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THE KNICKERBOCKER.

  VOL. XXII.        OCTOBER, 1843.         NO. 4.




CHRONICLES OF THE PAST.

BY AN AMERICAN ANTIQUARY.


THE old town of Ipswich, in the Bay State, exhibits many rare relics
of antiquity. Purchased under the title of Agawam, in the early
settlement of the colony, and granted in the year 1632 to twelve
freeholders who made oath of their 'intention of settlement,' it
dates back its origin among the very first townships of New-England.
At that time, and for many years afterward, it was the northern
frontier of Massachusetts, and was constantly exposed to the attacks
of the tribes of Indians in its neighborhood. Though its population
was composed mostly of tillers of the soil, the buildings, unlike
all other farming towns of the commonwealth, were erected for
common safety upon a single street; and even to this day its sturdy
yeomanry live in town, though the farms they cultivate are many of
them miles distant in the country.

The old street is still in existence, and we venture to say that
it has not its parallel in all New-England. Antique domicils,
exhibiting the English architectural style of the seventeenth
century; sturdy block-houses, erected to defend the early settlers
from the hostile incursions of the crafty foe; barns, shops, and
crazy wood-sheds, leaning and trembling in extreme decrepitude; and
chairs, tables, bureaus, bedsteads, and pictures, all relics of a
former age, each one of which would be a gem in the cabinet of an
antiquary, daily exposed for sale in the windows of the trucksters
or on the counter of the auctioneer; are found in rich profusion
through this old street of the Pilgrims. But better than all else is
the church-yard, the original burial-place, with its green graves
and gray headstones; its turf-sward running far up the hill to the
tall elms and luxuriant evergreens that crown the summit; and its
nameless hillocks, catching the evening sunlight as it falls in
long lines athwart the green-slope, and reflecting it back upon the
passer-by with peculiar brightness! I love those old grave-stones,
half sunk in the church-yard mould; mid the rudely-carved cherubims
with their swollen cheeks and distended wings, or the more frequent
emblems of skull and cross-bones, are to my eye far more grateful
and appropriate than the modern blazonry upon heavy shafts, on tall,
slim marbles.

It is well worth the visit of many a long mile, to walk in that
ancient cemetery, and read the rustic epitaphs that would teach us
to live and die. There side by side,

  'Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,'

lie the old puritans, the rude forefathers of the hamlet, who fled
from the father-land in search of freedom to worship God; and though
they may have possessed grievous faults, yet who does not venerate
their unyielding firmness and holy piety? There too sleep the early
pastors of the American churches; the men of rare endowments and
ripest learning, who turned their backs upon the livings of the old
country, that they might plant the standard of the cross in this
distant wilderness. And there too rest the loved and venerated of
our own day, for whom, even now that so many long years have fled,
one feels as if it were impiety so utterly to have ceased to weep,
so seldom to remember! One there was, whose voice was sweet to my
ear in childhood; whose eyes, bedimmed into a pathetic beauty, never
restrained the glee that sparkled in the orbs of those about her;
her, who had so long heard the voice that called her, whispering in
her ear, that she could smile at its accents, and feel those silent
words to be cheerful as angel's tones.

In one corner of the cemetery, where a low sunken fence separates it
from a neighboring court-yard, is the grave of Richard Shatswell,
the first deacon of Ipswich church. In his first and only place of
residence until he emigrated, the city of Ipswich, England, he was a
man of considerable importance, having for several successive years
borne the honor of mayor of that town. But the unjust laws against
the dissenters hampered him: he could not take the oaths of office;
he would not make the sacrifice of principle to personal honor or
private emolument: and popular dissensions bearing hard upon his
refusal to recant his sentiments, he fled his country, and became
one of the first freeholders of Agawam. It is remarkable, that on
the very spot where the good man pitched his tent and cleared his
land; on the very farm where he sowed his grain and raised his
crops; lives and labors the only descendant in the sixth generation
who bears the name of Shatswell. He is now an old man, and retains
in his face and character strong impress of his puritanical descent,
as indeed does every thing about him the mark of family antiquity.
The house is one of those substantial old mansions which our
ancestors delighted to rear; and though now far advanced in its
second century, its stanch oak timbers, and heavy mouldings, and
massive ballustrades, bid fair to last for many generations. Every
article of furniture which the house contains carries you far back
into olden time. The andirons in the broad fire-place, bearing
the mark of 1596; the high-backed, spinster-looking chairs; the
fantastic legs of the upright bureau; the ponderous bellows and
painted china; all are but epistles of the habits of our sires.
Better than all, however, are the family pictures ranged along
the walls, where our grandmothers vie in broad hoops and stiff
stomachers, with the more unassuming costume of their daughters.

