost unchanged. Though I am an old
tree, my leaves remain nearly as green as ever. The scenes I have
just described, I enjoy now as well and as pleasantly as I did forty
or fifty years ago. Are not these blessings? Men and women may grow
old, if they please, and lose all relish for social intercourse, even
among those of their own age; and if they please, they may retain
most of the better feelings of their early years, in the particulars
before mentioned; and the honest, frank, and cheerful expression
of them will generally be reciprocated, even in the circles of the
young and gay. These interchanges of thoughts and feelings, in
hours of easy and virtuous relaxation, are mutually beneficial, in
producing kinder dispositions toward each, and bringing the distant
periods of life nearer together, and forming a _temperate zone_,
where the climate becomes more mild, uniform, serene, and salutary.
Are not my rules and my practice, then, worthy of imitation, as
having an evident tendency to preserve a green old age, and protract
the 'Indian summer of the soul,' and keep the heart warm amid the
gathering frosts of the December of life?

We cannot open a newspaper, without seeing advertisements of those
who have compounded numberless medicines for curing almost all
the pains and diseases 'which flesh is heir to;' and are desirous
of diffusing them, for the relief of all classes of sufferers,
for a moderate pecuniary compensation. And surely there can be no
impropriety in my publishing this article for the benefit of all
concerned, and giving them, _gratis_, my friendly advice, on so
interesting a subject. My object is as commendable as theirs; and I
presume my prescriptions, if duly observed, would promote the moral
health of thousands, and save them from the penalty of 'low spirits;'
quicken the healthful circulation of the 'social blood,' and add to
the life of multitudes years of comfort, ending in a golden sunset.

_Portland, (Maine,) Nov., 1837._                      SENEX.




LAY OF THE MADMAN.[9]

    'THIS is the foul fiend! He begins at curfew, and walks till
    the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye,
    and makes the hare-lip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the
    poor creature of earth. Beware of the foul fiend!'

                                                 SHAKSPEARE.


    MANY a year hath passed away,
      Many a dark and dismal year,
    Since last I roam'd in the light of day,
      Or mingled my own with another's tear;
          Wo to the daughters and sons of men--
          Wo to them all, when I roam again!

    Here have I watch'd, in this dungeon cell,
    Longer than Memory's tongue can tell;
    Here have I shriek'd, in my wild despair,
      When the damnéd fiends from their prison came,
    Sported and gambol'd, and mock'd me here,
      With their eyes of fire, and their tongues of flame;
      Shouting for ever and aye my name!
                 And I strove in vain
                 To burst my chain,
    And longed to be free as the winds, again,
                 That I might spring
                 In the wizard ring,
    And scatter them back to their hellish den!
          Wo to the daughters and sons of men--
          Wo to them all, when I roam again!

    How long I have been in this dungeon here,
    Little I know, and nothing I care;
      What to me is the day or night,
    Summer's heat or autumn sere,
      Spring-tide flowers, or winter's blight,
    Pleasure's smile, or sorrow's tear?
      Time! what care I for thy flight,
    Joy! I spurn thee with disdain;
    Nothing love I but this clanking chain;
    Once I broke from its iron hold,
    Nothing I said, but silent and bold,
    Like the shepherd that watches his gentle fold,
    Like the tiger that crouches in mountain lair,
    Hours upon hours, so watch'd I here;
    Till one of the fiends that had come to bring
    Herbs from the valley and drink from the spring,
    Stalk'd through my dungeon entrance in!
    Ha! how he shriek'd to see me free--
    Ho! how he trembled and knelt to me,
    He who had mock'd me many a day,
    And barred me out from its cheerful ray,
    Gods! how I shouted to see him pray!
    I wreath'd my hand in the demon's hair,
    And chok'd his breath in its mutter'd prayer,
    And danc'd I then, in wild delight,
    To see the trembling wretch's fright.

    Gods! how I crush'd his hated bones!
    'Gainst the jagged wall and the dungeon-stones;
    And plung'd my arm adown his throat,
      And dragg'd to life his beating heart,
    And held it up, that I might gloat,
      To see its quivering fibres start!
    Ho! how I drank of the purple flood,
    Quaff'd and quaff'd again of blood,
    Till my brain grew dark, and I knew no more,
    Till I found myself on this dungeon floor,
    Fetter'd and held by this iron chain;
      Ho! when I break its links again,
      Ha! when I break its links again,
    Wo to the daughters and sons of men!

    My frame is shrunk, and my soul is sad,
    And devils mock, and call me mad;
    Many a dark and fearful sight
    Haunts me here, in the gloom of night;
    Mortal smile or human tear
    Never cheers or soothes me here;
    The spider shrinks from my grasp away,
    Though he's known my form for many a day;
    The slimy toad, with his diamond eye,
    Watches afar, but comes not nigh;
    The craven rat, with her filthy brood,
    Pilfers and gnaws my scanty food:
    But when I strive to make her play,
    Snaps at my hands, and flees away;
      Light of day or ray of sun,
      Friend or hope, I've none--I've none!

    Yet 'tis not always thus; sweet slumber steals
      Across my haggard mind, my weary sight;
    No more my brain the iron pressure feels,
      Nor damnéd devils howl the live-long night;
        Visions of hope and beauty seem
        To mingle with my darker dream;
    They bear me back to a long-lost day,
    To the hours and joys of my boyhood's play,
           To the merry green,
           And the sportive scene,
    And the valley the verdant hills between;
    And a lovely form with a bright blue eye,
    Flutters my dazzled vision by;
    A tear starts up to my wither'd eye,
    Gods! how I love to feel that tear
      Trickle my haggard visage o'er!
    The fountain of hope is not yet dry;
      I feel as I felt in days of yore,
    When I roam'd at large in my native glen,
    Honor'd and lov'd by the sons of men,
    Till, madden'd to find my home defil'd,
    I grasp'd the knife, in my frenzy wild,
    And plunged the blade in my sleeping child!

    They called me mad--they left me here,
    To my burning thoughts, and the fiend's despair,
    Never, ah! never to see again
    Earth or sky, or sea or plain;
    Never to hear soft Pity's sigh--
    Never to gaze on mortal eye;
    Doom'd through life, if life it be,
    To helpless, hopeless misery;
    Oh, if a single ray of light
    Had pierced the gloom of this endless night;
    If the cheerful tones of a single voice
    Had made the depths of my heart rejoice;
    If a single thing had loved me here,
    I ne'er had crouch'd to these fiends' despair!

                 They come again!
                 They tear my brain!
    They tremble and dart through my every vein!
    Ho! could I burst this clanking chain,
                 Then might I spring
                 In the hellish ring,
    And scatter them back to their den again!

           *       *       *       *       *

    They seize my heart!--they choke my breath!
    Death?--death! ah, welcome death!

_Savannah, (Geo.,) 1837._                           R. M. C.

FOOTNOTE:

[9] ALL who have ever visited the 'ward of the incurables,' in any of
the insane asylums of our Atlantic cities, will be forcibly struck
with the graphic picture presented in this spirited sketch.

                                         EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.




OLLAPODIANA.

NUMBER XXII.


----AS I was saying last month, beloved reader, that 'I am thine
in promise,' or to that purport, I have anchored myself in my
_fauteuil_, to the end that I may be thine in fulfilment. In our
conversation about the Catskills, I omitted sundry pertinent matters,
with the which, however, malgré the postponement, I shall not here
afflict. Since that period, I have for the most part been pent i' the
populous city, amid the wakeful noises by day thereof, and by night
the calm security of the streets thereof. I affect the supernatural
bawl of the watchman, as it rings up to my pillow; I love the
serenade which the neighboring lover sings to his fair, and of which
I get the good as well as herself; I like to see the straggling cloud
go floating over the slumbering town at midnight, with the moon
silvering its edge; or mayhap to note the sheen of a star greeting
the vision over a chimney-pot. All these have charms for my eye and
ear; I seem to see holy sights and shapes in the firmament; the winds
come and go on their circuits, unknowing how many brows they fan; and
at times they hush a whole metropolis to silence, insomuch that its
wide boundary scarce produces so much noise 'as doth a chestnut in a
farmer's fire.'

       *       *       *       *       *

BY-THE-BY, when the sun begins to set at right descensions, and
make his winter arches, I always think of the roaring fires in the
domicil of the rural husbandman, with feelings akin to envy. Ye who
toast your heels by anthracite; who survey the meagre 'blue blazes'
of Liverpool coal, and whose nostrils take in the dry odor thereof,
being reminded thereby of those ever-burning brimstone beds, where
Apollyon keeps his court, and Judas has his residence; ye, I say,
who have a life-long intimacy with these sorts of fuel, can have but
small conception of a winter's fire in the country. Far round doth
it illumine the apartment where it rages; intolerable is proximity
thereunto; and its 'circle of admirers' is always large, because
they cannot come a-nigh. A pleasant disdain is felt for the snow
which whirls on whistling winds against the pane; the herds are
huddled in their cotes secure; and the storm has permission to mumble
its belly full, and spit snow at its pleasure. Hugeous reminiscences
of delight come over my spirit, in this connexion; post-school hours;
the steaming bowl of flip, or those orthographical convocations,
where buxom maidens exulted in their secret heart, as tall words
were vociferously mounted, in correct emission, by greenhorn swain.
Sleigh-rides likewise; amatory pressures, under skin of buffalo
or bison; long processions through wintry villages, whose tall
smokes rose from every chimney; pillars of blue, standing upright
in the air, like columns of sapphire. Cider, with its acidity of
remembrance; apples, that melted on the tongue, as they descended
toward the diaphragm; landscapes of snow; and slides down hill!--not
forgetting those skating achievements, which for the time being fill
the mind with such pride, that one scarcely wishes to reach heaven at
last, if that amusement be interdicted among the just made perfect!
All these circumstances and events, with curious confusion, hang in
a nucleus about my memories of a rural hearth; 'but these I passen
by, with nameless numbers moe.' Shakspeare had a good notion of the
comforts to which I refer. He puts a lovely sentiment into the mouth
of King Richard II., when he causes him to utter to the royal lady
this tender language:

    'Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France:
    Think I am dead; and that from me thou tak'st,
    As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
    In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
    With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales
    Of woful ages, long ago betid;
    And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
    Tell thou the lamentable fall of me!'

       *       *       *       *       *

I HAVE not, howbeit, reader, as might be inferred from what has
been herein before written, spent all the mean season spoken of, in
the busy capital. I have made, with household appurtenances, and
delights, and responsibilities, an autumnal tour or 'excrescence'
into the country, round about the Empire Town. Quotidian columns
have borne the register thereof; hence Benevolence prompt to crucify
farther infliction. The landscapes surveyed were beautiful; though it
may be said of the eminences, as Mr. William Lackaday observes in the
play, of his boy-seen uplands: 'Them there hills wasn't clothed with
much werder.'

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW many steam-boat accidents are occurring constantly! One of late
astonished the peaceful Delaware. But it did one good act. The
explosion blew away a piece of very bad orthography in the cabin
of one of those craft which ply between Philadelphia and Camden.
Perilous voyages do they make, indeed! Nurses with their blooming
charges, and who have never been to sea, embark in them to behold
the wonders of the deep! The disaster I speak of arose from that
which made the angels fall. 'Twas curst ambition. One boat was going
several inches ahead of another, and urged its engine to the rate of
at least fifty miles the hour. Rivalry was awakened; the captain of
the hapless craft yelled to his assistant: 'Josey, we'll have a race
with that t'other imperent boat! _Put that other stick of wood into
the furnace!_ My pride is elewated. Never mind the expense _this_
time!'

The command was given; the boiler collapsed; and ambition was ended!
The orthography blown from the steamer was this:

    'No smoking _aloud_ in the cabing!'

This was an injunction obeyed per force, for it could not be
broken.[10] It specified tacit fumigation:

    ----'Nothing could live
    Twixt that and silence;'

and the unnecessary monition was no great loss, either to luxury or
learning.

       *       *       *       *       *

LET me here register a letter which I have received from the Jehu
who voted for Smith, of Smithopolis. He conveys several curious
sentiments; and among other matters, records the demise of the person
to whom he was indebted for a lecture:

                                  '_November the 5th, 1837._
    'MY DEAR SIR:

    'I have seen a piece which you made and put into a perryogue
    published down into the city of New-York, to which I am a-going
    to indict a reply. My indictment will be short, as some of
    the parties is not present to which you have been allusive.
    But with respect of that there diwine person you spoke of,
    I am sorry to remark, that he is uncommonly dead, and wont
    never give no more lectures. He was so onfortnight as to bu'st
    a blood-vessel at a pertracted meeting; and I ha'n't hearn
    nothing onto him sence. His motives was probable good; but in
    delivering on 'em, it struck me forcibly that he proximated to
    the _sassy_. However, I never reserves ill will, not ag'inst
    nobody; and I authorize you to put this into printing, ef'so be
    that you deem it useful. That's what Smith used to say, when he
    published his self-nominations in the newspapers, that a man
    with a horn (they tell me that he has a very large circle of
    kindred) used to ride post about, and distribit.

    'In the sincere congratulation that there has not nothing been
    said in this communication unproper for the public ear, and for
    giving you the descriptions of the rackets, and other messuages
    respecting me, which you deeded to the public, I remain yours
    until death do us part.

                                             'POST TILLION.'
    'Mr. OLLAPOD, M.D.'

Now there is no finding fault with a correspondent of this
description. Plain, unadorned, he gives his thoughts the drapery of
ink--dresses them in black--and there they stand, ('what is written
remains,') evidences at once of his frankness and his erudition. To
me, such documents, though light, and perhaps unpalatable to those
who prefer the heavier condiments of literature, form the cream or
the dessert of life's plenteous table.

       *       *       *       *       *

TALKING of desserts--by which (whisper) I don't mean the boundless
contiguity of western wildernesses, nor the sandy bounds of Zahara,
but the after-glories of a dinner--I have of late arrived at some
curious embellishments of delicacies, on the part of those who are
bent upon improving the English language, at all hazards; upon
extending it to the utmost latitude of dainty expression and culture.
The Astor-House, I learn, at its Ladies' Ordinary, has furnished
forth some glorious specimens of English improved. 'Sir!' said an
exquisite, desirous of partaking a certain delicacy for himself and
his fair:

'Have you at present any of the _chastised idiot-brother_?'

'Han't seen no relations of your'n here to-day,' murmured the waiter,
'with an imperturbable and 'furtive' smile.'

'Don't be impertinent, fellow!' was the reply; 'I mean something to
eat!'

'If you want to eat any thing in the _idiot_ line,' replied the
servant, aside, as his inquisitor fingered his moustache, 'I guess
you'd better put some butter on your hair, and swaller _yourself_!'
And here the sacrilegious usher of sauces and glasses indulged in a
half-suppressed guffaw.

'Dar' say you consider that funny, my short _help_,' said the
inquirer: 'but what I want is what _you_ call _whipped-syllabub_.
Heaven help your ignorance!'

The requisite was handed--the exquisite appeased. But his quiet was
brief. Calling to him the same locomotive assistance, he inquired:

'Now, individual, I want some
_sacrificed-threshed-indigent-williams_. Have you got any?'

'Not one, upon my soul, your honor; that is, if you mean turnips.'

'Turnips!--curse turnips!--you double-distilled Vandal--you Goth--you
Visigoth! I mean, have you any roasted whippoorwills?'

'Holy Paul!' said a Hibernian 'help,' who had drawn a-nigh, attracted
by the discussion; 'in the name of the Vargin, what is _them_?'

Just at this juncture, the eaves-dropping by-stander who furnishes
the _mem._ of this, came away, leaving the emerald son--more verdant
to look at than his native isle--staring as if in a fit of astronomy,
in eclipse-time.

       *       *       *       *       *

ONE of my autumnal recreations, good my reader, is hunting. I pull a
most fatal trigger. Venerie delighteth me, when the day is good and
the game abundant. I love, (heaven forgive me!) to bring down the
squirrel, with the half-munched chestnut in his teeth, what time his
bushy tail, (no longer waving in triumph over his back, as he bounds
from limb to limb,) quivers in _articulo mortis_. I confess me none
of your cockney venators. Some of these I have seen place the deadly
muzzle of a double-barrel rifle at the unsuspecting tail of a wren,
while the proximity of metal and feathers was less than an inch; and
when they fired, they plunged back some several yards, overcome with
horror, though the bird had flown without injury, save indeed some
blackened down, in extremis--a trifle, with life safe, and the world
before her.

The poetry of gunpowder is in making it _tell_. To go out when the
woods are so beautiful that you deem a score of dying dolphins hang
on every tree,

    'When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the leaves
          are still,
    And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill;'

to hear the delicate tread of the game on the leaves, rustling amid
the murmur of solemn winds, as the westering sun scampers down the
west, with a face as red as if he had disgraced the solar family
by some misdemeanor; and then, in some thick recess of passing
foliage, and innumerous boughs, then and there to bore wingéd fowl,
and my gentleman quadrupeds of the sylvan fastness, with cold lead,
is exhilarating. All kinds of volant things that wing the autumn
air--all sorts of movers on four legs--to make these succumb to
the behests of minerals, deadly salts, and a percussion cap to set
them on, is a kind of great glory in a very small way. I miss in
my excursions of this nature, the kind of sport which I fancy they
who course the fields and glades of England must peculiarly enjoy;
hare-hunting, namely. 'The ancients,' saith my choice 'Elia,' must
have loved hares. Else why adopt the word _lepores_, (obviously from
_lepus_,) but from some subtle analogy between the delicate flavor
of the latter, and the finer relishes of wit in what we most poorly
translate _pleasantries_. The fine madnesses of the poet are the very
decoction of his diet. Thence is he hare-brained. Haram-scarum is
a libellous, unfounded phrase, of modern usage. 'Tis true the hare
is the most circumspect of animals, sleeping with her eyes open.
Her ears, ever erect, keep them in that wholesome exercise, which
conduces them to form the very tit-bit of the admirers of this noble
animal. Noble will I call her, in spite of her detractors, who from
occasional demonstrations of the principle of self-preservation
(common to all animals,) infer in her a defect of heroism. Half
a hundred horsemen, with thrice the number of dogs, scour the
country in pursuit of puss, across three counties; and because
the well-flavored beast, weighing the odds, is _willing_ to evade
the hue and cry, _with her delicate ears shrinking perchance from
discord_, comes the grave naturalist, Linnæus, perchance, or Buffon,
and gravely sets down the hare as--a timid animal. Why, Achilles, or
Bully Dawson, would have declined the preposterous combat!' This is
speaking sooth, and vindicates the fame of that class of tremulous
tenants of rural haunts, whose ears, most unhappily, are sometimes
longer than their lives.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETIMES I surmount my pony, and traverse for miles the banks of
the Schuylkill; moving, now fast, now slow, as humor prompts, or
clouds portend. The city fades behind me; the beautiful eminence of
Fairmount, its spouting fountains, its statues in the many-colored
shade; the sheen of the river; the trellised pavilions that hang on
its side; the hum of waters, or the cheerings of some regatta, mingle
with far obscurity and airy nothing; and then, as I ride, I sing
the song of Anacreon Little, laying every tone to my heart, like a
treasure and a spell:

    'Along by the Schuylkill a wanderer was roving,
      And dear were its flowery banks to his eye;'
    (I am bounding along--at a good rate am moving--
      I have lost the last lines--unregained, if I try.)