I found there were connected, as usual, with these old paintings
many anecdotes of the past. At the time of the war of the
revolution, the lady of the manor was a descendant of Simon
Bradstreet, one of the early governors of the province, whom Mather
calls the 'Nestor of New-England.' Her husband was a stanch whig, a
leader of one of the classes into which the town was divided; and
though the good lady coincided fully in his political sentiments,
she did not much like the infringement upon domestic luxuries which
many of the patriotic resolutions of the meetings contemplated.
In short, Madame Shatswell loved her cup of tea, and as a large
store had been provided for family use before the tax, she saw
no harm in using it as usual upon the table. There were in those
days, as there are now, certain busy-bodies who kindly take upon
themselves the oversight of their neighbors' affairs, and through
them the news of the treason spread over the town. A committee
from the people immediately called at the house to protest against
the drinking of tea. The good lady received their visit kindly,
informed them of the circumstances of the case, and dismissed them
perfectly satisfied. Some months passed away, and one Sabbath Madame
Shatswell's daughter, a bright-eyed, coquettish damsel, appeared at
church in a new bonnet. This was a new cause of excitement, and the
committee came again to administer reproof. The lady satisfied them
again, however; and they, finding that the hat contained no treason
to the people's cause, again departed. Two years of the war had
now passed away, and mean while the daughter, Jeanette, had found
a lover. It was the beginning of winter; the army had just gone
into winter quarters; and the young suitor was daily expected home.
Wishing to appear well in his eyes, the maiden had spun and woven
with her own hands a new linen dress, from flax raised upon the
homestead; and some old ribands, long laid aside, having been washed
and ironed to trim it withal, the damsel appeared in it at church
on the Sunday after her lover's arrival. Here was fresh cause of
alarm, and forthwith on Monday morning came the officious committee,
to remonstrate against the extravagance. The old lady's spirit was
now aroused, and she could contain herself no longer. 'Do you come
here,' was her well-remembered reply, 'do you come here to take me
to task, because my daughter wore a gown she spun and wove with her
own hands? Three times have you interfered with my family affairs.
Three times have you come to tell me that my husband would be turned
out of his office. Now mark me! There is the door! As you came in,
so you may go out! But if you ever cross my threshold again, you
shall find that calling Hannah Bradstreet a _tory_ will not make her
a _coward_!' It is needless to add that Madame Shatswell's family
affairs were thereafter left to her own guidance.

But they are all gone, mother and daughter, sire and son; and
the five generations of the old family sleep side by side in the
church-yard.

A little farther up the hill, just under the shade of that stunted
sycamore, rises the humbler grave-stone of 'Joseph Smith, a patriot
in the revolution,' who is more familiarly remembered in town,
however, as 'Serjeant Joe.' Mr. Smith was one of those persons whose
characters are formed by the times in which they live; and as he
lived in the war of the revolution, and then mostly by stealing
provisions for his mess, the times may be said to have made him a
thief. And yet how hard a name to give to Serjeant Joe, for a kinder
heart than his never beat in any man's bosom. Indeed, his very
pilfering propensities may be said to have arisen from an excess
of sympathy for human wretchedness. For his own advantage he would
have scorned to wrong a man of a single farthing; but for the poor
or the suffering, his morals were not stern enough to resist the
temptation. Indeed, he often said that he 'couldn't help it, when
he know'd poor folks was suffering; and that they shouldn't suffer
as long as he had any hands to provide for them!' And so it was. If
the long winter had almost consumed the widow's fuel, the serjeant's
hand-sled, piled with wood, helped marvellously to eke it out. If
a sick child pined for a roasted apple, the serjeant's capacious
pockets unloaded golden stores of russets and gilliflowers. Indeed,
if poverty of any kind pinched neighbor or friend, the kind old
serjeant was ever ready with relief; so that at last he began to be
considered by both thrifty and needy as the almoner of the town's
bounty, and his peccadilloes were regarded as the eccentricities
only of a benevolent heart.

The serjeant's continuance in the army was for the whole duration
of the war. At the very first exhibition of American courage
which proved so fatal to the British troops in their excursion to
Lexington and Concord, Serjeant Smith showed himself a skilful
marksman. Learning from the rumor, which seemed to have spread
that night with a speed almost miraculous, the destination of the
detachment, he arose from his bed, equipped himself with cartridges
and a famous rifle he had used at Lovell's fight at Fryeburgh,
saddled his horse, and started for Lexington meeting-house. Meeting
with a variety of hindrances, and twice escaping narrowly from some
straggling parties of the red-coats, it was late when he arrived
on the ground, and the troops were already on their rapid retreat
toward Boston. Learning that the people were all abroad, lining the
fences and woods to keep up the fire upon the enemy, he started in
pursuit, and in the course of a few miles, on riding up a hill, he
found the detachment just before him. Throwing the reins upon his
horse and starting him to full speed, he rode within a close rifle
shot, and fired at one of the leading officers. The officer fell;
and the serjeant, retreating to a safe distance, loaded his rifle
again, and again rode up and fired, with equal success. He pursued
the same course a third time, when the leader of the retreating body
ordered a platoon to fire upon him. It was unavailing, however; and
a fourth, fifth, and sixth time, the old rifle had picked off its
man, while its owner retreated in safety. 'D--n the man!' exclaimed
the officer, 'give me a musket, and I'll see if he bears a charmed
life, if he comes in sight again!' It was but a moment, and again
the old white horse came over the brow of a hill. The officer
fired, but in vain; and before the smoke of his charge had cleared
away, he too had fallen before the unerring marksman, and was left
behind by his flying troops. When the day had closed, the wounded
were collected by the neighbors upon the road, and every kindness
rendered to them. The officer was not dead, and on being laid upon
a bed where his wounds could be examined, his first question, even
under the apprehension of immediate death, was, '_Who was that old
fellow on the white horse?_'

By his side sleeps his brother soldier, Ensign Edward Ross, whose
stories of 'flood and field' beguiled many a winter evening at the
farmer's fireside. How well I remember those tales of 'Saratogue'
with which the veteran used to surprise us, and my boyish wonder

  'Stood a-tiptoe when the day was waned,'

to hear the marvellous exploits he had himself performed at the
'taking of Burg'ine.' If you would believe him, the part he had
acted brought distinguished honor to the American standard, wherever
he chanced to have been, through the whole war; and I doubt if an
engagement or skirmish could have been named in which he had not
manfully battled for our freedom. He was none of your timorous
story-tellers, ever distrusting your faith and doubting how far he
should go; but a bold, hearty liar, plunging at once into the very
depths of your credulity. Let the turf be piled high on the fire,
the hearth be swept, the women-folks be seated on one side of the
capacious fire-place, and the host with mug in hand turn round and
say, 'Come, uncle Edward, it's dry work talking; take a drink of our
old October, and let's have a story about the revolution;' and the
old man would reel off such yarns as a veteran from Cape Cod might
have envied. Methinks I see him now, his staff standing in the jam,
and his gray eye lighting up with the fire of youthful days, as he
recounted the feats of arms, in language as clear and copious as one
of his own mountain streams. Light lie the turf upon thy ashes, old
soldier, and green grow the grass over thy resting-place!

But passing over these, let us come to an enclosure that contains
the grave of a father and his twin daughters, sleeping side by
side in the church-yard. How quiet is the spot! How beautiful the
resting-place of the last of their race! The daisies grow sweetly
under the scented thorns that bend over the mounds, and the
moss-rose buds, jewelled with dew-drops on summer mornings, are
faint emblems of the loveliness of the maidens who rest beneath.

The father, a man high in his country's estimation, and whose name
is associated with more than one of her victories upon the ocean,
suffering from the effects of a wound received in the engagement
of the Hornet, had retired from the navy after the declaration
of peace, to reside on his paternal homestead, and superintend in
person the education of his daughters. He had known sorrow; for
the wife and mother had died and been buried among strangers in a
distant land while he was absent upon service; and the children, the
only descendants of his own or the maternal race, became more than
ever the objects of his fondest idolatry. They had been carefully
instructed during his absence; had grown in beauty of person and
mind to the maturity of womanhood; and were in every way fitted to
increase and bless the affection of the father. Though years have
passed away, there are many who still remember the strong love that
bound together the inmates of that retired mansion, and the elegance
which seemed to attach itself to every thing about them.

To a finished education and a thorough knowledge of the world,
Captain A---- added a strong mind, which threw an influence over
every one with whom he associated. Upon his daughters, both
partaking more of the yielding disposition of the mother than of the
father's firmness, it was most manifest; and never in disposition,
or mind, or daily duty, were children more moulded to a parent's
will. With a love of nature, and a quick perception of the beautiful
in all her varieties, they would wander through the wood-lands and
pastures, collecting minerals and flowers to arrange and classify
and study under his direction. Guided too by him, they would scour
the hills for miles around, to trace out the ruined fortifications
of the early settlers, or to discover relics of the aboriginal
inhabitants; and then, seated on the grass beside him, listen to his
teachings. It was a beautiful group, that father and daughters; and
whenever you found them, at morning or evening, by hill or brook or
sea-shore, they impressed you with a loveliness that seemed too fair
for earth.