Thus I murder the post-meridian hours, when the weather-office is
propitious, and its clerks attentive.

       *       *       *       *       *

BY-THE-WAY, how often have I pondered on the extreme surprise
experienced by Balaam, of Old-Testament memory, when he rode out one
day on business. His meditations were most unexpectedly interrupted
by the beast he rode; and he was immensely astounded, when he found
out the garrulity of the animal. True to her sex, (for she was of the
tender gender,) she commenced a few sentences of small-talk, greatly
to his dismay. And who could marvel? What man but would listen,
_auribus erectis_, when he ascertained that his own ass was opening
a conversation with him? 'Twas thus with Balaam. He was well nigh
demented. He pommelled his beast with great vehemence; but she turned
her head to him, and said in the Hebrew dialect--'_No Go!_'

Is it not wonderful, that those who are skilled in biblical history,
who weigh evidence by the ounce, and inference by the pound, is it
not a marvel, that they have never traced the obstinacy of this
four-footed individual to the right motive? She was, in sooth, the
great progenitress of _Animal Magnetism_; and she presented, in her
own person, the first instance of _clairvoyance_ on record, either
in prose or rhyme. It was at her hinder feet that MESMER sat, in
thought, and caught the inspiration of his science. Balaam sat on
her patient back, burdened her hallowed vertebras, nor knew how much
wisdom he bestrode. Blinded mortal! He looked ahead for the cause of
his detention. He saw no reason why he should not push on; and in the
Egyptian obliquity of his heart, he 'whaled' his ass to a degree. It
did no good; on the contrary, 'twas quite the reverse. The ass and
the angel were looking steadfastly at each other; but Balaam saw but
one of the parties. He noted not the glittering and glorious obstacle
that stopped the narrow way. The loose and expressionless lips of his
ass spoke like a book; the _clairvoyance_ was established; but the
effect was slow. Henceforth, when the magnetic science is discussed,
honor its foundress. Render unto that ass the things which are asses.'

       *       *       *       *       *

I HAVE achieved a victory which should fire the heart of any tasteful
bibliomaniac. _I stand seized of Lamb._ Understand me, reader, 'tis
no juvenile mutton, whereof I am possessed; not adolescent merino,
or embryo ram. By no manner of means; contrariwise, it is TALFOURD's
brief memoir, and a most succulent correspondence, by the author
of 'ELIA.' 'Tis a thing over which a father may waken his boy, in
the small hours of the morning, (being yet unmovéd bedward,) by
a multitudinous guffaw. Rosy slumber, ruptured by obstreperous
laughter; but ah! how decidedly unavoidable!

Yes; I write myself proprietor for the nonce of a London edition. My
name is written in 'LAMB's Book of Life;' say rather, in a Book of
the Life of Lamb. Most hugeously do I relish his quaint conceits, and
those dainty sentences, the fashioning whereof came to him unbidden,
from spirits of the olden time, bending from the clouds of fame.
(By-the-by, what an unconscionable dog was Ossian! He always kept a
score or two of heroes, sitting half-dressed on cold clouds, making
speeches. 'Twas most unkind of him. But he lived in a rude age.) Lamb
was one of those precious few of whom the world is not worthy. He
wrote from the impulses of a noble heart, guided to new expression
by a mind clear as the brook of Siloa, that flowed by the oracles of
God. He was not one of your persons who are dignified by the phrase
'all heart,' for he had a prolific brain, which all-hearted people
generally lack. Of course, he disciplined himself betwixt a desk at
the India-House, and his social hours, or studious; but what golden
fruitage sprang therefrom! None of your crude sentences, half-formed,
unlicked, unpolished; but full of meaning; succinct to the eye, and
harmonious to the ear. There is a light from his pen, which can
illumine the saddest hour. He went forth to amuse and enlighten, as
the sun gets up in the morning to cheer the world, 'with all his
fires and travelling glories round him.' Essayist incomparable! How
would he have looked writing a prize-tale for the horror-mongers!

       *       *       *       *       *

IN respect of these latter things, how many double-distilled
atrocities of that kind are now and then committed at this day! They
must be filled with blood and murder; piracy, thieving, villany of
all sorts, must be thrown in, to make the mixture 'slab and good.'
This is the result of the ten thousand pages of trash, which the want
of a copy-right law entails upon us from England. _Improbability_
is the first ingredient, to which assassination, seduction, and all
kinds of crime, must approximate. Let me give a specimen:

    'THE FATAL VOW.'

    'It was late in the fall of 18--, (convenient blank!) when, as
    the night had come on, on a stormy evening, a dreadful tempest
    arose in the west. The lightning flashed, the thunder faintly
    bellowed for a time; but soon the lightning discontinued,
    though the thunder moaned on. It was pitch dark--darkness
    Egyptian. The sight was palsied and checked within an inch
    of the eye. At this juncture, two men on horseback might
    have been seen, at the distance of half a mile from the
    river ----, riding through a thick wood. One of them was of
    sallow complexion, with huge black whiskers; he rode a horse
    of the color called by rural people 'pumpkin-and-milk,' or
    cream-color, rather. In his holster were two pistols. He wore
    a broad slouching hat, apparently unpaid for. A frown, blacker
    considerably than hell, darkened his brow. Turning to his
    companion, a weazen-faced man, with a red head, mounted on what
    is called a 'calico mare,' he said:

    'Well, Jakarzil, shall we do the deed to-night?'

    'It would ill befit the noble Count d'Urzilio de Belleville,'
    said the dependant, 'to shoot that ill-fated lady at the
    present time. It would not _look_ well.'

    'I care not for the looks!' replied the count, curling his lip,
    and placing in his sinister cheek a piece of tobacco, 'I must
    have vengeance! If the candle is not at the casement, I shall
    bu'st the door. I want revenge!'

    'TO BE CONTINUED.'

This is like the modern tales. Meditated butchery, successful
scoundrelism, and other delectables, make up their sum. As the
fragment just read may never be concluded, I will mention the fate of
the parties. The hero shot his grandmother out of _pique_, and was
hung; Jakarzil, his man, is in the penitentiary for horse-stealing.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOME of my unpoetical friends think I have underrated the Falls at
Catskill. Heaven save the mark! They have never seen Niagara, and are
therefore contented with a few grim rocks, the gate of a mill-dam,
and grandeur by the gallon; for thus, in a manner, is it sold. No!
Let these untravelled but clever fellows once hear the roar that
shakes Goat-Island, and the region round about; see the river that
pours its mile-wide breakers down, and mark the rainbow smile! Ever
thereafter will they hold their peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

ONE or two credulous persons have fancied that the sketch of 'Smith
of Smithopolis' was designed as an imputation upon the name. The
said imputation is disdained, by these presents. I have a decided
regard for that style and title: companionship, familiarity, personal
knowledge, (so grateful to the inquiring mind,) are its synonyms.
Beside, I honor the name, for sundry associations. Who has never
rode in a rail-car, a steam-boat, or a coach, with a person of the
name of Smith? Or heard him speak at a public meeting? Or owed him a
trifle? Or had a trifle due from him, the Smith aforesaid? _Nemo_--'I
undertake to say'--(in fact I not only _undertake_ this vocal
enterprise, but I _accomplish_ it.) Aside, reader, 'tis a criticism
on the phrase; which whoso uses when he knows what he is about to set
down in palpable chirography, is a _sumph_ unqualified: _Anglice_,
one of the flat 'uns, named of _Stulti_.

The Smiths are numerous, 'tis said. Grant it. Who pays more
post-office revenue? Who more quickly resents a jeer upon the name?
Tell me that. 'Not nobody.' Would you look for heroes? The Smiths
could supply them. For female goodness and devotion? The same, from
the same. For wit, genius, and elevated-talent? _Vide_ Horace and
James, of the Addresses, and Richard Penn; the studious scholar, good
lawyer, quaint citizen, novelist, poet, dramatist--every thing clever.

       *       *       *       *       *

I HAD many more things to say, courteous reader; but I fear,
from what I have written, you may augur a bore. Heaven forfend!
Consequently, thine in conclusion, I write myself, henceforth, now,
and formerly,

                                                    OLLAPOD.

FOOTNOTE:

[10] Apropos of this 'supererogatory and adscititious' prohibition.
The small steamers which ply on the beautiful Connecticut, above the
ancient fortification of 'Göed Höop,' renowned in KNICKERBOCKER's
veracious history, and now known as 'Dutch Point,' have but one
paddle-wheel, which is placed some six or eight feet astern. The
voyager in these pretty craft is forcibly struck with the necessity
of obeying a printed order, conspicuously posted: _No smoking abaft
the wheel!_' And those who watch from the shore the locomotive column
of spray, (like the 'pillar of cloud by day' that concealed the
Israelites,) which hides the boat from view, in its upward passage,
must also be of opinion that his 'pipe' would be soon 'put-out,' who
should attempt to smoke in so moist a region.




EXAMPLE.

    HIS faults that in a private station sits,
    Do mainly harm him only that commits:
    Those placed on high a bright example owe--
    Much to themselves, more to the crowd below.
    A paltry watch, in private pocket borne,
    Misleads but him alone by whom 'tis worn;
    But the town-clock, that steeples oft display,
    By going wrong, leads half the town astray.




THE COMING OF WINTER.


I.

    THE wintry months are here again--
      Around us are their snows and storms;
    The tempest shrieks along the plain,
      The forest heaves its giant forms.

II.

    The drifting sleet flies from the hill,
      Thick clouds deform the threat'ning sky;
    While in the vale, the birds are still,
      And chain'd by frosts, the waters lie.

III.

    Ah! where is now the merry May,
      The green banks, and the leafy bowers?
    The cricket's chirp, the linnet's lay,
      That gave such sweetness to the hours?

IV.

    And where the sunny sky, that round
      This world of glad and breathing things,
    Came with its sweetness and its sound,
      Its golden light and glancing wings?

V.

    Alas! the eye falls now no more
      On flowery field, or hill, or plain;
    Nor for the ear the woodlands pour
      One glad note of the summer's strain!

VI.

    The green leaves stript have left the woods
      Towering--their tall arms bleak and bare;
    And now they choke the sounding floods,
      Or fill, in clouds, the rushing air!

VII.

    Yet turn we here! The winter's fire,
      Its crackling faggots blazing bright,
    Hath joys that never, never tire,
      And looks that fill us with delight.

VIII.

    Home's joys! Ah yes, 'tis these are ours,
      Home's looks and hearts! 'tis these can bring
    A something sweeter than the flowers,
      And purer than the airs of spring.

IX.

    Then welcome be old Winter here!
      Ay! welcome be the stormy hour;
    Our kindly looks and social cheer
      Shall cheat the monarch of his power!

X.

    With mirth and joy the hours we'll crown--
      Love to our festival we'll bring!
    And calm the sturdy blusterer down,
      And make him smiling as the spring!

_New-Haven, November 13th, 1837._                   B. T. W.




OCEOLA'S CHALLENGE.


    LATE accounts from St. Augustine state, that the recent capture
    of the Indian chiefs has by no means increased the friendly
    feelings of the red men toward the whites. 'There will yet be
    hard fighting, and they will be rendered more desperate than
    ever. Even the captives seem to doubt that they will be sent
    out of the country.'

       *       *       *       *       *

    COME on! O'er prairie, bluff, and swamp,
      By bush, and rock, and tree,
    Where'er an Indian's foot may tramp,
    Where'er ye march, where'er ye camp,
      My warrior band shall be!

    Come on! My words are plain and few,
      My greeting brief and free
    But if ye think it less than due,
    With deadly aim, my rifle true
      Shall welcome speak for me.

    Come on! And if ye miss the track
      Left by the red man's tread,
    Well shall ye know the pathway back!
    We'll strew it, lest a guide ye lack,
      With heaps of scalpless dead!

    Come on! Our sires your fathers fought
      In these green wilds of old,
    We ask ye, and we owe ye nought,
    And know, these lands, that ne'er were bought,
      Can but for blood be sold!

_November, 1837._                                         H.




RANDOM PASSAGES

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

NUMBER EIGHT.


PRUSSIA--BELGIUM.

COLOGNE, SEPTEMBER 14TH.--On the arrival of the steam-boat, (_alias,
dampschïffen_, or _le bateau à vapeur_,) the bells of the town were
ringing, cannons firing, a band of music playing, and the _quais_
were filled with at least five thousand people, who were kept in
order by a party of soldiers. Some distinguished personage seemed
to be expected in the boat, but there was none forthcoming. The
military cleared a passage through the crowd, and we landed without
any confusion, although it was dark, and there were three hundred
passengers (picked up on the way,) to be supplied with porters and
lodgings; and the place was known to be full. At the fourth hotel I
applied to, alone, in the dark, in a strange place, I succeeded in
securing an attic; but many others were even less fortunate.

After supper, I made a sally through the principal streets, which are
well lighted with gas. It seems to be a busy and cheerful place, much
like Paris; buildings irregular, streets crooked, and ill-paved. The
far-famed _Eau-de-Cologne_ forms a considerable article of its trade,
and has contributed not a little to familiarize its name all over the
world. The four brothers Farina rival each other in the manufacture;
but the most noted artist is Jean Maria Farina. I took a peep into
his establishment; and were it not that His Majesty of England would
make me pay for it over again, I should like to send you some of the
'genuine article.'

       *       *       *       *       *

AIX LA CHAPELLE, SEPTEMBER 15TH.--My present date is from the city of
Charlemagne. 'To begin where I left off.' While writing last evening
in my _lofty_ apartment, looking out upon the Rhine, the music on
the quay suddenly re-commenced, and the enthusiastic shouts of the
populace announced that the expected visitor had arrived. It proved
to be the crown prince of Prussia, and his two brothers. Prussia
now extends, as you are aware, this side of the Rhine as far as
Aix. The present king and all his family are said to be exceedingly
and deservedly popular with the people. The government, although
in theory despotic, is evidently mild and liberal in practice. In
education, I need not tell you, Prussia stands prëeminent; and if you
are curious for information on this point, I would refer you to the
recent report of Victor Cousin.[11] The regulations of the police,
the public conveyances, etc., in the Prussian dominions are certainly
excellent.

I was early awake this morning, in order to finish exploring
Cologne before six, the starting hour for Aix. Escorted by a young
cicerone, who 'politely volunteered his services,' I went first to
the cathedral, one of the most celebrated on the continent. Five
hundred years have elapsed since this edifice was commenced, and yet
it is scarcely half finished! The choir only is quite completed, and
this is very elaborately decorated within and without. The grass is
actually growing on the towers, which have as yet attained but one
third of their intended elevation, (five hundred feet,) and being
connected with the choir merely by a temporary structure, they look
like ruins of a separate edifice. Yet, even in its present state, the
cathedral of Cologne is a wonderful specimen of human ingenuity and
perseverance. I followed my cicerone to the head of the choir, behind
the great altar, where he pointed to a richly-ornamented monument, as
the tomb of the 'Three Kings of Cologne.' It is to be hoped you are
versed in the veritable history of these same three kings, as well
as that of the eleven thousand virgins before-mentioned, for neither
memory nor time will permit me to edify you in 'legendary lore.'

Mass had already commenced, at this early hour, and the good
people were kneeling reverently on the marble floor, saying their
paternosters and counting their beads, or watching, with humble
simplicity, the movements of the priest before the altar. I observed
one of the boys employed to swing the censers of burning incense,
turn round occasionally, with a piteous yawn. The painted windows in
this cathedral are very elaborate and beautiful. I had time to 'drop
in' to several other churches during matins, where I saw much that
was curious and dazzling, and heard some fine organ-music.

There were twenty-two passengers 'booked' for Aix, and according to
law, they were obliged to send extras for as many as applied before
the hour. This route to Brussels and Ostend is much travelled by the
English, in preference to continuing on the Rhine to Rotterdam.

It was a bright morning again, and the ride proved rather pleasant,
though somewhat monotonous. The country, for several miles out of
Cologne, is nearly level, and almost quite treeless: near the city,
it is laid out in one vast vegetable-garden, without any enclosure,
as is often the case on the continent. Poaching does not seem to be
dreamed of. The fortifications of Cologne, and those of Juliers, our
first stopping-place, are of the most substantial kind. Juliers is
surrounded by three distinct walls, each about twenty feet thick, and
separated by broad deep ditches, or canals. And yet in the present
_refined_ state of the art of war, this fortress is far from being
impregnable.

We arrived at Aix at 3 P. M., and having taken a place for an evening
ride to Liege, and had my passport _vised_ at the Hotel de Ville, the
next thing was to visit the cathedral containing the bones of the
great CHARLEMAGNE. His tomb is under the floor, in the centre of the
church, and is covered by a plain marble slab, on which is inscribed
in _lofty_ simplicity,

    'CAROLUS MAGNO.'

After looking at the throne of the 'grand monarque,' and at the
immense windows of the choir, (remarkable for the lightness and
elegance of their frames,) we were conducted by a priest to a
closet, or _sanctum sanctorum_, to see the famous cabinet of
precious relics.[12] I send you a printed account of these veritable
relics, and as to their authenticity, it is to be hoped your bump
of marvelousness is too large to permit you to doubt. Will you not
look upon me with a 'thrilling interest,' when I tell you that I have
seen and touched them with my bodily hands? They gravely tell you
how the 'sacred' articles were obtained, and how they were presented
to Charlemagne by the patriarch of Jerusalem. I doubt not they
really find them _precious_ articles of speculation, and would be
grieved to hear a suspicion of their being genuine. The linens worn
by the virgin when Christ was born, are among those too sacred for
common eyes, and are only shown in seven years, with much 'pomp and
circumstance.'

By the way, I saw also the splendid crown of Isabella of Castile
and Arragon, (the patron of Columbus,) of pure gold, covered with
diamonds. And in London I forgot to tell you of Charlemagne's Bible,
a magnificent folio MSS., on parchment, richly illuminated, etc. It
had intrinsic and unquestioned evidence of being executed for the
emperor by Eginhard, the historian of that period. It was 'bought
in' at auction, for £1500, ($7,500,) but finally sold to the British
Museum. But you must be tired of relics.

       *       *       *       *       *

LIEGE, SEPTEMBER 16.--Last evening I reconnoitred the town of Aix la
Chapelle, heard two acts of the 'Marriage of Figaro' admirably sung
in the Grecian Opera-House, and then stepped into the 'Schnell-Post.'
On the frontiers of Belgium, about midnight, we were stopped at a
'Bureau de Police,' our luggage was all taken off and searched, and
our passports examined, during which operations we all 'kept our
patience,' save a poor Frenchman, who had to pay duty on a couple of
boxes of cologne, snugly stowed in his trunk. After rewarding the
worthy gentlemen for their politeness, we were suffered to proceed.

Liege, you will recollect, beside being famous in history, was the
scene of the tragedy so vividly pictured in 'Quentin Durward,' the
murder of the bishop by the 'Wild Boar of Ardennes.' The bishop's
palace was a short distance from the town, but no traces of it
remain. His city palace, (noted for its eccentric architecture, each
of the interior pillars being in a different style,) is now used as
a market-house. Liege is built on both sides of the river Meuse. It
is quite a manufacturing place, as well as lively and pleasant, and
seems to be regaining its former importance. The shop-windows present
a really brilliant display of merchandise, of every description.
Two of the modern streets, strange to say, are well paved, and have
sidewalks four feet wide; an unusual phenomenon on the continent.
In the course of my ramble, I dropped into three or four churches,
for the churches in these countries are open at all times; and
they have abundant attraction, at least in painting, sculpture,
architecture, and music; in short, they are museums of the fine arts.
The prevalence of superstition among the good people seems strange in
this 'enlightened age;' and yet on the whole, we cannot wonder at it,
if the proverb be true that 'Ignorance is the mother of Devotion.'
One of the printed notices of holy days, etc., in honor of the virgin
and the saints, commences on this wise: '_Marie le Mère de Dieu, est
dignes de notre homage_,' etc.