Thus passed away the winter and summer of a single year. Autumn came
again, with its golden hues and soft sunlight days, bringing joy and
contentment to the dwellers of Oak-grove. Winter approached, but
with it came the symptoms of premature decay. What meant that hectic
flush on the cheek of the taller maiden, and why the suppressed
cough, and the shrinking and saddened spirit? The father, keenly
alive to all that affected the only objects of his life, sought the
skill of the ablest physicians, and by their advice determined to
try the benefit of a warmer climate. Preparations were instantly
made for the voyage; and scarcely a week had elapsed before they
were embarked and far away toward the sunny South. There every thing
was done which skill and the affection of loving hearts could do,
to drive away the approach of the insidious malady. Rides, walks,
parties of pleasure, games at home and amusements abroad, every
device to exhilarate the mind and fortify the courage of the fair
invalid, were tried, repeated, and failed; and on the opening of
another summer, the father, broken-hearted and in despair, returned
home to lay his loved one in the grave.

That long summer! who of that family can ever forget it? The
assiduous attention of sister and parent to the dying one; the
slow ride each morning to accustomed resort of brook or tree or
hill-side; the room filled with melody or fragrant with flowers;
the declining strength, cutting off one by one the enjoyments of
the still beautiful sufferer; the hopes, alternately encouraged or
depressed, even to the last; and sweeter, better than all, the soft
tones of the sister or the manly voice of the father, subdued and
often broken, reading page after page of God's Holy Word to the
gentle listener, and in the firmness of Christian grace bidding her

    'Look to HIM who trod before
      The desolate paths of life;
    And bear in meekness, as He gently bore,
      Sorrow and pain and strife:'

and then the death-scene, too sacred to be unfolded to the eyes of
strangers, but beautiful as is ever the exit of the believer; are
all imprinted upon the hearts of those who witnessed them, never to
be effaced.

The spirit of Captain A----, crushed by the heavy blow, clung more
closely to the surviving daughter, and in her increased fondness
seemed to find a support from utter wretchedness. Alas! that support
was also doomed to fail him! The assiduous attention so long
rendered to the deceased had proved too much; the same disease had
fastened upon her; and ere a twelvemonth had elapsed, she too had
sunk, quietly, gently, in the calmness of christian faith, into the
same grave. Her parting words, 'I shall not leave you long behind,
father!' seemed prophetic of the end; for a month had not gone when
he too, borne on the arms of four of his fellow-officers, was laid
beside his daughters.

That enclosure in the old burial-place is sacred to many hearts. I
have seen the mother sitting beside it, and have heard her, holding
the little hands of her child between her's, repeat the tale of
sorrow, until it's blue eyes filled with tears at the sad recital.
I have listened to the voice of the summer night-wind, as I hung
over the rude paling; have watched the stars looking down with their
tremulous beams upon the green graves; absorbed in the recollection
of the beauty that was laid beneath; and might have listened and
watched until they paled in the morning twilight, but for the deep,
solemn sound of the old church-clock, warning me of the hour of
midnight.




HOPE: FROM THE GERMAN.


    HOPE on the cradled infant smiles,
      And plays round the frolicksome boy;
    The youth with her magical enchantment beguiles,
      Nor can age her power destroy;
    For when in death at last he lies,
    Hope sits on the grave and points to the skies.

    Nor is this the fair dream, unsubstantial and vain,
      Of a head with wild fancies elate;
    The heart from within echoes loudly again,
      'We are born for a happier state:'
    And what that voice would bid us believe,
    The hoping soul will never deceive!




AN OLD MAN'S REMINISCENCE.


     'AN old revolutionary officer, now living in New York at the
     advanced age of ninety-one, in every respect a gentleman of the
     old school, paid a visit, some eight years since, to a friend
     in Albany; and while there, was taken to the house and room in
     which, fifty years before, he had been married. In a letter to
     his grand-daughter he gave an account of this visit, and his
     feelings on the occasion; and she, having a rhyming propensity,
     threw the dear old gentleman and his reminiscence into the
     accompanying lines.'

    AN old man stood, in serious mood, within an ancient room,
    And o'er his features gathered fast a shade of deeper gloom,
    While to his eye, bedimmed with age, came up the gushing tears,
    As Memory from her hidden cells recalled long-buried years.

    What were his thoughts that hour, which thus awakened many a sigh?
    What brought the shadow o'er his brow, the moisture to his eye?
    What in that old familiar place had power to touch his heart,
    To call that cloud of sorrow up, and bid that tear-drop start?

    The past! the past! how rolled the tide of Time's swift river back,
    While the bright rays of youth and love shed lustre on its track!
    Full fifty summer suns had shone, since on that silent spot
    Had passed a scene, while life was left could never be forgot.