       *       *       *       *       *

NAMUR, 16.--The ride from Liege to this place (forty miles,) along
the banks of the Meuse, was delightful.[13] The scenery, if not
_pittoresque_, in the Frenchman's sense, is at least beautiful. There
was a very perceptible difference in the diligences on leaving
the Prussian dominions; the Belgian vehicle being large, clumsy,
heavy-loaded, and drawn by three miserable, creeping compounds of
skin and bones. On leaving Liege, we passed several close-looking,
high-walled convents and nunneries in the environs. There was
little else to notice during the journey, except the boats on the
Meuse, drawn up by horses; and the cathedral and walls of Huy, the
half-way town. In approaching Namur, the road makes a broad circuit,
and enters the gate on the Brussels side, giving the traveller an
imposing view of the fortifications on the heights overlooking the
town. It was late in the evening, when the diligence set us down
near the Hotel de Hollande, in which I am now snugly disposed of, a
solitary guest.

       *       *       *       *       *

BRUSSELS, 17TH.--I was on the top of the diligence this morning at
six, for another ride of thirty-six miles to the capital of Belgium,
over the field of Waterloo. The only village on the route worth
mentioning is Genappe. At noon we came in sight of a large mound, in
the form of a pyramid, surmounted by a figure of an animal. It proved
to be the Belgic lion-monument, commemorating the great victory of
the allies. We soon came up to, and passed over the centre of, the
battle-field, our conducteur meanwhile pointing out the various
localities which he doubtless has often had occasion to do before:
'Le Maison ou Napoleon logé.' 'Wellington et Blucher.' A tablet over
the door of the cottage explained: '_La belle Alliance. Recontre
des Generaux Wellington et Blucher dans la bataille memorable de
Juin 18, 1815._' On the right of the road, 'L'armie Prusse;' farther
on, 'L'armie Anglais;' on the left, 'L'armie Française.' We had now
come where the fight raged thickest, at present marked only by the
monuments to the more distinguished victims. The field is smaller
than I supposed. Those great armies must have been necessarily in
close contact. This is the spot, then, where, at the expense of the
lives of twenty thousand men, the mastership not only of France but
of all Europe was decided.

    'And here I stand upon the place of skulls,
    The grave of France--the deadly Waterloo!'

And here, where on that dreadful night, the groans of the wounded
and dying went up to heaven, calling aloud for retribution on their
ambitious fellow man, who sought, at whatever cost, to

    'Get the start of the majestic world,
    And bear the palm alone;'

here you now see only the peaceful labors of the peasant women,
planting their flax and potatoes over the graves of the slaughtered,
which scarcely have a 'stone to tell where they lie,' or to remind
you of the stirring scenes of the night when the gayety of the ball
at Brussels was changed to anxious terror, by the cry of 'The foe!
they come!--they come!'

After leaving the field, we passed through the straggling village
of Waterloo, (now the abode of cicerones and speculators in old
swords, muskets, and sundry other relics of the 'grand bataille,'
most of which are doubtless manufactured for the special benefit of
credulous tourists), we entered a thick and beautiful grove, two
or three miles long, and soon came in sight of the capital, which
is nine miles from Waterloo. The general view of Brussels, on this
side, is not more imposing than that of several minor towns; and the
quarter we entered was still less favorable for a 'first impression.'
Instead of the fortified portal, usual in insignificant villages in
Germany, the city is guarded at the 'Porte de Namur' by a wooden
fence, scarcely fit for a cow-pasture. In the 'Rue Haute,' which we
first traversed, the houses are neither high nor handsome; most of
them with gable-ends to the street, in the primitive Dutch style.
But when I arrived at the 'Hotel de Bellevue,' (chosen at random
from the list,) the face of things was changed. This hotel is in a
large and splendid square, next to the king's palace, and the public
buildings, and directly opposite the park, one of the most beautiful
in Europe. The Rues Royale, de Brabant and de Zoi, which enclose
that charming promenade, are decidedly superior to Rivoli, the boast
of Paris. The royal palace and that of the 'prince hereditary,' are
near each other, in a corner of the square; and on the opposite side,
extending the whole length of the park, is the immense palace of the
States' General. These buildings are all of the light cream color, so
prevalent in Paris and Frankfort. The park is adorned with several
fine pieces of sculpture, including a series of the Roman emperors.
The views from the various avenues through the trees are magnificent.
In rambling through the fairy place, I heard, from a building in the
corner,

    ----'A sound of revelry by night,
    For Belgium's capitol had gathered _now_
    Her beauty and her chivalry.'

It certainly has gathered a quantity of English visitors, for the
hotels are full of them, and they are now listening to 'music with
_its_ voluptuous swell,' at the opera, where I doubt not

    'Soft eyes look love to eyes which speak again,
    And all goes merry as a marriage bell.'

       *       *       *       *       *

18TH.--Just finished lionizing. Firstly, churches; St. Jacques;
Corinthian order; remarkably elegant and tasteful: Notre Dame des
Victoires, Notre Dame de Chapelle, and St. Michael; cathedrals richly
adorned with paintings and sculpture. The towers of St. Michael are
massive and conspicuous objects in the panorama of the city; and the
magnificence of the interior is really astonishing. High mass was
here also in operation in more than usual splendor, but I need not
detail the ceremonies, with which I am free to say I was more amused
than edified. In these cathedrals, as you are aware, there are no
such things as pews, or permanent seats. The multitude are content
to kneel on the cold stone floor, or if perchance a few chairs are
provided, the occupants are often interrupted in their 'Ave Marias'
by a summons for the rent thereof. Much did some of them seem to
marvel that my heretical self touched not the holy water. 'While I
stood wrapped in the wonder of it,' comes up a batallion of about one
hundred young ladies, all dressed alike, in black silk frocks and
straw bonnets, respectable and intelligent-looking girls, probably
belonging to some large Catholic seminary. They were escorted by two
ladies into the choir.

Close by Notre Dame, I passed a grog-shop with this sign, verbatim.

                'À LA GRACE DE DIEU:

    VALENTINE, MARCHAND D'EPICERIES ET LIQUEURS.'

In all these churches there are little chapels around the walls,
dedicated to the different saints, with contribution-boxes at the
entrance, labelled in French and Dutch, '_Ici on offre à St. Roch,
patron contre maladies contagieuse_.' '_Ici on offre à St. Antoine
patron contre_;' something else, I forget what. '_Ici on offre à
Notre Dame des doleurs aux pieds de la croix_;' and so on.

The next curiosity is the Hotel de Ville, a very large and curious
old building, with a tower after the model of that of Babel. It was
in this edifice that the Emperor Charles V. signed his abdication.

The beautiful palace built for the Prince of Orange, was just
completed and furnished, when the revolution of 1830 broke out.
Leopold, it seems, is too honorable and conscientious to use it, so
that it is kept as a show-place. The interior is superb. It is a
small edifice, comparatively, but a perfect gem of its kind. Visitors
are required to put on cloth slippers, and slide, not walk, over
the floors of polished oak. In some of the rooms, the walls are of
variegated marble; others are covered with the richest satin damask.
There is a fine collection of choice paintings by Rubens, etc., in
this palace. They showed me also, in the stable, the state-carriage
of the Prince of Orange, which he had not time to save when he lost
Belgium.

In the king's palace the furniture is rather plain, and somewhat
the worse for wear. As their majesties are at present 'absent from
home,' I was permitted to invade the sanctity even of the private
apartments. Some of the halls are very large, particularly the 'Salle
à Manger.'

       *       *       *       *       *

ANTWERP, 18TH.--At two o'clock, or an hour and a half ago, I was in
Brussels, twenty-four miles distant. The flight was not in a balloon,
or in a 'bateau à vapeur,' but in the car of the '_Le Chemin de
Fer_;' for be it known, the yankee notions are spreading so far, that
there are two rail-roads, of twenty-four and sixty miles, actually
in operation on the continent of Europe; and moreover, there are
three or four more contemplated, or commenced, viz: From Frankfort,
first to Ostend, the port of Belgium; second, to Hamburgh; third,
to Berlin; fourth, to Basle, in Switzerland; and from Vienna to
Trieste and Milan. Verily, the tour of Europe will be no such great
affair, 'when such things be.' It will lose all its romance; and the
book-making tourist's 'occupation' will be 'gone' for ever! It's
lucky _I_ came before a 'consummation so devoutly to be wished.'

The low countries are, of course, well adapted for rail-roads and
canals. There is scarcely an elevation of six feet on the whole
course from Brussels to _Anvers_.[14] This rail-road is under
excellent regulations. The train consisted of fifteen cars, part
of which were open; and the fare was only about twenty-five cents.
You may breakfast in Brussels, go to Antwerp to church, and return
to Brussels before dinner, with the greatest ease. I had seen the
opening ceremonies of a Catholic holy-day, at the church of St.
Michael, in the capital, and now I have been to see them finished
in the cathedral of Antwerp. I went into this grand temple just at
sunset, when they were performing Te Deum on the immense organ,
accompanied by a large vocal choir; and nearly thirty persons in
gorgeous robes were officiating around the altar. This is one of the
largest churches in the world. The spire is far-famed for its immense
height and graceful design. Among the gems of art to be seen in the
interior, is the celebrated chêf d'oeuvre of Rubens, the Descent
from the Cross.

I walked out this evening to the _citadelle_ which sustained, under
Gen. CHASSE, the terrible siege of the French, in 1832.[15] It is
a mile in circumference, and is enclosed by five bastions. The
walls and the houses in the vicinity yet bear sad traces of the
bombardment. During the siege, which lasted a month, including ten
days of incessant cannonading, sixty-three thousand cannon balls were
fired by the French into the citadel, and often no less than a dozen
bombs were seen in the air at once. The interior of the fortress, and
several warehouses near by, were reduced to a heap of ruins, before
the resolute Dutch general surrendered. Such an affair is more in
keeping with the days of Louis XIV., than with our own.

The diplomatists have not yet settled matters amicably between
Holland and Belgium. King William and several of the despotic powers
refuse to recognise Belgium's independence, and there is little or no
intercourse between the two countries. Travellers are not permitted
to enter Holland from this side, without special permission from his
Dutch majesty, for a Belgian passport is good for nothing. Leopold,
_le premier_, may thank his stars if he continues secure on the
throne he acquired so easily; for there is apparently much discontent
among the people, especially the trading classes, who feel the loss
of the market for their goods at the Dutch sea-ports. The Antwerpers,
at least, are decidedly inclined towards Holland.

Antwerp, which in the sixteenth century was one of the most
important commercial places in the world, has long been on
the decline. It once contained more than two hundred thousand
inhabitants--now, scarcely sixty thousand; and it is said there are
no less than eight hundred houses at present tenantless. Its docks,
once crowded with vessels, laden with the wealth of the Indies, are
now almost deserted; and the streets are strangely quiet, for a place
even of its present size.

The chief curiosities are the churches, for which Antwerp is
renowned. But I have already inflicted enough of this topic upon
you, and the Antwerp churches are much like those I have written
about, save that they are yet more rich and profuse in their
decorations. Those of St. Jacques, St. Paul, and the Jesuits, are
the principal. Superb altars, and pillars of the finest marble,
statues and paintings, in every variety, are to be seen in them.
In St. Jacques, I stood on the tomb of Rubens, who was a native of
Antwerp, and of a patrician family. Over his monument is a fine
picture, by himself, of his wife and children. In the church-yard of
St. Paul's is a fearfully vivid representation of Mount Calvary, the
crucifixion and entombment of Christ, and of purgatory! While gazing
at the lofty tower of the Cathedral, I was accosted by a cicerone:
'Voulez vous mounter?' 'Combien demandez vous?' 'Deux francs.' 'Trop
beaucoup?' 'Oui, Monsieur; mais tres belle vue; magnifique; vous
pouver voir Bruxelles.' 'Eh bien, je veux mounter.' This is the
way they get one's francs away; for, as the book says, the Belgian
lions must be fed as well as others. The view is certainly very
extensive, though Brussels, I must say, was rather indistinct. But
the Tower of Malines, or Mechlin, (that famous place for lace,) was
very conspicuous, though twelve miles off. The prospects over such
a country as Belgium are more extensive than varied. Antwerp is
situated near the mouth of the Scheld, and the windings of the river
may be seen for several miles toward Ghent and the sea-board. The
tops of the houses in the city are mostly covered with red tiles.

In the tower, I saw a chime of no less than forty-six bells, and
was shown the operation of winding the clock, with a weight of one
thousand pounds attached. The large bell, meanwhile, struck eleven,
and all the rest followed like dutiful children. Somewhat of a sound
they made, sure enough! Chimes originated in this country, and all
the churches have them, playing at concert every half hour. This
tower is ascended by six hundred and twenty-six steps. I went to the
very top, thinking of some one's exclamation at the cathedral of
Cologne, 'What will not man achieve!'

From thence, made a call at Ruben's house, which still remains, and
then looked in at the Museum, where are three hundred 'tableaux,'
comprising eighteen pictures by Rubens, and six by Van Dyck. In the
garden adjoining, is a bronze statue of Mary of Burgundy, on her tomb.

       *       *       *       *       *

GHENT, (or GAND,) Sept 19.--His majesty of Holland not seeing fit to
admit me into his dominions, from his late rebellious territory of
Belgium, the alternative was to cross over Flanders, by Ghent and
Bruges, to Ostend, and there embark, instead of at Rotterdam, for
London. A ferry-boat took passengers over the Scheld to the 'Tête
de Flandre,' where the diligence was in waiting. We 'niggled' over
a flat, fertile country, at the five-mile pace, seeing nothing very
strange until nine P. M., when we passed through a long village of
one-story houses, rattled over an excellent stone-bridge, and found
ourselves in the worthy old town of Ghent, or rather Gand; but if the
people _are_ ganders, they have shown some wisdom, nevertheless, in
making so many nice, large, open squares, in their respectable city.

       *       *       *       *       *

OSTEND, 20TH.--This morning was to be my last on the continent. I
rose at six from my last _coucher_, in the fifth story, took my last
breakfast in the _salle à manger_, made my last visit to cathedrals,
paid my bill at the Hotel de Vienne, and took my diligence seat
for the last time. The last trunk was placed on the top, the last
passenger took his place, the three lazy horses were affixed, the
postillion mounted, the diligence rumbled forward, crossed two or
three spacious squares, and as many bridges, (for the river or canals
pass in several places through the town,) entered the great archway
under the ramparts, and proceeded with slow and stately step toward
Bruges. The whole of the road is broad, well paved, lined with rows
of elms and poplars, and for several miles keeps along the banks of
the broad canal connecting Ghent with Bruges; and so level is the
soil, that the towers of Ghent were in full view for six miles.

Bruges, or Brugge, is a beautiful town, replete with reminiscences
of the Counts of Flanders; yet it is far from being what it once
was, in wealth and importance. Like Antwerp, there is an unnatural
stillness in the streets; you would almost think an epidemic had
depopulated them. And yet there are many handsome private dwellings,
and many wealthy people in Bruges. It has also a considerable number
of English residents.

Ostend is dull enough. The harbor is bad, not admitting large
vessels, except at high tide; otherwise, this place would improve
rapidly; for, save Antwerp and Dunkirk, it is the only sea-port of
Belgium. When the rail-road to Brussels is finished, Ostend will
begin to look up. The Belgians have always been a manufacturing
rather than a commercial people; but now they are cut off from
exporting their goods from the ports of Holland, they must
necessarily build up a commerce of their own. They are now engaged in
improving the harbor, etc., of Ostend.

As an evidence of the discontent caused by the depression of trade
since the revolution, it is said Leopold was grossly insulted by the
people of Ghent, about a year since. He was on a visit there, and was
going to the theatre; but the Ganders hired all the best boxes, and
locked them up! The Ostenders, however, are more loyal. The king and
queen were greeted at the theatre here, a few evenings since, with a
poetical address. The queen is here now; but her consort has gone to
England to negotiate, as the papers say, for the Princess Victoria,
in behalf of his nephew. Whether he or his _beloved_ cousin of Orange
will succeed, yet remains a problem.

Well--Bologne was the Alpha, and now, after travelling two thousand
miles, the Omega of my continental tour. To imitate the lofty style
of Chateaubriand's preface to his memoirs: I have been solitary in
crowded cities, and in the recesses of the Highlands of Scotland,
and the Alps of Switzerland; I have promenaded the Regent-street
of London, and the Boulevards of Paris; the parks of Brussels, the
Canongate of Edinburgh, the ramparts of Stirling and Geneva; sailed
on Loch Katrine and Lake Leman, on Loch Lomond and 'fair Zurich's
waters;' slept on the Great St. Bernard, and by the side of Lock
Achray. I have gazed on magnificent panoramas of cities, mountains,
lakes, valleys, from the summits of the Trosachs and the Rhigi, from
St. Paul's and Notre Dame, from the towers of Antwerp, and Edinburgh,
of Stirling and Windsor. I have sailed on the Tay and the Rhine, the
Clyde, the Thames, the Rhone, the Seine; scaled rocky heights on the
Swiss mule and the Highland pony; climbed to the sources of glaciers,
water-falls, and the Frozen Sea. I have been in the princely halls of
Windsor and Versailles, of Warwick, Scone, and Holyrood; the Louvre,
Tuilleries, and Luxembourg; rambled amidst the ruins of Melrose and
Kenilworth; of Dryburgh and the Drachenfels. I have heard the 'loud
anthem' in the splendid temples of York and Antwerp, Westminster
and Notre Dame, St. Paul's and Cologne. I have stood over the ashes
of Shakspeare and of Scott; of the poets and heroes of England and
France. I have gazed on the Works of Raphael and Angelo, of Reynolds
and Rubens, of Flaxman and Canova. My hand has been in Rob Roy's
purse, and on the skull of Charlemagne; on Bonaparte's pistols, and
Hofer's blunderbuss; on the needle-work of the Queen of Scots, and
the school compositions of the great Elizabeth; on the crown of the
Spanish Isabella, and the spear of Guy, Earl of Warwick! I have
traversed the battle fields of Bannockburn and of Morat, of Leipsic
and of Waterloo. I have seen men and women of all grades, from the
monarch to the chimney-sweep; kings, queens, princes, heirs apparent,
nobles and duchesses; and I have seen Daniel O'Connell! I have been
preached to by the plain presbyters of Scotland, and the portly
bishops of England; and heard mass in the convent in sight of Italy,
and in the gorgeous cathedrals of Belgium. I have seen wretchedness
and magnificence in the widest extremes. I have been dazzled by the
splendors of royalty, and have shuddered at the misery of royalty's
subjects. In short, (for I am giving you a pretty specimen of
egotism,) I have seen much, very much, to admire; much that we of
the 'New World' might imitate with advantage, and more still to make
me better satisfied than ever that we are, on the whole, or ought
to be, the happiest people in the world. Let us but pay a little
more attention to our _manners_, (for they certainly _may_ be much
improved,) and let us check the spirit of lawless and fanatical
agrarianism, which has shown itself to be already dangerous to our
liberties and prosperity, and we may with conscious pride take our
station first among the nations of the earth. Yes, my dear ----, I
now feel more than ever, that

    'Midst pleasures and palaces though I may roam,
    Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!'

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Report on the State of Public Education in Prussia, etc.
New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

[12] Among them are, the point of the nail with which Christ was
pierced on the cross; a piece of the identical cross; the leathern
girdle, and a piece of the winding-sheet of Christ; morceaux of the
hair of John the Baptist; of the chain with which St. Peter was
bound; of the sponge on which they gave vinegar to Christ; a tooth
of St. Thomas; the winding-sheet of the Virgin; beside relics of
Saints innumerable. These are all printed in a book, and of course
they must be true! But the Charlemagne relics you will not question.
There are his hunting-horn, (an elephant's tusk,) a piece of his arm,
and his leg; his coronation-sword; and to _crown_ all, the skull of
the emperor himself, taken from the tomb, and preserved in a brazen
casque. And so I have actually handled the skull of this redoutable
hero and warrior, the ruler of Europe one thousand years ago!

[13] Classic ground, again. 'Quentin Durward' escorted the ladies of
Croye on the same side of the river.

[14] The French and German names of several places are puzzling--as
for instance: Aix la Chapelle, _Aachen_; Liege, _Lutchen_; Mayence,
_Mentz_; Ghent, _Gand_; Munich, _Munchen_; Antwerp, _Anvers_. The
coins, too, of the various states, are a great annoyance. None but
French and English gold, and five-franc pieces, are universally
current. The Swiss _batzen_ will not pass in Germany, nor the
Prussian _kreutzers_, _groschen_, _florins_ or _thalers_, in Belgium.
Each state, duchy, and canton, has a different currency.

[15] See KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE for February, 1833, for a full
account of this memorable siege, and a spirited portrait of its
brave hero, one of the race of those from whom sprang the genuine
KNICKERBOCKERS.




LITERARY NOTICES.


    ERNEST MALTRAVERS. By the author of 'Pelham,' 'Eugene Aram,'
    'Rienzi,' etc. In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 411. New-York: HARPER
    AND BROTHERS.

THIS novel is but half finished. At the conclusion of the second
volume, Mr. Bulwer remarks: 'Here ends the first portion of this
work; it ends with what, though rare in novels, is common in human
life; the affliction of the good, the triumph of the unprincipled.
Ernest Maltravers, a lonely wanderer, disgusted with the world,
blighted prematurely in a useful and glorious ambition; 'remote,
unfriendly, melancholy;' Lumley Ferrers, prosperous and elated;
life smiling before him; rising in the councils of the proudest and
perhaps the wisest of the European nations, and wrapped in a hardy
stoicism of levity and selfishness, that not only defied grief, but
silenced conscience. If the reader be interested in what remains--if
he desire to know more of the various characters which have breathed
and moved throughout this history--he soon will be enabled to gratify
his curiosity, and complete what the author believes to be a faithful
survey of the Philosophy of Human Life.'

Such is the author's apology for one of the most dangerous and
seductive books which it has ever been our fortune to read. Let
us examine its plan. Alice Darvil, a beautiful child of nature,
wholly uneducated and perfectly innocent, saves the life of Ernest
Maltravers, an English graduate of a German university, who had
sought shelter at her father's cottage. The murderous and revengeful
barbarity of the father compels the daughter to desert him, and
she is immediately thrown in the way of the student. Impelled by
gratitude and pity, Maltravers shelters the destitute beauty, takes
her to a country-seat, which he purchases on purpose, teaches her
music, elevates her benighted and earthward mind to heaven, falls in
love with, and seduces her! The father of Alice goes on from crime
to crime, till his burglaries extend to the cottage of Maltravers'
mistress, and his own child, who, in the temporary absence of her
lover, is carried away beyond his protection. Maltravers returns,
misses his Alice, grows melancholy, visits Paris in company with an
impertinent and selfish acquaintance, Lumley Ferrers, falls in love
with another man's wife, is rejected by her, quits Paris in disgust,
goes to Italy, forms an affectionate, platonic attachment for another
married lady, and then returns to London. In the meanwhile, Alice
flies from her father a second time, with Maltravers' child at her
breast. She seeks the cottage-scene of her early and unsophisticated
enjoyments, finds it occupied by other tenants, and is finally thrown
on the fostering protection of a saint-like banker, who makes her
Mrs. Templeton.

While the foregoing events are taking place, Maltravers falls in love
again, and as he is on his knees, kissing the hand of his mistress,
Alice, who happens to be in the next room, enters, is heart broken,
goes away and gets married, as aforesaid. Among other important
characters now introduced, is the Lady Florence Lascelles, a great
beauty, and a greater fortune, who scorns all the fascinations of
rank, and falls so in love with Maltravers, that she writes to him
ardently and anonymously. But as other beauties sometimes are, this
one, though her whole soul is filled with Maltravers, is also a
coquette, and she gains the affections of poor Cæsarini, who is
on a visit to London, in the desperate adventure of getting fame
for poetry. Maltravers is flattered into a pseudo attachment for
Lady Florence, which ripens into love. This excites the madness
of Cæsarini, and the hatred of Lumley Ferrers, who, as cousin of
the lady, had been led to believe that his own pretensions might
be advanced in that quarter. Lumley now copies Iago, and makes use
of Cæsarini as his Cassio, who becomes instrumental in effecting a
break in the love-chain of Maltravers and Lady Florence. The latter
sickens, and dies of a broken heart. Alice is made a widow, after
having been made a lady, and Lumley Ferrers inherits her husband's
title. The daughter of Maltravers and Alice is betrothed to his worst
enemy, while the Cassio of the drama goes mad. Such is the state of
things at the conclusion of the second volume, which suggests the
explanation by the author, already quoted.

In reviewing this novel, we are struck with the consummate power
of the writer. To an imagination raised to the very focal-point of
burning, Mr. Bulwer unites the most penetrating intuition of those
psychological relations, which are comprehended by master-spirits
alone. The conceptions of his mind are invested by a transparent robe
of spirituality, through which they are mellowed and disguised, like
the beautiful time-stricken edifices in the gold-dust atmosphere
of Italy. A manifestation of this power is one of the strongest
characteristics of genius; but it serves to veil deformities
and disarm criticism. We are spell-bound while gazing on his
creations. We are so fascinated by the enchantment, that we cannot
be fastidious if we would. The true and the false are mysteriously
blended together; and, as in every distortion of the natural, we
are led, by a sort of metaphysical mirage, to be captivated more by
misrepresentation than by truth. Ernest Maltravers is certainly a
brilliant production. No other than Mr. Bulwer could have written
it. It is full of passionate beauty; it is glowing with ardent
aspirations for the beau ideal. It contains many just reflections on
human conduct, and many valuable hints on education. We are willing
to concede all this, and more. But its faults are too glaring to
be passed over, for they are the premeditated faults of a skilful
designer, who with an insincere spirit, would have the reader imagine
them to be out-shadowings of his own nature, the very portraiture of
his humanity.

We are not disposed to be hypercritical with Mr. Bulwer's writings;
but we can no longer concede that which we have heretofore claimed
for him, a purpose to hold up to the world the rewards of virtue
and the consequences of vice. On the contrary, the tendency of his
morality seems to be, that we are the victims of destiny, and that
circumstances alone determine the phases of character, and prescribe
the paths of virtue and vice. He attacks the sanctity of marriage
with unholy zeal. In 'Ernest Maltravers' he inculcates the principle
that illicit love may in certain cases be innocent, and that where
true affection is, the bond of matrimony is unavailing. His morality
has sometimes the coldness of moonlight, but seldom the radiance
and the warmth of the sun; and it is owing to the separation of the
affections from the understanding, the disunion of Love and Truth in
his nature, that Mr. Bulwer delights in the hollow and unsatisfactory
fascinations of his intellect, and is led astray by his self-hood to
despise the religion of the heart. With all his genius, he is wide
from the path of greatness. The deep well of German metaphysics, at
which he has drunk so largely, may invigorate the mind and mystify
the imagination; but the logical acumen which it imparts, does not
direct to usefulness, nor lead to truth; and the discursive powers
which range through its suggested labyrinths, come back at last to
the goal they started from, weary and disgusted with unavailing
efforts after good.

It is a truth, inseparable from the relative condition of man, that
he could not possibly have had an idea of God, unless it had been
revealed to him. After a revelation, we find in nature concurrent
proof of his existence; but by a law of mental action, we transfer
the truth derived from the revelation to the evidence which is around
us, and flatter ourselves that we reason _à priori_ from this source.
Mr. Bulwer has a glimpse of this great truth, and only a glimpse;
for in the work under notice, he inculcates the sophism that the idea
of the Creator could not arise in an uneducated mind. He does not
perceive, that under the divine dispensations manifested in the Word,
a revelation has already taken place, which is reflected from the
face of nature; and that it is impossible for one, in this advanced
state of man, not to read the record of the divine creation--not to
mention the extreme improbability, that a child of fifteen should
never have heard the name of God, when it is oftener on the lips of
the uneducated than on those of the refined, though abused and taken
in vain.

Our limits will enable us to glance at only one more of the prominent
faults of this book. We refer to Mr. Bulwer's ideas on duelling.
What do our readers think of such sophistry as this: 'There are some
cases in which human nature and its deep wrongs will be ever stronger
than the world and its philosophy. Duels and wars belong to the same
principle; both are sinful on light grounds and poor pretexts. But it
is not sinful for a soldier to defend his country from invasion, nor
for a man, with a man's heart, to vindicate truth and honor with his
life. The robber that asks me for money, I am allowed to shoot. Is
the robber that tears from me treasures never to be replaced, to go
free?' Again: 'As in revolutions all law is suspended, so are there
stormy events and mighty injuries in life, which are as revolutions
to individuals.' It follows, of course, that a revolution may take
place 'in the little kingdom man,' whenever his majesty sees fit. It
is unnecessary to show up the monstrosity of such politics, and of
that morality which, guided alone by worldly philosophy, makes it
sometimes sinful, and sometimes not, to take the life of a fellow
being. There are men enough in the world who will fight as they
judge expedient; but Mr. Bulwer is the only one who has had the
hardihood to defend the practice, as sometimes under the sanction of
omnipotence.

We had some remarks to make on the sudden transitions of character,
as delineated by our author, which strike us as exceedingly
unnatural. But we have already transcended our space, and only record
an impression here, which must be apparent to every reader. On the
appearance of the sequel to Ernest Maltravers, we may examine this
fault at leisure.

       *       *       *       *       *

    MEMOIRS OF AARON BURR. With Miscellaneous Selections from his
    Correspondence. By MATTHEW L. DAVIS. In two volumes. Volume
    Two. pp. 449. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

THIS volume will prove even more generally interesting than its
attractive predecessor, heretofore noticed in this Magazine. The
early pages are devoted to an account of Col. Burr's habits and
character, as a man and a lawyer; a history of the rise of political
parties in this state, with copious extracts from various letters
written during the war of the revolution; an account of the Clinton
and Schuyler parties; Burr's political position on being elected
Vice-President, and his course in that office; and a report of false
entries made by Jefferson in his 'Ana,' of conversations said to have
been held with Burr. Farther than this, we have not found leisure
to read attentively; but on glancing hurriedly over the remaining
pages, we perceive that they are devoted to a detail of the most
prominent and interesting events in the life of the _notorious_
subject, interspersed with letters from various eminent Americans,
and including a correspondence with his daughter Theodosia, a full
account of the premeditated and disgraceful duel with General
HAMILTON, his departure for England, the 'incidents of travel'
in Great Britain, France, Germany, and Sweden, and his return to
New-York, in 1811. We shall take another occasion to refer more in
detail to the work, and in the mean time commend it to the attention
of our readers, with the single remark, that we see nothing in its
pages to change our opinion that the murderer of ALEXANDER HAMILTON
can only pass without censure while he passes without observation;
and that the less his friends or apologists meddle with his memory,
the kinder they will be to his reputation.

       *       *       *       *       *

    AN ADDRESS DELIVERED BEFORE THE MEMBERS OF THE AMERICAN
    INSTITUTE. By the Rev. ORVILLE DEWEY. Published at the request
    of the Institute.

IT was our good fortune to form one of the dense auditory before
whom this excellent Address was delivered; and although we are
unable to convey to the reader an adequate idea of the effect its
verbal publication produced, we may nevertheless afford a 'taste
of its quality,' by a few choice extracts. We were pleased, at
the very opening, to perceive that the Address was not to embrace
political questions, connected with the arts of industry, nor to
be a compendium of minute statistics, relating to the Institute,
and manufactures in general--a course so common on such occasions.
'Figures cannot _lie_,' perhaps, but they can do things quite as
disagreeable. Mere statistics are dismal bores to great masses,
oftentimes, in the hands of matter-of-fact, hum-drum speakers,
oppressively full of information; reminding the hearer of Swift's
elixir, 'which being drank, presently dilates itself about the
brain of the orator, whence instantly proceed an infinite number of
abstracts, summaries, compendiums,' etc., all reducible upon paper,
and fruitful of the most potent oscitant qualities. How many new
members of Congress, who felt it their duty to attend to the public
weal, in gratitude to their constituents, have been wakened by the
watchful sergeant-at-arms, after the house had adjourned, from a
deep sleep which had fallen upon them, as they 'by parcels something
heard, but not attentively,' of 'figure-works and statistics,' from
some arithmetical debater! 'In 1834, Sir, before the passage of the
law creating the 'North American Window-Glass and Putty Company,'
owing to the high price of putty in the United States, there were
in ten counties in the state of Mississippi, nine hundred and
sixty-two windows and a half, utterly destitute of glass; and it
is worth stating, as a remarkable fact, that of the three hundred
and twenty-seven panes which were fastened with a cheap adhesive
substitute, the large number of two hundred and eighty-three were
utterly useless. That putty--I say _that_ putty, Mr. Speaker--would
not stick!' And thus proceeds the bore statistical,[16] in a speech
'thin sown with profit or delight.' But we are keeping the reader
from 'metal more attractive.'

After a felicitous exordium, descriptive of the scene which the
Fair presented to the eye of the spectator, the writer proceeds to
consider the connection between the arts of industry, and especially
the mechanic arts, and the intellectual and moral improvement of
society. He shows that the mechanic, laboring at his work-bench, is
toiling for the general improvement; that the man who designs and
erects a noble structure, speaks to passing multitudes, who may never
read a book, and helps to refine and humanize the ages that come
after him; that 'even he who makes a musical instrument, is laying
up, in those hidden chambers of melody, the sweet influences that
shall amuse, and soften, and refine many a domestic circle through
life; and he, yet more, who can place upon our walls the canvass
glowing with life, becomes the household teacher of successive
generations.' The orator next repudiates the idea, that labor-saving
machinery has ever been the cause of permanently injuring the
working-classes; and this position he clearly establishes, by a
variety of well-chosen illustrations. A few remarks succeed, in
relation to improvements in matters of comfort and economy, of which
advantage might be taken by American house-keepers. The French
bed, consisting of two thin matresses of wool, upon a foot deep of
hay or straw, is pronounced to be four times as cheap as ours, and
twice as comfortable. One half of the fuel, too, which is burnt in
this country, the writer avers, is literally thrown away, the heat
passing into the dead wall of the chimney. This is doubtless true.
The excellent stoves of Dr. NOTT, however, now so generally demanded
in all parts of the country, from his capable successors, Messrs.
STRATTON AND SEYMOUR, of this city, have done much toward awakening
attention to the great economy of heat and fuel, which they exemplify
and inculcate.

Labor, the writer justly contends, exercises and tasks the intellect;
and he repels, with proper earnestness and force, the too common
error, that the mind never labors, save over the written page or the
abstract proposition. 'The merchant, the manufacturer, the mechanic,
is often a harder thinker than the student. The machinist and the
engineer are employed in some of the finest schools of intellect.'
The tasks for which no such consideration can be pleaded, such as the
dull, heavy labors of the hod, the writer humanely hopes some method
may yet be found to relieve.

Could any thing be more admirably reasoned, or more beautifully set
forth, than the arguments in favor of the true nobility of labor,
contained in the annexed paragraphs:

    "How many natural ties are there between even the humblest
    scene of labor, and the noblest affections of humanity! In this
    view, the employment of mere muscular strength is ennobled.
    There is a central point in every man's life, around which
    all his toils and cares revolve. It is that spot which is
    consecrated by the names of wife, and children, and home. A
    secret and almost imperceptible influence from that spot,
    which is like no other on earth, steals into the breast of the
    virtuous laboring man, and strengthens every weary step of
    his toil. Every blow that is struck in the work-shop and the
    field, finds an echo in that holy shrine of his affections.
    If he who fights to protect his home, rises to the point of
    heroic virtue, no less may he who labors, his life long, to
    provide for that home. Peace be within those domestic walls,
    and prosperity beneath those humble roofs! But should it ever
    be otherwise; should the time ever come when the invader's
    step approaches to touch those sacred thresholds, I see in the
    labors that are taken for them, that wounds will be taken for
    them too; I see in every honest workman around me, a hero.

    "So material do I deem this point--the true nobility of labor,
    I mean--that I would dwell upon it a moment longer, and in a
    larger view. Why, then, in the great scale of things, is labor
    ordained for us? Easily, had it so pleased the great Ordainer,
    might it have been dispensed with. The world itself might have
    been a mighty machinery for the production of all that man
    wants. The motion of the globe upon its axis might have been
    the power, to move that world of machinery. Ten thousand wheels
    within wheels might have been at work; ten thousand processes,
    more curious and complicated than man can devise, might have
    been going forward without man's aid; houses might have risen
    like an exhalation,

                    ----'with the sound
        Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet,
        Built like a temple.'

    gorgeous furniture might have been placed in them, and soft
    couches and luxurious banquets spread, by hands unseen; and
    man, clothed with fabrics of nature's weaving, richer than
    imperial purple, might have been sent to disport himself
    in these Elysian palaces. 'Fair scene!' I imagine you are
    saying; 'fortunate for us, had it been the scene ordained for
    human life!' But where then, tell me, had been human energy,
    perseverance, patience, virtue, heroism? Cut off with one blow
    from the world; and mankind had sunk to a crowd, nay, far
    beneath a crowd of Asiatic voluptuaries. No, it had _not_ been
    fortunate. Better that the earth be given to man as a dark mass
    whereon to labor. Better that rude and unsightly materials be
    provided in the ore-bed and the forest, for him to fashion
    into splendor and beauty. Better, I say, not because of that
    splendor and beauty, but because the act creating them is
    better than the things themselves; because exertion is nobler
    than enjoyment; because the laborer is greater and more worthy
    of honor than the idler. I call upon those whom I address,
    to stand up for that nobility of labor. It is heaven's great
    ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance
    be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it _has
    been_ broken down for ages. Let it then be built up again;
    here if any where, on these shores of a new world, of a new
    civilization. 'But how,' I may be asked, 'is it broken down?'
    'Do not men toil?' it may be said. They do indeed toil, but
    they too generally do it because they must. Many submit to
    it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity, and they desire
    nothing so much on earth, as escape from it." * * * "This way
    of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal
    system; under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their
    lives in fighting and feasting It is time that this opprobrium
    of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of
    thy dingy work-shop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand,
    scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy
    soiled and weather-stained garments, on which mother Nature
    has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam,
    her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles,
    and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and
    vanity? It is treason to nature; it is impiety to heaven; it is
    breaking heaven's great ordinance. TOIL, I repeat--TOIL, either
    of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true
    manhood, the only true nobility!"