    There had the holiest tie been formed, the marriage vow been given,
    And she who spoke it then with him was now a saint in heaven!
    But long, long intervening years seemed like an idle dream,
    As o'er his soul with glowing light came that bright vision-gleam.

    He stood before the holy man, with her his youthful bride,
    And spoke again the plighting word that bound him to her side;
    Again he clasped the small fair hand that hour had made his own,
    The vision faded--and he stood all desolate and lone!

    His youthful brow is silvered o'er with four-score winters' snows;
    The faltering step, the furrowed cheek, tell of life's certain close:
    The plighted bride, the faithful wife, beloved so long, so true,
    Now sleeps beneath the burial-sod where spring the wild-flowers blue.

    There is no music in his home, no light around his hearth!
    The childish forms that frolicked there, have passed with all
        their mirth;
    Years have rolled by--the changing years--and now he stands _alone_,
    Musing upon 'the past! the past!'--hopes faded, loved ones gone!

    Yet, aged pilgrim! dry the tear--suppress the rising sigh;
    Look upward, onward, to the scenes of immortality!
    Fleet be the moments, if they bear in their resistless flight
    The spirit on to that pure world of blessedness and light.

    There are thy loved ones, gathered safe, in beauty side by side,
    And there the partner of thy life, thy manhood's gentle bride;
    Fair as she stood in that sweet hour, this day recalled to mind,
    A little season gone before, a better rest to find:
    And thou, when death shall close thine eye, in heaven that rest
        wilt share,
    And find the tie once broken here, indissoluble _there_.

  _New-York, August, 1843._
  M. N. M.




THE INNOCENCE OF A GALLEY-SLAVE.

CONCLUDED FROM OUR LAST.


FOR more than six weeks doctor Mallet had two patients instead of
one under his charge, in the house of Monsieur Gorsay. For some
days the situation of Lucia seemed more precarious than that of the
old man, to whom ungratified vengeance imparted an energy which
triumphed over the weakness of age, as well as the severity of his
wounds. While the outraged husband thus clung desperately to life,
which he would not leave unavenged, the young wife, stricken by
gloomy despair, seemed hastening to meet an untimely and longed-for
dissolution.

On seeing her becoming day by day more feeble and more excited, the
prey of a slow fever which after exhausting the body threatened to
seize upon the brain, and extinguish reason, the physician regretted
more than once the rude test to which he had resorted, with the
view of rendering his remedies more efficacious by disclosing the
source of the malady. By degrees, however, his persevering efforts
triumphed over a disease whose hold the youth of Lucia rendered less
tenacious. The fever abated before it had carried its ravages into
the sanctuary of the mind; as a conflagration, after destroying many
meaner buildings, has its progress stayed at the threshold of a
stately temple. The young wife gradually recovered her strength, and
preserved her mental powers. Sad triumph of art! With loss of reason
she would perhaps have lost the sense of her misfortune.

Monsieur and Madame Gorsay had not seen each other since the day of
the attempted assassination. Separated from each other, but united
by one common thought, equally bitter to both, during the long hours
of their sad vigils they had emptied to the dregs the contents of
the empoisoned chalice of an ill-assorted union. Monsieur Gorsay was
first in a condition to infringe the strict rules established by the
physician. One evening, taking advantage of the momentary absence of
his attendant, he left his apartment, and with difficulty ascended
to that of Lucia. With a gesture of command he dismissed the nurse,
who, terrified by his unexpected appearance, stood for some moments
motionless at the door. Lucia was sitting, or rather reclining,
upon a sofa near the fire-place. At sight of her husband she made
no movement, spoke not a word, but remained motionless, with eyes
riveted upon him with an expression of horror. Husband and wife
gazed on each other for some time in silence, marking with gloomy
avidity the ravages which disease and suffering had made upon both
since their separation. The old man found the young wife whom he
had left full of bloom and freshness, now wan and emaciated. Lucia
perceived many new furrows on the brow of her husband; but soon her
whole attention was absorbed by the peculiar expression of his eyes,
which glowed upon her with implacable passion.

'It seems then that I must pay you a visit, since you do not choose
to descend,' said Monsieur Gorsay, seating himself at the other side
of the fire-place.

'They might have told you that I was ill myself,' replied Lucia, in
a feeble voice.

'And had you not been ill you would not have left me? Oh! I doubt it
not!' said the old man, with a bitter smile. 'But yes; I see that
you have been ill. You are so changed, that when I first entered
I hardly knew you. To judge from your appearance, you must have
suffered much.'

'Much!' said the young female, repressing a sigh.

'To suffer! and at your age! this seems very unjust, does it not?'
continued Monsieur Gorsay with ironical compassion; 'for _me_ now,
who have lived so long, and am only fit for the grave, suffering
is very suitable. But for you, a child, a flower, to suffer! Yes
indeed, I can imagine how so strange a destiny surprises you, and
makes you murmur. It was _my_ part to suffer all the pains, yours to
enjoy all the pleasures. What are a few drops of useless blood in
comparison with those bitter pearls, the traces of which I see in
your eyes? I have been a great egotist, no doubt; I ought to have
shed your tears as well as my own, so that the lustre of your beauty
might not have been dimmed; and I would have had but a sorrow the
more!'

The old man dropped his head upon his breast, and remained silent
for some time.

'You do not answer me,' continued he, steadily regarding his wife.

'You have asked me nothing,' answered Lucia, with a mournful air.

'You are right; my head is so weak that I cannot remember what I
have been saying the minute previous; or rather, I think I said what
was not in my thoughts. What was it I wished to ask you? Ah! here it
is!' continued he, after having appeared to tax his memory; 'do you
think yourself strong enough to bear a short journey?'

'What journey?' said the wife, with secret disquietude.

'The journey to Bordeaux. You know it is but a short distance.'

'And what have we to do at Bordeaux?' replied she, in an altered
tone.

'We must be there at the opening of the assizes,' answered Monsieur
Gorsay, with affected sang froid. 'I received a summons a few days
since, inclosing one for you. They are going to try this man, and it
is necessary that we should give our testimony.'

Lucia arose, and fell at the knees of her husband, grasping
convulsively both his hands.

'I am guilty!' exclaimed she, in an accent to which despair gave
inexpressible poignancy; 'I have broken my vows; I have forgotten
my duties; I have deceived and betrayed you; I am a miserable
wretch, unworthy of forgiveness! I expect neither favor, nor pity,
nor mercy. Trample me under your feet; I will not utter a complaint!
Kill me; I will make no resistance! I ask nothing for myself--I
desire nothing.'

'For _whom_ then do you ask any thing? and _what_ do you desire?'
replied the old man, sternly.

'What do I desire!' exclaimed she, with redoubled energy; 'I desire,
I implore, that you will not cause another, much less guilty than
myself, to bear the punishment of my crime. I desire you to retract
a declaration more cruel than a murder--for the dagger only deprives
of life, the scaffold bears away honor likewise. If you wish for
blood, why not accuse _me_? There are women who kill their husbands;
why might I not be one of these? Denounce me; I will avow every
thing. You will be free from a crime which ought to fill you with
horror; and an innocent man will not be made to suffer death.'

'All this is very heroic,' said Monsieur Gorsay, with imperturbable
raillery; 'but I have too good an opinion of our friend to believe
that _he_ would be willing to save his life at the expense of
yours. It is his duty, as a devoted lover, to suffer himself to be
condemned to death without saying a word; and I am sure that he will
do so.'

'He _will_ do so, most assuredly,' repeated Lucia, gazing fiercely
at her husband; 'but will you, so near your own death, commit
murder? Do you believe in GOD?'

'Was it Monsieur d'Aubian who taught you to believe in him?' said
the old man.

'You are right--you are right! Choose the most cruel words; pierce
my heart and avenge yourself; but let it be upon me alone.'

'And where would be the justice of that? By what rule should the
most guilty go unpunished? No! for you, tears!--for him, death!'

'Death!'

'Perhaps only the galleys; we must not always look on the darkest
side of the picture.'

'But he is innocent.'

'Innocent!' repeated Monsieur Gorsay, rising, and dragging his wife
from the suppliant attitude she had assumed. 'In your estimation
it is only the murderer, who plunges a dagger in your bosom, who
is criminal. But do you think that the soul has no blood as well
as the body? It is the price of this blood of my soul that he must
pay, for he has shed it even to the last drop! Ah, Lucia! you do
not comprehend that I love you!--that upon this wide earth you are
my last, my only treasure! And you wish that I should pardon _him_!
Never! never!'

He repulsed with an inexorable gesture the young female, who
remained standing a few paces from him in an attitude of the deepest
sadness and dejection. At this moment Doctor Mallet entered the room.

'It is a good sign when the patient begins to disobey the orders
of his physician,' said he, with affected pleasantry; 'however,
Monsieur Gorsay, let me tell you that there is some imprudence in
leaving your chamber.'

'I must accustom myself to it, however,' replied the old man. 'In
about a fortnight I shall be obliged to take a journey, for reasons
which admit of no excuse.'

'Ah! yes,' said the doctor, glancing furtively at Lucia, 'the trial
at Bordeaux. We shall take the journey together; for I have also
received a citation, although there is little that I can tell. Will
Madame Gorsay accompany us?'