The orator next passes to the policy and necessity of extending a
fostering care to the domestic industry of families, on their own
property, and laments the want of employment, oftentimes, for the
female members, who are in this country generally unwilling to seek
it beyond the paternal roof. Manufactures, as of woollen cloths,
stockings, etc. the culture of the mulberry, and the making of silk,
are recommended as purely domestic occupations. The suggestions in
regard to the disposition of our ample supply of water, when the
Croton shall roll its refreshing stores into the metropolis, are
conceived in a far-seeing and liberal spirit, and deserve earnest
heed. We need not ask the reader to admire with us the subjoined
extract, illustrating the advantages and comforts which have followed
in the train of mechanical improvements:

    "Our steam-boats and rail-roads are tending constantly to make
    us a more homogeneous, sympathizing, and humane people. A visit
    to one's distant friends, every body knows, is a very pleasant
    thing; but are its uses in the great family of society often
    considered? Intercourse, in such circumstances, is usually an
    interchange of all the thoughts, views, and improvements that
    prevail in different parts of the country. 'Their talk is of
    oxen,' if you please, or it is of soils and grains, or it is
    of manufactures and trade, or it is of books and philosophers;
    but it is all good--good for somebody at least--good in the
    main for every body. Thus, our steam-boats are like floating
    saloons, and our rail-roads like the air-pipes of a mighty
    whispering gallery; and men are conversing with one another,
    and communicating and blending their daily thoughts, throughout
    the whole length and breadth of the land. These means of
    communication are thus constantly interchanging, not only
    different views, but the advantages of different kinds of
    residence. They are imparting rural tastes to the citizen,
    and city polish to the countryman. I cannot help thinking,
    that in time, they will produce a decided effect upon city
    residence; relieving us, somewhat, of our crowded and overgrown
    population; sending out many from these pent-up abodes in town,
    to the green and pleasant dwelling places of the country.

    "The progress of communication during the last twenty years,
    leaves us almost nothing to wish, and yet entitles us to expect
    every thing. Many of you remember what a passage up the Hudson
    was, thirty years ago. You remember the uncertain packet,
    lingering for a wind at the wharf, till patience was almost
    exhausted; and then, at length, pursuing its zigzag course,
    now waving in the breeze, now halting in the calm, like a
    crazy traveller, doubtful of his way, or whether to proceed at
    all. And now, when you set your foot on the deck of one of our
    newly invented fire-ships, you feel as if the pawings of some
    reined courser were beneath you, impatient to start from the
    goal; anon, it seems to you as if the strength and stride of a
    giant were bearing you onward; till at length, when the evening
    shadow falls, and hides its rougher features from your sight,
    you might imagine it the queenly genius of the noble river, as
    it moves on between the silent shores, and flings its spangled
    robe upon the waters."

Scarcely less beautiful, are the following reflections upon the moral
tendencies of the mechanic arts, in leading the mind to the infinite
wisdom of Nature and of the Author of Nature:

    "If an intelligent manufacturer or mechanic would carefully
    note down in a book all the instances of adaptation that
    presented themselves to his attention, he would in time have a
    large volume; and it would be a volume of philosophy--a volume
    of indisputable facts in defence of a Providence. I could not
    help remarking lately, when I saw a furnace upon the stream
    of the valley, and the cartman bringing down ore from the
    mountains, how inconvenient it would have been if this order
    of nature had been reversed; if the ore-bed had been in the
    valley, and the stream had been so constituted as to rise,
    and to make its channel upon the tops of the ridges. Nay,
    more; treasures are slowly prepared and carefully laid up in
    the great store-houses of nature, against the time when man
    shall want them. When the wood is cut off from the plains and
    the hills, and fuel begins to fail, and man looks about him
    with alarm at the prospect, lo! beneath his feet are found,
    in mines of bitumen and mountains of anthracite, the long hid
    treasures of Providence--the treasure-houses of that care
    and kindness, which at every new step of human improvement,
    instead of appearing to be superseded, seems doubly entitled
    to the name of _Providence_." * * * "All nature is not only
    a world of mechanism, but it is the work of infinite art;
    and the mechanic-inventor and toiler is but a student, an
    apprentice in that school. And when he has done all, what can
    he do to equal the skill of the great original he copies; to
    equal the wisdom of Him who 'has stretched out the heavens
    like a curtain, who has laid the beams of his chambers in the
    waters!' What engines can he form, like those which raise up
    through the dark labyrinths of the mountains, the streams
    that gush forth in fountains from their summits? What pillars,
    and what architecture can he lift up on high, like the mighty
    forest trunks, and their architrave and frieze of glorious
    foliage? What dyes can he invent, like those which spread
    their ever-changing and many-colored robe over the earth? What
    pictures can he cause to glow, like those which are painted on
    the dome of heaven?

    "It is the glory of art, that it penetrates and develops the
    wonders and bounties of nature. It draws their richness from
    the valleys, and their secret stores from the mountains. It
    leads forth every year fairer flocks and herds upon the hills;
    it yokes the ox to the plough, and trains the fiery steed
    to its car. It plants the unsightly germ, and rears it into
    vegetable beauty; it takes the dull ore and transfuses it into
    splendour, or gives it the edge of the tool or the lancet; it
    gathers the filaments which nature has curiously made, and
    weaves them into soft and compact fabrics. It sends out its
    ships to discover unknown seas and shores; or it plunges into
    its work-shops at home, to detect the secret, that is locked
    up in mineral, or is flowing in liquid matter. It scans the
    spheres and systems of heaven with its far sight; or turns
    with microscopic eye, and finds in the drops that sparkle in
    the sun, other worlds crowded with life. Yet more is mechanic
    art the handmaid of society. It has made man its special
    favourite. It clothes him with fine linen and soft raiment.
    It builds him houses, it kindles the cheerful fire, it lights
    the evening lamp, it spreads before him the manifold page of
    wisdom; it delights his eye with gracefulness, it charms his
    ear with music; it multiplies the facilities of communication
    and ties of brotherhood; it is the softener of all domestic
    charities--it is the bond of nations."

The Address is neatly executed, and will appear, as we learn, in the
'Journal of the American Institute.' It cannot fail to command a wide
perusal and general admiration.

       *       *       *       *       *

    MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. By J. G.
    LOCKHART. Part Fifth. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.

EACH succeeding volume of this work impresses us more thoroughly
with the belief, that it is one of the most delightful biographies
which the present century has produced. This may seem extravagant
praise, to those who have not read the several 'Parts,' as they have
appeared; yet it will be deemed but simply just, by all who have been
so fortunate as to share with us in the pleasure of their perusal.
The work has been a God-send in these 'juice-drained' literary
times; and in the way of bright and eminent example, is now working
its gentle triumphs upon the hearts of thousands in this country.
We are more and more struck, as we read, with the great goodness,
as well as intellectual greatness, of the illustrious subject; with
the simplicity, truth, and sincerity ever in _alto-relievo_ in his
character; the beauty of his daily life, adorned with integrity
and honor; a course, public, literary, and domestic, replete with
the noblest traits, born of good and generous impulses, ingrained
and innate. The leading chapter in the 'Part' before us, describes
Scott's hospitality and urbanity, as host at Abbottsford. When at
the acmé of his fame, honored by kings and admired by the world, he
would cheerfully devote his precious hours to intruding lion-hunters,
and submit with patience and politeness to be over-poeted with small
browsers on Parnassus, bored with the solemn applauses of learned
dullness, the self-exalting harangues of the 'hugely literate,'
the pompous simpers of condescending magnates, the vapid raptures
of bepainted and periwigged dowagers, and questions urged with
'horse-leech avidity by under-bred foreigners.' Byron says of
himself that 'none did love him.' How different from his great
contemporary! Those who knew Scott, loved him not less than they
admired his genius. Without pretence or self-esteem at home, he
was equally so abroad. 'I am heartily tired,' he writes to his son
from London, where literary menageries for the reception of 'lions'
were constantly opened wide to him, 'I am heartily tired of fine
company, and fine living, from dukes and duchesses, down to turbot
and plover's eggs. It is very well for a while; but to be kept at it,
makes one feel like a poodle-dog compelled to stand for ever on his
hind-legs.' The spirit herein breathed, he preserved throughout his
life, which was spent in delighting the literary world, and in the
exercise of those qualities of the heart which 'assimilate men to
angels, and make of earth a heaven.'

In reading the volume under notice, we experienced an 'excess of
participation' in the richness of its stores. Hence it is full of
dog's-ears, and pencilled passages, which we find it impossible
to extract, and yet can scarcely consent to omit. For the present,
however, we yield to necessity, promising our readers and ourselves
the pleasure of an early renewal of this notice, after the volumes
shall have been completed. We make a single extract, representing
Scott as escaping from Abbotsford, upon which an avalanche of bores
had descended, and taking refuge in the summer-cottage of his
son-in-law, a mile or two distant. The touching allusion of the
biographer to his recent loss, will not escape the notice of the
reader:

    "The clatter of Sybil Grey's hoofs, the yelping of Mustard
    and Spice, and his own joyous shout of _reveillée_ under our
    windows, were the signal that he had burst his toils, and meant
    for that day to 'take his ease in his inn.' On descending,
    he was to be found seated with all his dogs and ours about
    him, under a spreading ash that overshadowed half the bank
    between the cottage and the brook, pointing the edge of his
    woodman's axe for himself, and listening to Tom Purdie's
    lecture touching the plantation that most needed thinning.
    After breakfast, he would take possession of a dressing-room
    up stairs, and write a chapter of _The Pirate_; and then,
    having made up and despatched his packet for Mr. Ballantyne,
    away to join Purdie wherever the foresters were at work--and
    sometimes to labor among them as strenuously as John Swanston
    himself--until it was time either to rejoin his own party at
    Abbotsford or the quiet circle of the cottage. When his guests
    were few and friendly, he often made them come over and meet
    him at Chiefswood in a body toward evening; and surely he never
    appeared to more amiable advantage than when helping his young
    people with their little arrangements upon such occasions. He
    was ready with all sorts of devices to supply the wants of
    a narrow establishment; he used to delight particularly in
    sinking the wine in a well under the _brae_ ere he went out,
    and hauling up the basket just before dinner was announced;
    this primitive process being, he said, what he had always
    practised when a young house-keeper, and in his opinion far
    superior in its results to any application of ice; and in the
    same spirit, whenever the weather was sufficiently genial, he
    voted for dining out of doors altogether, which at once got rid
    of the inconvenience of very small rooms, and made it natural
    and easy for the gentlemen to help the ladies, so that the
    paucity of servants went for nothing. Mr. Rose used to amuse
    himself with likening the scene and the party to the closing
    act of one of those little French dramas, where 'Monsieur le
    Compte,' and 'Madame la Comtesse,' appear feasting at a village
    bridal under the trees; but in truth, our 'M. le Comte' was
    only trying to live over again for a few simple hours his own
    old life of Lasswade.

    "When circumstances permitted, he usually spent one evening
    at least in the week at our little cottage; and almost as
    frequently he did the like with the Fergusons, to whose table
    he could bring chance visitors, when he pleased, with equal
    freedom as to his daughter's. Indeed it seemed to be much a
    matter of chance, any fine day when there had been no alarming
    invasion of the Southron, whether the three families (which, in
    fact, made but one) should dine at Abbotsford, at Huntly Burn,
    or at Chiefswood; and at none of them was the party considered
    quite complete, unless it included also Mr. Laidlaw. Death
    has laid a heavy hand upon that circle--as happy a circle I
    believe as ever met. Bright eyes now closed in dust, gay voices
    for ever silenced, seem to haunt me as I write. With three
    exceptions, they are all gone. Even since the last of these
    volumes was finished, she whom I may now sadly record as, next
    to Sir Walter himself, the chief ornament and delight of all
    those simple meetings--she to whose love I owed my own place in
    them--Scott's eldest daughter, the one of all his children who
    in countenance, mind, and manners, most resembled himself, and
    who indeed was as like him in all things as a gentle innocent
    woman can ever be to a great man deeply tried and skilled in
    the struggles and perplexities of active life--she, too, is
    no more. And in the very hour that saw her laid in her grave,
    the only other female survivor, her dearest friend Margaret
    Ferguson, breathed her last also. But enough--and more than I
    intended."

A spirited portrait by RAEBURN, pronounced the most faithful of the
early likenesses taken of Scott, prefaces the present volume, which
presents its usual excellence of paper and typography.

       *       *       *       *       *

    RORY O'MORE. A NATIONAL ROMANCE. By SAMUEL LOVER, Esq. In two
    volumes, 12mo. pp. 429.

OLD Dan Tantalus himself was not more sadly bothered, than is
a reviewer, tied to certain limits of space, and feeling the
impossibility of dividing with his readers the pleasure of perusing
a work of rare spirit and humor. Such emotions are ours, and such a
work is 'Rory O'More.' Mr. LOVER has no superior in depicting--with
the nicest perception of character and the keenest eye for fun--the
peculiarities of the Irish people. We can give the reader no better
idea of his ability and manner, than by saying, that he effects all
with his pen which POWER achieves in his admirable personations of
his countrymen. There is a life, a vraisemblance in his pictures,
which will win for them enduring applause. This is our verdict; and
we ask the reader to confirm it, as sure we are they will, by a
perusal of the volume whose title stands at the head of this brief
and inadequate notice.

FOOTNOTE:

[16] Since the above was in type, we have met, in the scientific
deliberations of the 'Mudfog Association,' reported by the humorous
'Boz,' in the last number of 'Bentley's Miscellany,' with the remarks
of two members greatly prone to these '_figures_ of speech.' They
are too characteristic to be omitted here. The one stated, that he
'had found that the total number of small carts and barrows engaged
in dispensing provisions to cats and dogs in the metropolis, was
one thousand seven hundred and forty-three. The average number of
skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each cart or barrow,
was thirty-six. Now multiplying the number of skewers so delivered,
by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two thousand seven hundred
and forty-eight skewers daily, would be obtained. Allowing that, of
these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers, the
odd two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight were accidentally
devoured with the meat, by the most voracious of the animals
supplied, it followed that sixty thousand skewers per day, or the
enormous number of twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand skewers
annually, were wasted in the kennels and dust-holes of London, which,
if collected and warehoused, would in ten years' time afford a mass
of timber more than sufficient for the construction of a first-rate
vessel of war for the use of Her Majesty's Navy, to be called the
'Royal Skewer,' and to become, under that name, the terror of all
the enemies of England!' This speaker was followed by an amateur
philanthropist, of kindred parts, who had ascertained, from authentic
data, 'that the total number of legs belonging to the manufacturing
population of a town in Yorkshire, was, in round numbers, forty
thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their
houses was only a fraction over thirty thousand, which, upon the
very favorable average of three legs to a seat, yielded only ten
thousand seats in all. From this calculation, it would appear--not
taking wooden or cork legs into the account, but allowing two legs to
every person--that ten thousand individuals, (one half of the whole
population,) were either destitute of legs at all, or passed the
whole of their leisure time in sitting upon boxes!'




EDITORS' TABLE.


A GLANCE AT BY-GONE TIMES.--Commend us to an old newspaper! Well
does COWPER term it a 'happy work,' that 'folio of four pages.' In
what a faithful and striking spirit of delineation are the features
of the hallowed years behind the mountains called up, as one pores
desultorily over a file of time-worn gazettes! It is exploring a
Herculaneum of history, and ferretting out the minuter fragments
which lie buried beneath the rubbish of old days, and which are
fertile in materials for reflection, instruction, and amusement. A
kind female friend (God bless the women! they are always devising
some good or kind action,) has sent us an old volume of the BOSTON
CENTINEL, the most ancient newspaper of which the Union can boast.
Greatly have we fructified by the contents thereof; and at the risk,
perhaps, of beguiling some reader, who may prefer neoterics before
ancients, of a hearty yawn or two, we propose to devote a couple of
pages, or more, to a notice of the dingy folio-tome in question.

After all, Solomon was right, when he said, 'The thing that hath
been, is that which shall be, and that which is done, is that which
shall be done;' there are few 'new things under the sun.' In glancing
over these abstract and brief chronicles of the olden time, we find
many points of resemblance between the past and the present. Then,
as now, metaphysical adepts imagined they were invigorating their
intellects, in the same manner as archers strengthen their arms,
by shooting into the air; political wranglers were 'blowing the
bellows of party, until the whole furnace of politics was red-hot
with sparks and cinders;' popular fallacies were flourishing, and
wonderful seemed the vigor of their constitutions; commentators were
elucidating old authors into obscurity, quite after the manner of the
present era; many of the _religii_ seem to have had religion enough
to make them hate, but not enough to love, their brethren; officious
meddlers were looking over other people's affairs, and overlooking
their own; tragedians were strutting on public boards, 'with tin
pots on their heads, for so much a night;' and small comedians, with
brass enough to set up a dozen braziers, were quarrelling among
themselves, and parading their importance and grievances before
a public who cared nothing for either; there were public fêtes,
frequent clamors of rejoicing communities, and occasional violent
effervescence of popular transport. In short, to draw a long summary
to a close, we have come to the conclusion, that notwithstanding the
gradual desuetude of many old customs and observances, we have a
great deal, at this much-boasted epoch, in common with the vanished
generation. But gone are their eternally repeated sorrows and joys,
the vain delusions, and transient struggles. Time has thrown his
all-concealing veil over them. The bigotted polemic has found that
men may journey heavenward by different roads, and that charity
covereth many sins; ultra metaphysicians have learned, that there
are realities enough to be sought after in life, and that a morbid
yearning for the shadowy and intangible cannot come to good; and
the actor, a forked shade, stripped of his regalities, and 'ferried
over in a crazy Stygian wherry,' has entered upon a new theatre of
action, where, unlike the one he has left behind him, the scenes and
actors know no change. But let us turn over the ancient daily budgets
to which we have alluded, and from which we are keeping the reader,
who we will suppose looking over our shoulder, quite familiarly, and
asking a great many questions.

'What is that long 'by authority' article, on the first page?' It
is a congressional enactment, 'That a District of Territory, not
exceeding ten miles square, to be located, as hereafter directed, on
the river _Potomack_, at some place between the mouths of the Eastern
branch and _Conogocheque_, be, and the same is hereby accepted for
the Permanent Seat of the Government of the United States.' What
a thriving town the 'City of Washington' must have been at this
period! Here is an important postscript. It contains intelligence
received at Boston from Philadelphia, in the short space of _seven
days_--(they travel the distance now in eighteen hours!)--that a
French frigate had arrived in the Delaware, supposed to have been
despatched by the National Convention. Close beside this paragraph,
is a very reasonable complaint, that those Americans who, despising
to be copyists, call for 'Yankee-Doodle' at the play-house, can't
be accommodated with their old favorite, because of the uproarious
opposition of a tory faction. ''Most Horrid!' What is that under your
thumb?' 'A son of Mr. Cox, the celebrated architect, in viewing a
wild _Panther_, which a shew-man had in his possession, in _Medford_,
was suddenly seized by the voracious animal, and his head and face
torn in so shocking a manner, that his death would be a consolation
to his desponding relatives. The strength of the animal was so great,
that five persons could hardly disengage its teeth and claws from the
unhappy victim of its rage. It is hoped the Legislature will provide
by law for the security of the lives of people, that if persons will
endeavor to obtain money, by the shew of wild beasts, that they be
properly confined in cages.' '_Shew!_' This corruption is still
extant in New-England. 'He _shew_ me a book he had purchased,' etc.

'We find a great deal said about 'Mr. PRIESTLY' here. He has fled to
the United States 'for freedom from the rod of lawless power, and the
arm of violence.' He is every where received with marked honor, his
whereabout regularly recorded, and eminent individuals and public
institutions are emulous to make their attentions acceptable to
him. In juxtaposition with this, is one of the bloody ROBESPIERRE's
plausible reports, just promulgated. We will not pause to read that.
'Stay! Let us see what all this theatrical display is about, before
you turn the leaf.' The manager is going to give a 'Benefit' for the
suffering Americans in the prisons of Algiers. Good! 'I wonder if
that JEFFERSON, who is to be one of the attractions, was the father
of our Philadelphia favorite, whylear?' This interrogation lights
up Memory, with the suddenness of a 'loco-foco' match. The image is
evoked; and that prince of comedians is before us. A very clever
theatrical performance is now going on in the 'Dome of Thought.'
Ah, 'Old Jefferson!' When shall we look upon _his_ like again? For
years, we could never meet him, in ever so retired a lane of the
city, without being presently seated in the play-house, devouring,
with lively gusto, his inimitable comicalities. We had spirited
performance going on, with nothing to pay. 'Where he walked, sate, or
stood still, there was the theatre. He carried about with him pit,
boxes, and galleries, and set up his portable play-house at corners
of streets, and in the market-places. Upon flintiest pavement, he
trod the boards still.' ''Well, vot of it?' Turn over.'

That long original poem is by PETER PINDAR. He is ridiculing the
monarchical notions of the opposition, and the folly of paying court
to mere outward form and show. His illustration is homely, but
forcible. 'Who,' says he,

    'Who would not laugh to see a TAYLOR bow
       Submissive to a pair of satin breeches?
     Saying, 'O Breeches, all men must allow
       There's something in your aspect that betwitches!

    'Let me admire you, Breeches, crown'd with glory;
     And though _I made_ you, let me still _adore_ ye;'
     Who would not quick exclaim, 'The TAYLOR's mad?'
     Yet Tyrant-adoration is as bad.'

In reading Pindar, as has been observed of some other obsolete
author, you may find fault with the antique setting, but
intellectual jewels of truth are there, which can never grow out of
date.

'Melancholy Event!' Skip that. A laugh is worth a hundred groans, in
any state of the market. Read the 'Anecdote,' if it be good, under
the song, 'GOD save great WASHINGTON,' at your right hand, third
column: 'ANECDOTE--RECENT.--A certain newly-created Justice of the
Peace, rather too much elated with the dignity of his office, riding
out one day with his attendant, met a clergyman, finely mounted on
a handsome gelding, richly caparisoned. When he first saw him, he
desired his attendant to take notice how he would smoak the Parson.
He accordingly rode up to him, and accosted him as follows: 'Sir your
servant: I think, Sir, you are mounted on a very handsome horse.'
'Yes, Sir, I thank you, tolerably fleshy.' 'But what is the reason,'
says the Justice, 'you do not follow the example of your worthy
Master, who was humble enough to ride to Jerusalem on an Ass?' 'Why,
to tell you the truth,' says the Clergyman, 'Government have made so
many Asses Justices, lately, that an honest Clergyman can't find one
to ride on.'

'Well said of the Dominie! There must have been more of Sterne than
Sternhold about him. He evidently loved a joke, as well as old Pater
Abraham à Sancta Clara.'

''Blanchard's Balloon.' An ascension, I suppose.' No; it is a
political squib. Mr. Blanchard has given out, that his gas, owing to
an unfortunate accident, has _also_ 'given out,' and that on account
of the great expense, he is compelled to forego a second ascension.
A wag advises him, as a cheap and expeditious method of obtaining an
ample supply of gas, to place his balloon over the chimney of a house
in which the 'Democratic Society' are to meet, in the evening, the
members of which are expected to be highly inflated with a kind of
light, combustible air, which will escape into his vessel, and answer
his purpose admirably!

In these days of 'wars and rumors of wars' between the whites and
Florida Indians, these twin poetical epistles will be apropos. The
writer says, under date of Pittsburgh, 10th June,

    'Since Friday last the news we've had,
    Has been, dear Sir, extremely bad:
    An Indian of the Senecas,
    A white who swears to all he says,
    Have brought a most alarming story,
    The substance I shall set before ye:
    Six nations of the Indians, set on
    By Satan and the imps of Britain,
    Have join'd the Indians to the westward,
    By which we soon shall be quite prest hard;
    They now are crossing o'er the lake,
    Fort Franklin to surprise and take;
    That Fort will certainly be taken,
    And scarce a settler save his bacon.'

Two days after, he adds the following, by way of postscript:

    'The news I wrote three days ago,
    This day I learn is all untrue;
    The British have not gain'd their ends,
    The Senecas are still our friends:
    Fort Franklin is in statu quo,
    Nor dreads a white or yellow foe;
    For Capt. DENNY finds he can go,
    And I suppose is at Venango.

    'Although t' extract the naked truth,
    We put these traders on their oath;
    Yet while they swear to what they say,
    We find we're humm'd from day to day;
    Hence, when I write to you again,
    A second letter shall the first explain.'

In Animal Magnetism parlance, we 'will' the reader from off our
shoulder, and close the book. It is matter-full, however, and
peradventure we may open it yet again, anon.


MUSIC--MR. RUSSELL.--Our theatrical reporters have left us but
brief space wherein to reply to a correspondent of the Philadelphia
'_National Gazette_,' who, in a long communication bearing the
signature of 'HONESTUS,' censures the tone of our remarks in relation
to Mr. HENRY RUSSELL, the popular vocalist, and the peculiar style
of his performances. Both the writer alluded to, and the editor who
publishes and endorses his strictures, 'trust that the KNICKERBOCKER
will not maintain a dignified silence' under their remarks, since,
originating in a work supposed to be influential in leading public
opinion, the observations complained of 'have inflicted deep
injury on the profession of music, taking away incentive to honest
professional toil, close study, and real science,' by elevating a
false standard of musical excellence. The writer denies, in so many
words, that Mr. RUSSELL ever received the honors in Italy, to which
he lays claim; doubts his having been 'a pupil for three years under
ROSSINI,' or that he studied under GENERALI, MAYERBEER, and other
masters; affirms that 'The Brave Old Oak' is transposed, without
acknowledgment, from LODER, save a few trifling alterations for the
worse; that 'Some Love to Roam' does not bear the real composer's
name; and that five-sixths of the 'Treatise on Singing,' recently
issued, with Mr. RUSSELL's name as author, are plagiarized from a
work on singing by Rodolph, who has been dead these thirty years.

We depart for once from our uniform practice of silence, in
relation to newspaper comments upon articles which appear in the
KNICKERBOCKER, to correct one or two errors of the correspondent
in question. In regard to the honors received, and the studies
pursued by Mr. RUSSELL, 'Honestus' will perceive, by reference to
the article in our last number, that the entire paragraph touching
his personal and musical history, is quoted from an article in the
'New-York Mirror,' far more laudatory and elaborate than the one
which embodied it, as an extract. The _onus_, therefore, in so
far as these statements and the remarks which they elicited are
concerned, rests not with this Magazine. As to the remaining charges
of 'Honestus,' _if established_, we shall be found not less ready
than himself to counsel one capable of such deception, to lose no
time in bringing down his pretensions to the level of his talents;
and farther, commend him to a serious reflex upon the folly of a
course so unworthy of his reputation. In the mean time, however, let
it not be forgotten, that there are _two sides_ to this matter, and
that Mr. RUSSELL is extant, to reply for himself to these anonymous
accusations.[17]

The opinions we expressed of Mr. RUSSELL's singing, are entertained
by the great majority of those who have heard him; and our remarks
in regard to the musical _affectations_ of the day were not lightly
hazarded, nor did they fail, as we have good reason to know, to
strike an answering chord in the hearts of our readers. Italian
effeminacy, elaborate ornament, (often known in musical parlance
by the term 'difficult execution,') interpolated upon the simplest
airs, demanded reprehension. It was ridiculous _imitation_, pressed
by Fashion into the service, and was lamentably infectious, from the
_prima donna_, down to the tawdry damsels who flirt at the tail of a
chorus, and the piano-strumming miss, redolent of bread-and-butter.
It would have irked even Aristophanes, the quintessential, to have
heard, as we have heard, some such melody as 'John Anderson my Joe'
garnished with attenuated and circumfused skeletons or shades of
notes, in endless progression and recurrence, by your 'difficult
execution'-er, bent on wreaking all the tones of his voice upon a
single word. Bells jangled out of tune, and harsh, or 'the spheres
touched by a raw angel,' would have the advantage, in comparative
execrability, over such refined tinkerings of simple melody. It was
this misplaced ornament, (rendered for a period _fashionable_, by the
affected ecstasies of 'genteel' young men without brains, and small
travelled amateurs, who voted it 'the thing,') that we condemned, and
_not_ music, cultivated and improved by the great masters of the art.


LETTERS AND LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB.--There is at the 'Merchants'
Exchange' in this city, the model of a machine for re-pressing
cotton-bales. Would that some ingenious person would invent a similar
process, by which much of the matter of such a work as TALFOURD's
'Letters of CHARLES LAMB, with a Sketch of his Life'--now lying
damp before us, in all the luxury of London typography--could be
re-pressed into these pages, for the gratification of our readers! In
the absence, howbeit, of so desirable a power, we may present such
condensed portions as can be subdued 'by hand,' withal. The letters
in these volumes are connected by a 'thread of narrative,' which
evinces a kindred spirit between Lamb and his biographer. The author
of 'Ion' was an old and familiar friend of 'Elia's; hence he every
where exhibits a thorough knowledge of his character, not less than a
perfect appreciation of his originality of thought, the delicacy and
refinement of his taste, and the fascination of his language. These
familiar epistles set before us _the man_, as he lived, moved, and
acted. We have here, too, the first germs of those delicate children
of his brain, which have rarely been equalled, and never surpassed.
We see the sources whence sprang the dainty thought, the charming
image; and we may mark the daily creation and circumfusion of those
felicitous conceits with which the name of 'Elia' is inseparably
associated. What a reader was he; and how the ferreted beauties of
the old worthies 'slid into his soul!' Upon the fertile suggestions
of a creative, observant spirit, were inoculated and grafted the
rich treasures of the elder intellects. But as our associate, in
'Brotherly Love,' (in a double sense,) has, since the above was
penned, spoken elsewhere in this Magazine of these distinctive
endowments and graces, we forbear farther comment. '_Revenons à
Mouton._' Return we to LAMB:

As the volumes will hereafter be issued from the press of the
Brothers HARPER, we shall postpone a 'prepared report' upon them,
until another number; contenting ourselves, in the mean time, with a
few selections, in the perusal of which we have had especial delight.
The annexed--to plunge at once, _in medias res_, into the work--was
addressed to a friend who was about to depart for the East, being
haunted with the idea of oriental adventure:

    "My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to bury
    such _parts_ in heathen countries, among nasty, unconversable,
    horse-belching, Tartar people! Some say, they are Cannibals;
    and then, conceive a Tartar-fellow _eating_ my friend, and
    adding the _cool malignity_ of mustard and vinegar! * * * The
    Tartars, really, are a cold, insipid, smouchey set. You'll be
    sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. Pray _try_, and
    cure yourself. Take hellebore (the counsel is Horace's, 'twas
    none of my thought _originally_.) Shave yourself oftener. Eat
    no saffron, for saffron-eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like
    yellow. Pray, to avoid the fiend. Eat nothing that gives the
    heart-burn. _Shave the upper lip._ Go about like an European.
    Read no books of voyages (they are nothing but lies,) only
    now and then a romance, to keep the fancy under. Above all,
    don't go to any sights of _wild beasts_. _That has been your
    ruin._ Accustom yourself to write familiar letters, on common
    subjects, to your friends in England, such as are of a moderate
    understanding. And think about common things more. I supped
    last night with Rickman, and met a merry _natural_ captain, who
    pleases himself vastly with once having made a pun at Otaheite
    in the O. language. 'Tis the same man who said Shakspeare he
    liked, because he was _so much of the gentleman_. Rickman is a
    man 'absolute in all numbers.' I think I may one day bring you
    acquainted, if you do not go to Tartary first; for you'll never
    come back. Have a care, my dear friend, of Anthropophagi! their
    stomachs are always craving. 'Tis terrible to be weighed out at
    five-pence a-pound. To sit at table (the reverse of fishes in
    Holland,) not as a guest, but as a meat."

The attractions which a New-York 'May Day' would have had for one
whose horror of 'moving' is thus naturally accounted for, may be
readily conceived:

    "What a dislocation of comfort is comprised in that word
    moving! Such a heap of little nasty things, after you think all
    is got into the cart; old dredging-boxes, worn-out brushes,
    gallipots, vials, things that it is impossible the most
    necessitous person can ever want, but which the women, who
    preside on these occasions, will not leave behind, if it was
    to save your soul; they'd keep the cart ten minutes to stow in
    dirty pipes and broken matches, to show their economy. Then
    you can find nothing you want for many days after you get into
    your new lodgings. You must comb your hair with your fingers,
    wash your hands without soap, go about in dirty gaiters. Was I
    Diogenes, I would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead,
    though the first had nothing but small beer in it, and the
    second reeked claret. Our place of final destination--I don't
    mean the grave, but No. 4, Inner Temple-lane--looks out upon a
    gloomy church yard-like court, called Hare-court, with three
    trees and a pump in it. Do you know it? I was born near it, and
    used to drink at that pump when I was a Rechabite of six years
    old."

A clever artist might readily transfer the following picture to
the canvass, though his imagination were naught. It describes the
misfortune of a 'cisled' fellow-clerk in the East India House, akin
to one whom he elsewhere mentions, as 'pouring down goblet after
goblet, the second to see where the first is gone, the third to see
no harm happens to the second, a fourth to say there is another
coming, and a fifth to say he is not sure he is the last:'

    "The E. I. H. has been thrown into a quandary by the strange
    phenomenon of poor ---- ---- whom I have known man and
    madman twenty-seven years, he being elder here than myself
    by nine years and more. He was always a pleasant, gossiping,
    half-headed, muzzy, dozing, dreaming, walk-about, inoffensive
    chap; a little too fond of the creature; who isn't at times?
    but ---- had not brains to work off an over-night's surfeit
    by ten o'clock next morning, and, unfortunately, in he
    wandered the other morning, drunk with last night, and with a
    superfoetation of drink taken in since he set out from bed.
    He came staggering under his double burthen, like trees in
    Java, bearing at once blossom, fruit, and falling fruit, as
    I have heard you or some other traveller tell, with his face
    literally as blue as the bluest firmament; some wretched calico
    that he had moped his poor oozy front with had rendered up its
    native dye, and the devil a bit would he consent to wash it,
    but swore it was characteristic, for he was going to the sale
    of indigo, and set up a laugh which I did not think the lungs
    of mortal man were competent to. It was like a thousand people
    laughing, or the Goblin Page. He imagined afterward that the
    whole office had been laughing at him, so strange did his own
    sounds strike upon his _non_sensorium. But ---- has laugh'd his
    last laugh, and awoke the next day to find himself reduced from
    an abused income of £600 per annum to one-sixth of the sum,
    after thirty-six years' tolerably good service. The quality of
    mercy was not strained in his behalf; the gentle dews dropped
    not on him from heaven."

Lamb was a creature of ardent sympathies. His social affections were
as fresh and tender as those of childhood; and in the subjoined
extract from a letter to Wordsworth, these characteristics are
admirably portrayed:

    "Deaths overset one, and put one out long after the
    recent grief. Two or three have died within this last two
    twelvemonths, and so many parts of me have been numbed. One
    sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a casual fancy, and
    thinks to tell of it to this person in preference to every
    other: the person is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited.
    It won't do for another. Every departure destroys a class of
    sympathies. There's Capt. Burney gone! What fun has whist
    now?--what matters it what you lead, if you can not fancy him
    looking over you? One never hears any thing, but the image of
    the particular person occurs with whom alone almost you would
    care to share the intelligence: thus one distributes oneself
    about--and now for so many parts of me I have lost the market.
    Common natures do not suffice me. Good people, as they are
    called, won't serve. I want individuals. I am made up of queer
    points, and I want so many answering needles. The going away of
    friend does not make the remainder more precious. It takes so
    much from them as there was a common link. A. B. and C. make
    a party. A. dies. B. not only loses A., but all A.'s part in
    C. C. loses A.'s part in B., and so the alphabet sickens by
    subtraction of interchangeables."

But gentle-spirited as he was, Lamb knew how to use the polished
weapon of satire. Witness his 'Letter to Southey,' and the following
keen sonnet upon the editor of the Quarterly Review. It is a revenge
for the severely-expressed 'distaste of a small though acute mind,
for an original power which it could not appreciate, and which
disturbed the conventional associations of which it was master.'
GIFFORD was originally a shoe-maker. The sonnet is entitled, 'SAINT
CRISPIN to Mr. GIFFORD,' and dated 'Saint Crispin's Eve':

    "All unadvised, and in an evil hour,
    Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft
    The lowly labors of the 'Gentle Craft'
    For learned toils, which blood and spirit sour.
    All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power;
    The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground:
    And sweet content of mind is oftener found
    In cobbler's parlor, than in critic's bower.
    The sorest work is what doth cross the grain;
    And better to this hour you had been plying
    Tho obsequious awl, with well-waxed finger flying,
    Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein:
    Still teasing muses, which are still denying;
    Making a stretching-leather of your brain."

The annexed ludicrous account of a temporary indisposition, was
addressed to Bernard Barton, the well-known Quaker poet. It breathes
the very spirit of 'Elia:'

    "Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable
    day-mare--'a whoreson lethargy,' Falstaff call it--an
    indisposition to do any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a
    suspension of vitality--an indifference to locality--a numb,
    soporifical, good-for-nothingness--an ossification all over--an
    oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind
    stupor--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in
    conscience? Did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total
    irresolution to submit to water-gruel processes? This has been
    for many weeks my lot, and my excuse; my fingers drag heavily
    over this paper, and to my thinking it's three-and-twenty
    furlongs from hence to the end of this demi-sheet. I have not a
    thing to say; nothing is of more importance than another; I am
    flatter than a denial or a pancake; emptier than Judge ----'s
    wig when the head is in it; duller than a country stage when
    the actors are off it; a cipher, an 0! I acknowledge life at
    all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent
    phlegmatic pain in the chest. I am weary of the world, and
    the world is weary of me. My day is gone into twilight, and I
    don't think it worth the expense of candles. My wick hath a
    thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it. I inhale
    suffocation; I can't distinguish veal from mutton; nothing
    interests me. 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Thurtell is just now
    coming out upon the New Drop, Jack Ketch alertly tucking up
    his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet
    cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection. If you told
    me the world will be at an end to-morrow, I should just say,
    'will it?' I have not volition enough left to dot my i's,
    much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes are set in my head; my
    brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and
    they did not say when they'd come back again; my skull is a
    Grub-street attic to let--not so much as a joint-stool left
    in it; my hand writes, not I; just as chickens run about a
    little, when their heads are off. O for a vigorous fit of gout,
    of cholic, tooth-ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my
    visual organs; pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence
    of life; but this apathy, this death! Did you ever have an
    obstinate cold--a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill, and
    suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing? Yet do I
    try all I can to cure it; I try wine, and spirits, and smoking,
    and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to
    make me worse instead of better. I sleep in a damp room, but it
    does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find
    any visible amendment!