'In her present situation,' replied Monsieur Gorsay, composedly,
I fear it would be imprudent, and perhaps dangerous. You, who are
her physician, will doubtless not refuse a certificate which I can
produce before the president of the assizes.'

'We will see about it,' said Monsieur Mallet, with an evasive
smile. 'Thank God! Madame Gorsay is now completely convalescent,
and a little excursion, far from being attended with danger, would
probably be of service to her. But we will decide this matter when
the time arrives. In the meanwhile, my good patient, will you please
descend to your own apartment? Here is my arm. Madame has been up
too long to-day; she is fatigued, and must be left to repose herself
a little.'

Offering no remark, Monsieur Gorsay accepted the proffered arm
of the physician, and took leave of his wife with hypocritical
tenderness. The two men left the room, to which, in about half an
hour, Monsieur Mallet returned alone.

'Doctor, I will go to Bordeaux,' said Lucia, abruptly, who seemed to
have expected his return.

'I have my doubts of it, but should like to be certain,' replied the
physician, with a mournful smile.

'You will not give the certificate which is asked of you?' continued
she, with an air at once of command and entreaty.

'I cannot give it conscientiously. You are in fact sufficiently
strong to bear the fatigue of so short a journey; but it is not the
journey that I dread; it is the sojourn there.'

Lucia briskly approached the doctor, and laid her hand upon his
mouth. 'In the name of Heaven, not a word more!' said she; 'whatever
you may have seen, heard, or suspected, (for during my fever I
doubtless have spoken,) whatever you may now know, say nothing to
me. Pity an unfortunate woman; serve me, but spare my feelings! May
I rely upon you?'

'As on a father,' replied Monsieur Mallet, with tenderness; and he
pressed to his lips the hand she had laid upon them.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE attempt made upon the person of Monsieur Gorsay produced
through all the department of the Gironde a sensation exceeding any
thing that had been known for many years previously. The age and
wealth of the victim; the respect in which he was generally held
in the country; the strange contrast between the two individuals
apprehended on suspicion; the one a man of the world, connected with
the best families of Guienne, and already somewhat noted for the
follies of a dissipated youth; the other a convict just released
from the galleys, as was stated on the first examination; and
lastly, the illness of Madame Gorsay, which was generally attributed
to conjugal attachment, the more meritorious, considering the age of
its object; all these circumstances, over which there still hovered
a mysterious uncertainty, had excited public curiosity to the
highest pitch. Every one was impatient to solve the bloody enigma.
The two accused individuals especially became the daily subjects
of a multitude of conjectures, of explanations, of discussions,
of wagers even, which were sustained with equal obstinacy by each
party. Some refused to give credence to the guilt of Arthur. Of
this party were in the first place all the women; who could believe
the possibility that a man worthy of their regard might commit a
poetical crime, but not that he could be guilty of a petty offence.

'Shocking!' exclaimed the fashionable fair ones of Bordeaux:
'Monsieur d'Aubian, with whom we used to dance last winter, he
assassinate an old man! A young man of such polished manners! so
agreeable, so witty, and with such a true Spanish air! He attempt to
kill an old man to steal his purse! Preposterous!'

Had Arthur been accused of stabbing Monsieur Gorsay with some
romantic intent, to run away with his wife for instance, the thing,
however dreadful, might have had an air of probability. Sentimental
spirits would not have refused pity for a crime thus ennobled by
passion; but to stick a knife in a man for the purpose of afterward
emptying his pockets--this was the act of a galley-slave, and not
that of a gentleman. Thus reasoned female good sense; which, as is
generally the case, reasoned with tolerable correctness.

On the other side, Bonnemain did not lack officious defenders. And
first, he had on his side the lower orders, naturally hostile to the
aristocracy, and who, between two suspected individuals, naturally
lean toward the one in the lowest station. Then came the friends of
humanity, philanthropists by profession, emancipators of negroes,
and all those individuals who busy themselves with the future
prospects of nations, and the progress of society; a race abounding
in compassionate souls, in whose estimation a man of the meanest
nature, provided he is guiltless of actual crime, and especially if
he has just been released from the galleys, becomes a prodigiously
estimable character. These persons did not content themselves
with treating as a frivolous, and even a barbarous prejudice, the
opinion which sought to vindicate d'Aubian, by recalling the former
suspicious circumstances of the life of his fellow-accused: they
awaited more impatiently than the others the result of the trial,
fully expecting to find in the acquittal of Bonnemain a new text
for their sermons against the prejudices which dare to hold in
legitimate suspicion those unfortunates whose moral education the
galleys have just completed.