    "It is just fifteen minutes after twelve; Thurtell is by this
    time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps;
    Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; the Jew
    demurs at first at three half-crowns, but, on consideration
    that he may get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally
    closes."

In the same vein is the following, written under similar
circumstances:

    "I have had my head and ears stuffed up with the east winds.
    A continual ringing in my brain of bells jangled, or the
    spheres touched by some raw angel. Is it not George the Third
    tuning the Hundredth Psalm? I get my music for nothing. But
    the weather seems to be softening, and will thaw my stunnings.
    Coleridge, writing to me a week or two since, began his note:
    '_Summer has set in with his usual severity._' A cold summer
    is all I know disagreeable in cold. I do not mind the utmost
    rigour of real winter, but these smiling hypocritical Mays
    wither me to death. My head has been ringing chaos, like
    the day the winds were made, before they submitted to the
    discipline of a weather-cock, before the quarters were made.
    In the street, with the blended noises of life about me, I
    hear, and my head is lightened; but in a room, the hubbub comes
    back, and I am deaf as a sinner. Did I tell you of a pleasant
    sketch Hood has done, which he calls, '_Very deaf indeed?_'
    It is of a good-natured, stupid-looking old gentleman, whom a
    foot-pad has stopped, but for his extreme deafness cannot make
    him understand what he wants. The unconscious old gentleman is
    extending his ear-trumpet very complacently, and the fellow is
    firing a pistol into it to make him hear, but the ball will
    pierce his skull sooner than the report reach his sensorium.
    I choose a very little bit of paper, for my ear hisses when I
    bend down to write. I can hardly read a book, for _I miss that
    small soft voice which the idea of articulated words raises_
    (almost imperceptibly to you) _in a silent reader_. _I seem too
    deaf to see what I read._ But with a touch of returning zephyr,
    my head will melt."

It is in a letter to the same staid correspondent, that we find the
following reflections on the fate of Fauntleroy, who was executed
many years since in London. It is 'a strange mingling of humor and
solemn truth:'

    "And now, my dear Sir, trifling apart, the gloomy catastrophe
    of yesterday morning prompts a sadder vein. The fate of the
    unfortunate Fauntleroy makes me, whether I will or no, to cast
    reflecting eyes around on such of my friends as, by a parity
    of situation, are exposed to a similarity of temptation. My
    very style seems to myself to become more impressive than
    usual, with the charge of them. Who that standeth, knoweth
    but he may yet fall? Your hands as yet, I am most willing to
    believe, have never deviated into other's property. You think
    it impossible that you could ever commit so heinous an offence;
    but so thought Fauntleroy once; so have thought many beside
    him, who at last have expiated as he hath done. You are as
    yet upright; but you are a banker, or at least the next thing
    to it. I feel the delicacy of the subject; but cash must pass
    through your hands, sometimes to a great amount. If in an
    unguarded hour----but I will hope better. Consider the scandal
    it will bring upon those of your persuasion. Thousands would
    go to see a Quaker hanged, that would be indifferent to the
    fate of a Presbyterian or an Anabaptist. Think of the effect
    it would have on the sale of your poems alone, not to mention
    higher considerations! I tremble, I am sure, at myself, when
    I think that so many poor victims of the law, at one time of
    their life, made as sure of never being hanged, as I, in my
    own presumption, am ready, too ready, to do myself. What are
    we better than they? Do we come into the world with different
    necks? Is there any distinctive mark under our left ears? Are
    we unstrangulable, I ask you? Think on these things. I am
    shocked sometimes at the shape of my own fingers, not for their
    resemblance to the ape tribe, (which is something,) but for
    the exquisite adaptation of them to the purposes of picking,
    fingering, etc."

Here is a capital programme for those losel scouts whose 'tales of
the crusades' which are waged against the canine species, generally
fill our newspapers in the dog-days. We have no doubt that similar
suggestions to those here thrown out, have been acted upon by many a
dog-hater, in the fervid summer solstice, what time a worse virus
than the hydrophobic was raging in his brain. Lamb is inquiring after
his adopted dog, 'Dash:'

    "Goes he muzzled, or _aperto ore_? Are his intellects sound,
    or does he wander a little in _his_ conversation? You cannot
    be too careful to watch the first symptoms of incoherence. The
    first illogical snarl he makes, to St. Luke's with him. All
    the dogs here are going mad, if you believe the overseers;
    but I protest they seem to me very rational and collected.
    But nothing is so deceitful as mad people, to those who are
    not used to them. Try him with hot water: if he won't lick
    it up, it is a sign--he does not like it. Does his tail wag
    horizontally, or perpendicularly? That has decided the fate
    of many dogs in Enfield. Is his general deportment cheerful?
    I mean when he is pleased--for otherwise there is no judging.
    You can't be too careful. Has he bit any of the children yet?
    If he has, have them shot, and keep _him_ for curiosity, to see
    if it was the hydrophobia. They say all our army in India had
    it at one time; but that was in _Hyder_-Ally's time. Do you get
    paunch for him? Take care the sheep was sane. You might pull
    out his teeth, (if he would let you,) and then you need not
    mind if he were as mad as a bedlamite."

There is an adroit satire upon epitaphs--certificates of good
character given to persons on going to a new place, who oftentimes
had none in the places they left--in the annexed fragment from a
letter enclosing an acrostic:

    "I am afraid I shall sicken you of acrostics, but this last was
    written _to order_. I beg you to have inserted in your country
    paper, something like this advertisement: 'To the nobility,
    gentry, and others about Bury:--C. Lamb respectfully informs
    his friends and the public in general, that he is leaving off
    business in the acrostic line, as he is going into an entirely
    new line. Rebuses and charades done as usual, and upon the
    old terms. Also, epitaphs to suit the memory of any person
    deceased.'"

A few original anecdotes of Lamb must close our notice for the
present. The first dry specimen was doubtless suggested by the
closing couplet of a London street-ballad, wherein is set forth the
ultra fickleness of a female 'lovyer:'

        'And there I spied that faithless she,
        A fryin' sassengers for he!'

    "One day, at the exhibition of the Royal Academy, I was sitting
    on a form, looking at the catalogue, and answering some young
    people about me who had none, or spared themselves the trouble
    of consulting it. There was a large picture of Prospero and
    Miranda; and I had just said, 'It is by _Shee_;' when a voice
    near me said, 'Would it not be more grammatical to say by
    _her_?' I looked, it was Mr. Lamb.

    "He went with a party down to my brother Charles's ship, in
    which the officers gave a ball to their friends. My brother
    hired a vessel to take us down to it, and some one of the
    company asked its name. On hearing it was the _Antelope_, Mr.
    Lamb cried out, 'Don't name it; I have such a respect for
    my aunt, I cannot bear to think of her doing such a foolish
    action!'

    "A widow-friend of Lamb having opened a preparatory school for
    children at Camden Town, said to him, 'I live so far from town
    I must have a sign, I think you call it, to show that I teach
    children.' 'Well,' he replied, 'you can have nothing better
    than '_The Murder of the Innocents_!'

    "A constable in Salisbury Cathedral was telling him that eight
    people dined at the top of the spire of that edifice; upon
    which he remarked, that they must be very '_sharp set_!'

    "An old woman, on a cold, bleak day, begged of him for charity:
    'Ah! Sir,' said she, 'I have seen better days.' 'So have I,'
    said Lamb; meaning literally one not so rainy and overcast as
    the one on which she begged.

    "Mrs. H---- was sitting on a sofa one day, between Mr. Montague
    and Mr. Lamb. The latter spoke to her, but all her attention
    was given to the other party. At last they ceased talking, and
    turning round to Mr. Lamb, she asked what it was he had been
    saying? He replied, 'Ask Mr. Montague, for it went in at one
    ear and out at another.'

    "Coleridge one day said to him: 'Charles, did you ever hear me
    _preach_?' 'I never heard you do any thing else,' said Lamb."

We shall discuss anew these teeming volumes, when the American
edition (which it is to be hoped will possess the portraits of the
English) shall have appeared.


BRISTOL ACADEMY, TAUNTON, (MASS.)--A catalogue of the officers,
teachers, and pupils of this institution, now before us, affords
very favorable evidence of the prosperity which it enjoys, under the
supervision of its able preceptor, J. N. BELLOWS, Esq. It already
numbers nearly an hundred pupils, in the male and female departments,
embracing residents in various quarters of the country. The plan
of instruction, set forth in the appendix, is an excellent one;
'uniting, as far as practicable, pleasure with study, yet not to the
neglect of strictness of discipline, and thoroughness in the business
of instruction,' in which the art of teaching, as a profession, is
included, in a separate department.

FOOTNOTE:

[17] The tone and manner of a second communication from 'HONESTUS,'
(perused, it is proper to add, since this article was placed in
type,) induce the opinion, that something of personal feeling and
private pique is mingled with his 'enlarged regard for the progress
of musical science in this country.'




THE DRAMA.


PARK THEATRE--MR. FORREST.--TWO succeeding engagements of Mr.
FORREST, have given us an opportunity of witnessing his efforts in
all of his old, and in some (to him) new characters. Othello, Damon,
Richard III., Metamora, Spartacus, Lear, Carwin, in the 'Orphan of
Geneva,' and even Hamlet, have in turn been presented, through the
impersonations of Mr. Forrest. Among these, there are some characters
which long ago he made his own, and which have not since found any
other representative. Such are Metamora, Spartacus, and perhaps
Damon; Othello and Lear, too, had been previously attempted by Mr.
Forrest, and found among his many friends enthusiastic admirers. This
last engagement, however, has presented this gentleman in two new
characters, Richard and Hamlet. Of the first of these, it shall be
our province to speak in this paper.

Mr. Forrest has challenged criticism upon his conception of the
character of the Duke of Gloster, by his remarks contained in a
published letter to a friend, written during his English visit. In
this letter he boldly affirms, that the ideas which EDMUND KEAN
always held of the personage which he represented as the Duke of
Gloster, were erroneous, in one great particular, and that therefore
_he_ should portray the crook-backed tyrant in a light quite
different from that in which Kean presented him. This error of Kean
consisted, it seems, in supposing the royal cut-throat to have been
a too _serious_ villain; in presenting the early part of his career
in a shade too sombre. According to Mr. Forrest, the wily duke
was rather inclined to be jocose in his butcheries; and he should
therefore, in his personation of the character, make the jester a
sort of _basso-relievo_ to the hard, black surface of his marble
heart.

Now we admire originality, whether it be displayed on the stage,
at the bar, in the pulpit, on the canvass, or in books. Whether
the original be a cobbler, or an architect, we hail his advent
with joy and gratulation. That clever artist, who first conceived
the interesting metamorphosis whereby a sliver of wood could be
converted into a pumpkin-seed, deserves, indeed, more praise for his
singular ingenuity, than for any lasting blessing thereby conferred
upon mankind. Nor can we affirm, that the kindred hand which first
transposed the same material into those cherished condiments of
eastern Ind, y'clept nutmegs, has claim to any higher reward; yet
were both these worthies original thinkers, and thereby entitled
to the respect due to genius. To endeavor to trace back some great
original thought to the impulse which first opened the way to its
creation; to search for the early germ, no bigger perhaps than a
grain of mustard-seed, out of which the towering tree sprang up in
all its original greatness, is a subject which must always engage the
attention, and employ the research, of the admirers of genius. We
have therefore endeavored, by the most patient and diligent study,
both of Shakspeare and his commentators, to discover the ground upon
which Mr. Forrest formed his original reading of the Duke of Gloster,
or the hint, if possible, from which he snatched his conception of
the murdering duke's jocular disposition. The only peg which we can
possibly discover, whereon we suppose Mr. Forrest might hang his
wonderful originality, is comprised in that line wherein the crafty
Gloster, gloating over that devilish hypocrisy with which he is
enabled to cloak his monstrous villanies, exclaims:

    'For I can smile, and murder while I smile.'

Mr. Forrest was no doubt struck with this passage. It seemed to him
to contain the germ of a mighty thought, and in his aspirations for
immortality, he has given a liberal meaning to the passage, and
rendered it thus:

    'For I can laugh, and murder while I laugh!'

The spirit of originality seized upon his desires and his faculties
at the same moment; and with a determination to wither at a blast
the laurels of Kean, Cook, John Kemble, Booth, and a host of less
distinguished worthies, he has, in the magnitude of his wisdom,
declared them 'sumphs' in their ignorance of Shakspeare, and himself
the only true representative of the most powerful of the bard's
creations!

    'Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought;
    'What power,' he cries, 'what power these wonders wrought!'
    Soul! what thou seek'st is in thee; look and find,
    Thy monster meets his likeness in thy mind.'

We were truly inclined to give Mr. Forrest credit for too much good
sense, to be tempted into any such absurd extravagance as he has been
guilty of, in attempting to foist his new reading of Richard upon
an intelligent public. He must have discarded all authority, and
taken it upon himself to settle this question with the world; and
he _has_ settled it, in a way most lamentable for his judgment. The
first three acts of Richard were really pitiable. There was a lack of
every thing which we had long supposed belonged to the character. His
sarcasms--those biting sentences which Kean made so withering--were
turned to absolute jests--regular Joe Millers in blank verse!
Gloster murdered in joke, and all his villanies became, as Mr.
Forrest presented them, no more than the peccadilloes of Punch. The
scene with Queen Anne had no propriety whatever. It was not the wily
Gloster, whose tongue could 'wheedle with the devil,' but the gay,
slashing Corinthian, paying his devoirs to a moonlight Cyprian. The
Duke of Gloster was a gentleman, bloody-minded enough, truly, but
with the polish of a court about him, and an air of nobility as
inseparable as his hump; both of which Mr. Forrest discarded long
before the Duke of Gloster gave up the ghost. The last two acts,
and especially the very last, were powerful, so far as physical
effort could render them powerful. The tent-scene was terrific in
this respect; it was like the 'tic doloureux,' deafening and dull.
It was heavy physical force, with very little of genius to thrill
or to startle; a sort of artificial thunder, without the lightning.
Strange that any can be found to uphold such extravagance; but rant
and fustian seem the order of the day; and he whose lungs are the
stoutest, seems the victor among modern tragedians.

    'The rabble knows not where our dramas shine,
    But when the actor roars, 'By Jove! that's fine!'

       *       *       *       *       *

ELLEN TREE.--The finest comedies in the language, presented to us, in
their principal characters, through the acting of Miss ELLEN TREE,
have proved, during the last engagement of this lady, that a true
taste for the legitimate drama yet exists in full force in America,
however it may have degenerated on the other side of the water.
'Rosalind,' 'Beatrice,' 'Lady Teazle,' 'Viola,' as well as 'Ion,'
'Jane Shore,' 'Clarisse,' in the _Barrack-Room_, 'Christine,' and
a multitude of other characters, as varied in their kind as these,
have offered a rich intellectual treat to all who can appreciate the
chaste, ungarnished beauties of the drama. It would be superfluous
to speak of Miss Tree's merit in these characters. To us, at least,
she has become identified with them all; and in speaking of her
performances, we must say that the task can only be a repetition of
that even strain of unadulterated praise, which, justly awarded,
belongs only to perfection. We look in vain for some fault, some
discrepancy, some point which might be improved upon. All is so near
the _beau ideal_ of her art, that we must, in omitting all censure,
either confess ourselves wanting in judgment, or at once acknowledge
Miss Ellen Tree a being more perfect on the stage, than any we know
or can conceive of, off of it. Perhaps the greatest of her many
merits is the remarkable purity of her utterance, and the true sound
and meaning with which she clothes the language of the author. In the
classic phrases of 'Ion,' this beauty is prominent; the choice words
which form the finished sentences of this gem of English literature,
are sounded full in every letter. Vowels and consonants receive
their measured justice, and every line is meted out with its just
cadence, imparting to our much-abused English a quality as free from
blemish as it is capable of sustaining. In common or less classical
compositions, the words are endued with a strength and beauty, which
are borrowed from her perfection of utterance. There is a roundness
and a rich purity in her pronunciation, which gives a finish and
fullness to the sound, that is really musical. She is a worthy
mistress of the Queen's English.

       *       *       *       *       *

MADAME CARADORI ALLAN.--A new star in _our_ musical world has shone
upon us during the past month; not the less dazzlingly, perhaps,
from its foreign lustre. Mde. ALLAN possesses a _soprano_ voice, of
a light quality. She sings with great apparent ease, and there is a
finish to every note, worthy of the highest praise. Her execution is
graceful in the extreme. The most rapid notes glide as distinctly
through her voice as the most slow and measured. There is neither
hesitation in the one, nor hurry in the other. All are in exact time,
and evince in their execution a degree of study seldom effected, and
a taste fully competent to seize upon and display the most exquisite
beauties of the art. Her manner is evidently that of one unaccustomed
to the stage; that of a sensitive and delicate gentlewoman, suddenly
placed in a situation new to her, but embarrassing only from its
novelty. If, as has been asserted, Mde. Allan's first appearance here
was really her _début_ in an opera made up of English words, she
certainly has great reason to congratulate herself on the success
which attended even her acting of the part of 'Rosina.' The execution
of the opening song, the 'Unâ Voce,' first in English, and then,
in obedience to an _encore_, in Italian, was truly as beautiful as
we can fancy it in the power of her peculiar voice to make it. It
was certainly sufficient to merit one of the most rapturous bursts
of applause that was ever listened to. The other music of her part
was equally well executed, if we except those pieces where low
contralto notes were to be sounded. Here, of course, the artiste
could do nothing; and she showed her good sense by attempting
nothing. We particularly noticed this peculiarity in the concerted
piece at the close of the first act. Having no contralto notes in
her voice, it was impossible for her to express the music belonging
to this scene. A repetition of 'The Barber,' on the next night,
gave us an opportunity of witnessing the same beauties, and the
same slight defects. There was, as might have been expected, less
embarrassment than on the previous evening; while the acting, and
the stage-business altogether, was more easy and natural. 'Love in a
Village' displayed the high faculties of Mde. Allan to still greater
advantage, and certainly, with one glorious exception, we never heard
the melodies which belong to 'Rosetta' more exquisitely given. There
were two simple ballads introduced, which, in her way of expressing
them, made perfect gems of the hacknied 'Coming through the Rye,' and
'I'm Over Young to Marry.' It is the peculiar province of genius to
hallow all it breathes upon; and surely, in a musical way, this truth
was never more clearly exemplified. We are sorry to say, however,
that with the exception of Mr. PLACIDE, Mde. Allan has been most
wretchedly supported. Mr. JONES sang worse than ever, and acted no
better. Mr. RICHINGS is not equal to the parts which we honestly
believe he is _obliged_ to sustain in opera. His exertions, however,
as 'Hawthorn,' would, on this particular evening, have been entitled
to less censure, if he had taken the trouble to learn his part. The
minor characters in opera are shamefully executed at this house.
They were bad enough when the WOODS and BROUGH were to be supported,
but infinitely worse now. There are singers enough in the country
to make up this deficiency. Why are they not engaged? There is Mr.
BROUGH for the 'Basils,' Mr. LATHAM for the 'Figaros;' there is Mr.
HORN, who _can sing_, if he cannot _act_ the 'Elvinos'; and surely
an 'Almaviva' and a 'Hawthorn' might be found, to fill the places
of those who now disgrace these characters at the Park. With two
or three exceptions, (and among them, in justice, we must name Mr.
HAYDEN,) the most exquisite music is played by an admirable orchestra
to no better purpose than to show the sad deficiency of the singers.
Of Mde. Caradori Allan's performance of the 'Somnambulist,' we are
not prepared to speak fully; as, in consequence of the early hour
at which this Magazine is put to press, we have, 'at this present
writing,' only seen her first appearance in the character; when,
from over-exertion, perhaps, in the second act, she was unable to go
through with the third as satisfactorily as we may hope practice will
enable her to do hereafter.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NATIONAL THEATRE, under its present management, is second to
none in the United States in the varied talent and efficiency of
its acting company, in scenic effect, general good order, the
attraction and excellence of its entertainments, and the number and
respectability of its audiences. It has uncommon materials for either
tragedy, comedy, or opera. 'Macbeth' and 'Othello,' for example,
the 'School for Scandal,' 'Cure for the Heart-ache,' etc., could
not probably be produced more effectively in any particular, even
at Drury Lane. Othello, especially, with J. W. WALLACK, VANDENHOFF,
BROWNE, ABBOTT, Miss WHEATLEY, and Mrs. SEFTON, in the principal
characters, is really a rare treat. It is so much like SHAKSPEARE's
Othello, that we think even the great bard himself would recognise
it; which is more than can be said of most portraitures of his
splendid creations. In 'Macbeth,' too, we opine that Mr. Vandenhoff
is scarcely excelled, even by Macready--still less by any other
living tragedian; and at neither of the two great London theatres,
where we saw Macready in this character about a year since, was the
play otherwise better done than at the National. In his personations
of Hamlet, Iago, and Cato, Mr. Vandenhoff is also preeminently great,
if not unequalled. He has strongly confirmed his reputation as an
artist of the first order in his profession, and he is, moreover,
as we are assured by those who know him, a gentleman of sterling
acquirements, and unassuming worth. In person, he is of medium
height, with an intellectual and expressive face, and a voice at once
pleasing and powerful. An emphasis sometimes rather too _drawling_,
is the only exception we can make to his usually chaste and judicious
elocution.

A review of the performances at the 'WOODWORTH BENEFIT,' some
wholesome advice to Mr. GANN, for over-action, a notice at large of
'The English Gentleman,' (a most sterling play,) together with a
report upon the laughable and admirably-acted piece, 'Gulliver in
Liliput,' although in type, are reluctantly, yet unavoidably, omitted.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE AMERICAN THEATRE, Bowery, has presented to large audiences,
since our last notice, a melodramatic piece called the 'Bronze
Horse,' the scenery, machinery, dresses, and decorations of which
are said to have been unequalled by any thing hitherto seen at this
establishment. Its great and continued popularity must be taken as
substantial evidence of its merit as a spectacle.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OLYMPIC continues, in an unpretending way, to increase its
reputation as a quiet and well-conducted theatre, where one may
find the lighter attractions of the drama admirably presented, by
actors who understand their business, supervised by managers who know
theirs, and attend to it. It is a capital place wherein to pass a
leisure hour agreeably.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. SIMMONS' LECTURES ON ELOCUTION.--We have had the gratification,
since our last number, of attending a course of lectures upon
elocution, given at the 'Stuyvesant Institute,' by WILLIAM H.
SIMMONS, Esq., of Boston; and we are confident we speak the
unanimous opinion of his auditory, among whom were many of our most
distinguished citizens, when we say, that for sound reasoning,
felicitous manner, and richness of voice, Mr. SIMMONS' equal has
not been heard in this meridian for many a long year. He expounded
clearly and analytically the natural laws of vocal expression,
according to the method pursued by Dr. RUSH, in his 'Philosophy of
the Human Voice;' exemplifying, at the same time, the practical
effect and application of all the important tones, inflexions,
and modes of emphasis, by a variety of readings and recitations,
which were invariably received with the liveliest demonstrations of
admiration, on the part of his hearers. We sincerely hope that the
capable and accomplished lecturer, and we must add orator, also, may
find sufficient inducement to deliver a second course; and as there
is abundant room for improvement, both in our public and colloquial
elocution, we trust, moreover, that the private lessons in his useful
and delightful art will be liberally attended. We are glad to learn
that he is giving a course of lectures and lessons at the Episcopal
Theological Seminary; and that he is about to gratify a large body of
young men, engaged in professional studies and mercantile pursuits,
by the repetition of his course, at Clinton Hall. Mr. SIMMONS'
address is the Astor-House.




LITERARY RECORD.


TOKENS OF THE HOLIDAYS.--We feel paternal yearnings, when we sit
down, as now, by our round-table, to draw around us our great family
of readers, that they may admire with us the various gems of art
with which it is literally overloaded. Before us, gleaming in gold,
crimson, and purple, rich blue and velvet green, and affluent in the
finest engravings, are the ENGLISH ANNUALS, for 1838, which, with
their American brotherhood, will very soon, we venture to predict,
collect some of the superfluities of this 'money-voiding town.'
Love-tokens are they, for the tasteful swain, and remembrancers
from the generous-hearted, to those who stand on the top-scale of
their friendship's ladder. Annuals, both foreign and domestic, are
every year improving. From 'combinations of show and emptiness,'
they have come to be the medium of the highest efforts of art; while
green-sick sonnetteers and small tale-writers are succeeded by minds
more capable of entertaining the public. We can do little more than
_catalogue_ the rich stores before us.

FINDEN'S TABLEAUX, in imperial quarto, may be placed first in the
list, since it is superb, beyond all former precedent. It is intended
to represent the peculiar female beauty of different countries,
or provinces, with a characteristic back-ground of scenery, and
adjuncts in keeping. 'England,' 'Andalusia,' 'Florence,' 'Egypt,'
'Ceylon,' 'America,' 'Georgia,' 'Scotland,' and 'Castile,' have each
their representatives; and what a galaxy of beauty would that court
present, which should combine in one assembly these ambassadors of
loveliness! The letter-press illustrations, in prose and verse,
mainly by Miss MITFORD, we need not say, are worthy the pictorial
department, and the reputation of the author of 'Our Village.' The
'FLOWERS OF LOVELINESS', edited by Miss LANDON, also in the imperial
quarto form, is a very pretty volume, but less beautiful, as it
strikes us, than its predecessor. It is dedicated to the Queen, in a
clever acrostic upon her name, in four-line stanzas, each verse of
which is introduced by an ornamental letter, representing a flower;
a pretty and feminine device. Female beauty is made to represent the
Clematis, Hyacinth, Water-Lily, Night-blooming Convolvulus, Poppy,
Canterbury Cathedral, Pansy, 'Marvel of Peru,' the Laurel, Iris,
etc. HEATH'S BOOK OF BEAUTY contains thirteen engravings, portraits
of several women of nobility, and fancy pictures. Its externals are
gorgeous. The binding is of cerulean satin, richly embroidered with
thread of changeful golden tissue. It has a few stories, and some
good poetry. LADY BLESSINGTON does the editorial honors. 'CHILDREN OF
THE NOBILITY' is a work in the large quarto. The engravings are by
HEATH, from drawings by CHALON. One or two of them are exquisite--the
portrait of LADY MARY HOWARD, for example. There are some pretty
children, too, and 'extraordinary ordinary'-looking othersome,
with legs like upright nine-pins, and shod hoofs. Edited by Mrs.
FAIRLIE. 'BEAUTIES OF COSTUME'--HEATH again. This is a series of
female figures, in the dresses of ancient times--Egyptian, Scottish,
Court of Louis XII., Bernese, Milanese, Russian, English Peasant,
Swiss, Court of Charles VII., Persian, Scottish Highland, etc.
Descriptions by LEITCH RITCHIE. We can say little for the ENGLISH
ANNUAL. Old plates, which have been served up to the British public
in the 'Court Journal,' if we do not mistake, are scarcely worthy
of being ushered forth as original embellishments. The 'ORIENTAL'
has twenty-two spirited engravings of 'Scenes in India,' many of
which are very superior. The name of Rev. HOBART CAUNTER is a
guarantee for the character of the letter-press portion of the work.
The London '_Christian Keepsake_' is worthy of all praise, both as
to matter and embellishments. A portrait of Mrs. STEWART, (wife
of Rev. C. S. STEWART, of the American Navy,) late missionary to
the Sandwich Islands, from a painting by INGRAHAM, of this city,
is one of the gems of the volume. HEATH's 'PICTURESQUE ANNUAL' is
devoted to 'Scenes in Ireland.' They are well selected, and the
engravings are exceedingly soft and clear. The descriptive matter
is from the pen of LEITCH RITCHIE. Beside these, there are 'Italy,
France, and Switzerland,' in two large quarto volumes, the plates by
PROUT and HARDING, and the illustrations by THOMAS ROSCOE; FISHER's
'DRAWING-ROOM SCRAP-BOOK,' with its usual quality and quantity of
engravings, edited by Miss LANDON; 'Midland Counties Tourist,'
illustrating hoary ruins, romantic castles, and picturesque towns and
landscapes, in the counties of Chester, Derby, Nottingham, Leicester,
Rutland, and Lincoln, with descriptions historical and topographical,
'Illustrations of Scotland and the Waverly Novels, etc. WILEY AND
PUTNAM, Broadway.

       *       *       *       *       *

GOOD OUT OF EVIL.--'Selections from the Court Reports, originally
published in the BOSTON MORNING POST, from 1834 to 1837. Arranged
and Revised by the Reporter of the Post.'--The writer of this work
is surely chief of the _adepti_ in his art, for art it is. He is
a prëeminent 'dab' at his business; uniting grace of composition
with a keen sense of the humorous, and the reflections of a heart
open to the influence of generous emotions, and full of sympathy
for the unfortunates, whose abandonment to temptation he records.
As contrasting examples of pathos and fun, we would instance the
picture of maternal affection, in the story of the three juvenile
book-thieves, and the cool knavery of the _omnium-gatherum_ varlet,
whose systematic pilferings were directed by a written programme,
as: 'Visit Bailey's Female High School--_scrutinize_;' 'Get books
from library--_valuable_;' 'Go to the theatre--_once_;' 'Go to
the Museum, night and day; _criticise, and get every thing I
can_;' 'Visit Horticultural Rooms--_and get things_;' 'Get some
pocket-handkerchiefs--_gratis_,' etc. These 'Selections' will amuse a
dull hour passing well. The reader will find the book fruitful of fun
or instruction, open it wheresoever he may. Boston: OTIS, BROADERS
AND COMPANY.


'THE ARETHUSA.'--Such is the title of a naval story, in two volumes,
by Captain CHAMIER, R. N., author of 'Ben Brace,' 'Life of a
Sailor,' etc. In our judgment, it is his best work. If not as a
whole, certainly in particular scenes it has not been surpassed by
any previous effort of the author. The wreck of the Tribune, the
naval warfare, the pestilence at Jamaica, and many other detached
scenes, which might be mentioned, are most vividly portrayed. We
would counsel Captain Chamier, however, not to meddle with character
of which he knows nothing more than may be conveyed in the terms,
'I reckon,' 'I guess,' and 'I calculate,' in endless iteration. His
'Corncob' is an imaginary anomaly, and has no counterpart in America.
Philadelphia; E. L. CAREY AND A. HART. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.


'REVIEWERS REVIEWED:'--BY THE AUTHOR OF 'PELAYO.'--This is a
little volume of seventy-two pages--dedication, introduction,
argument, text, notes, and appendix, all counted--and is facetiously
denominated by the young lady-author a 'Satire.' The editors of the
'Courier,' 'Gazette,' 'Commercial,' and 'Mirror' journals, together
with the KNICKERBOCKER, are the victims--because they could not
admire 'Pelayo.' For our own poor part, the force of the attack
has stunned us. We know not what to say. Also, we wist not what to
do. 'Where,' (to adopt the kindred language of our fair satirist's
illustrious archetype, 'Rosa Matilda,')

    'Where is Cupid's crimson motion?
      Billowy ecstacy of wo!
    Bear us safe, meandering ocean,
      Where the stagnant torrents flow!'


MISSIONARY ENTERPRISES.--Messrs. D. APPLETON AND COMPANY have
published a handsome volume, of some five hundred pages, entitled
'A Narrative of Missionary Enterprises in the South Sea Islands;
with Remarks upon the Natural History of the Islands, Origin,
Languages, Traditions, and Usages of the Inhabitants. By JOHN
WILLIAMS, of the London Missionary Society.' We regret that we are
compelled to advert so briefly to this excellent work, in gathering
the materials for which, the author travelled one hundred thousand
miles, and expended upward of eighteen years. The book is full upon
all the heads mentioned in its title, and is illustrated by numerous
engravings on wood. The style is simple and flowing, and the details
invariably interesting, not less to the general than the Christian
reader. We were struck with a fact recorded toward the close of the
volume, illustrative of that divine purpose in nature of which a
correspondent elsewhere speaks, in the present number. In many of
the coral islands of the South Sea, there are neither streams nor
springs; and were it not for the cocoa-nut, the inhabitants would
perish. On a sultry day, when the very ground burns with heat, the
natives climb this fruit-tree, and in each unripe nut find a pint or
more of a grateful lemonade-like water, as refreshing as if taken
from a spring.


'SCIENCE MADE EASY:'--'Being a Familiar Introduction to
the Principles of Chemistry, Mechanics, Hydrostatics, and
Pneumatics.'--We took up this corpulent dictionary-quarto, under
the impression that it was one of those scanty and superficial
'_made-easy_' books, good-naturedly intended to instil dull truths
into unwary understandings, by alternate layers of _utile_ and
_dulce_, but capable in reality of very little good. Its perusal has
agreeably disappointed us. The author has not alone skirmished on the
frontier of a few of the sciences, but he has drawn a small array
of them into close order, in such wise that they may be surveyed
with ease and expedition, and made to fructify without a world of
unnecessary trouble. The volume is illustrated by numerous wood-cuts.


MISS LESLIE'S 'PENCIL SKETCHES.'--This volume contains all of Miss
LESLIE's fugitive pieces which have appeared since the publication
of her second series of 'Pencil Sketches.' Every article has been
carefully revised by the author, and improved, as she believes, by
numerous alterations and additions. The following are the contents:
'The Red Box, or Scenes at the General Wayne;' 'Constance Allerton,
or the Mourning Suits;' 'The Officers, a Story of the Last War;'
'The Serenades, and Dream of Songs:' 'The Old Farm-House;' 'That
Gentleman, or Pencillings on Ship-board;' 'Charles Loring, a Tale of
the Revolution;' and 'Alphonsine.' Aside from the natural ease and
conversational ability, peculiar to all Miss LESLIE's productions,
the reader may always rely upon a main object of intellectual or
moral good.


'THE HAWK CHIEF.'--This 'Tale of the Indian Country,' by JOHN T.
IRVING, JR., author of 'Indian Sketches,' is too clever a production
to be despatched in a few lines; but we are compelled to postpone a
more enlarged notice of the work, until some future occasion. In the
matter of literary provender, it seems latterly to be either 'a feast
or a famine.' Our hands are now full, which but recently were quite
empty, of intellectual wares. We shall discuss them in order, when
space and leisure serve.


ELEVENTH VOLUME OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.--We cannot permit the closing
number of the present volume of this Magazine to go forth to our
readers, without holding a brief and familiar tête-à-tête with them,
in relation to its prospects, literary and otherwise. For the past,
let it speak for itself. We have accomplished all we could, and our
friends are kind enough to admit that it has been beyond what was
promised, and more than satisfactory. For the future, we have rich
stores of valuable and entertaining matter, not only from our present
unequalled corps of contributors, but from several writers, akin to
the best of them, whose acquaintance our readers have not hitherto
made. We can promise, that the more solid articles which the next
volume will contain, will neither be too voluminous to be read,
nor too dull to be useful; that they will be varied and novel in
subject, and attractive in manner. Eschewing politics and polemics,
our readers will escape the long-winded discussions to which they so
frequently give rise; and they may rely, moreover, upon a faithful
discharge of our critical responsibilities, uninfluenced by partizan
or sectarian feeling. With articles of a lighter description, we
shall, as heretofore, be well supplied. By 'light articles,' we
do not mean silly love-stories, and inflated, finical rhapsodies,
nor the aimless efforts of writers mounted on airy stilts of
abstraction, but matter capable of improving while it amuses; that
shall 'fortify like a cordial,' and be productive of sweet blood and
generous spirits; reviving and animating the dead calm of idle life,
entertaining the leisure of the active, and relieving the toil of
the laborious; now beguiling, perchance, pain of body, or diverting
anxiety of mind; and happily again, it may be, filling the place of
bad thoughts, or suggesting better. We do not anticipate that every
paper will please every reader. Our articles are so many dishes, our
readers guests; that which one admires, perhaps another rejects;
but we shall take especial care, that none may be without something
to enlighten his understanding, and gratify his fancy or taste. The
pericraniums are not disfurnished, good reader, from which so many
good things have heretofore been evoked for your edification and
profit; nor will they be, by some score or two, the only sources of
your future intellectual gratification. You will believe us, when we
hold out to you these tokens of good, since we have never deceived
you. Judge ye, if we have not 'fought our way to your good graces
valiantly, and showed our passport at every barrier.'

Our success is abundantly satisfactory, so far as reputation and an
increasing subscription-list are concerned. 'The pressure,' however,
which has borne so heavily upon all business, and all professions,
has not been without its influence upon the pecuniary interests of
this Magazine. Many of our _unthinking_ readers--we will harbor
no worse opinion of them--unwilling to curtail their expenses, by
stopping their subscriptions, have been quite ready to lessen them
by not _paying_ for a work which they could not bring themselves
to forego. To such we have only to say, they cannot be fully aware
of the injustice of which they are guilty, nor of the unmitigated
exertions which they so illy requite. The 'never-ending, still
beginning' labor which is going on for their benefit and amusement,
long after their heads are upon their pillows, or while they are
indulging in the relaxations from toil which are denied to the less
fortunate laborer in the literary vineyard, should be promptly
rewarded; and we cannot but hope that each delinquent under whose
eye this paragraph may fall, will yield tardy justice to those who
have wrought long and faithfully for him. Having said thus much,
explanatory, denunciatory, and expostulatory, we enter upon a new
volume with an enhanced patronage, enlarged hopes, and a settled
determination to lose no opportunity, and to spare no labor nor
expense, which may increase the reputation of this Magazine, and
widen the already far-reaching boundary of its circulation and
influence.

       *       *       *       *       *

ERRATA.--In the poem 'Floral Astrology,' page 498, the word _us_
should follow the final '_under_,' in the third line of the third
stanza. In the Lay of the Madman,' p. 518, the seventh line from the
close should read, 'They _tremble_ and dart through my every vein.'


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Note:

Obvious typographical errors were repaired. Valid archaic spellings
(e.g. redoutable, matresses) were retained.

Errata changes stated at the end of the document were made directly
in the text.