Between these two opinions a third sentiment prevailed: it was
that of those impartial men, who, to reconcile all differences,
maintained that both the accused were equally guilty, and
anticipated the verdict of the jury, by proclaiming their
confederation to be beyond a doubt. This third party, which it was
whispered had good reasons for its existence, succeeded in making
the difficulty more complicated instead of clearing it up.

While the crime and the approaching trial were thus the general
topic of conversation, on both sides of the Garonne, for twenty
leagues around, the investigation was pursued with the activity
which the importance of the case and the near approach of the
assizes demanded. The details of the inquiry seemed to add weight
to the opinion of those who were for acquitting the galley-slave at
the expense of the lover. To the reiterated questions put to them,
the prisoners both persisted in the system of absolute denial behind
which they had, in the first instance, entrenched themselves; but in
proportion as the new facts brought to light during the procedure
appeared favorable to Bonnemain, so much the more overwhelming did
they seem for Arthur. Except this latter, who was unwilling to make
any disclosures, no one at the time of the attempt had seen the
galley-slave. Arrested at break of day on the road to Bordeaux, it
was no difficult matter for him to explain the cause of his early
peregrination. His story was, that suspecting his companions had
discovered his real condition, he was fearful of being denounced
by them to the officers of justice, and of being pursued for
having broken his sentence of banishment. That he might not be
arrested, he had resolved to quit the country, and had set out in
the middle of the night that his departure might not be noticed.
The pieces of gold found upon him were the fruits of economy, and
the amount was not sufficient to render this assertion improbable.
Beside, no traces of blood had been discovered upon his dress,
either in consequence of his having changed his clothes between
the commission of the crime and his arrest, or of his having, in
the very perpetration of the deed, preserved sufficient coolness
to avoid all tell-tale stains. In fact his hands, which were
carefully examined, seemed clean, without the appearance of having
been recently washed; for the adroit villain, to avoid giving a
pretext for suspicions which might have been excited by a neatness
seldom practised by country laborers, a race of men in general very
guiltless of ablutions, had with ingenious refinement worn gloves
when he committed the deed. As for the knife which was used, no one
had ever seen it in the possession of the culprit; and were it not
for the circumstance of his former condemnation, he would probably
have at once been set at liberty for want of proofs.

But while the innocence of Bonnemain, at each new step in the
investigation, appeared more evident, proofs more and more weighty
accumulated around Arthur; proofs sufficient to have established
his guilt, even without the damning declaration of Monsieur Gorsay.
The knife, it is true, could not be proved as belonging to him;
but other evidence was brought forward, not less conclusive. The
rope-ladder was identified by a rope-maker, who declared that he had
sold it to Monsieur d'Aubian some months previously. It was evident
from this fact that the entry of Arthur into the park was not
accidental but premeditated; the instruments used for scaling walls
being found in his possession. It was farther proved that during the
summer Monsieur Gorsay had received at Bordeaux a payment of twenty
thousand francs, which he had immediately converted into gold, and
that d'Aubian, who was the fellow traveller of the old man on the
occasion, had knowledge of these two facts. On an investigation
of the previous life of the accused, it appeared that for several
years past, he had lost at play large sums of money, and had
contracted debts, for the discharge of which his patrimony seemed
insufficient; and when the domiciliary visit was made to his house,
very little money was found there. From all these circumstances,
skilfully grouped, and made to throw light upon each other by their
juxtaposition, the gentlemen of the law, practised in the subtle
deductions of judicial logic, found little difficulty in arriving
at a decisive conclusion. In their eyes, Arthur d'Aubian, ruined by
play, and unable to borrow more money, had determined to commit a
robbery, which chance had nearly converted into a murder. Indeed,
it was only those who were most lenient in their judgment, who
admitted this last supposition. The Dracos of the bar considered the
premeditation of the murder, as well as of the lesser crime, fully
established.

Such was the situation of affairs, and the state of public opinion,
when the court at length opened at the principal city of the
department. The prisoners had been removed a few days previously
from the house of detention at Reole to the central prison of
Bordeaux. The witnesses, among whom were Monsieur Gorsay and his
wife, arrived at that city shortly afterward. At the approach of
the last scene of a drama, with which all minds had been occupied
for more than two months, public curiosity was raised to a pitch of
extreme excitement. The disclosures of the inquest had thinned the
ranks of the defenders of Arthur: the women alone generally remained
true to him; and the stronger the presumptive proofs appeared
against him, the more ardent they became in his defence.

'What signify all these quibbles of the law?' said the most zealous
of his fair partizans; 'he has been known to lose money at cards;
this only proves that he is not lucky at play. He has debts; how
could it be otherwise, when a young man goes into society without
a fortune? And above all, it seems he sometimes made use of a
rope-ladder. This is the grand crime! Poor young man!'

The rope-ladder, indeed, had contributed to strengthen in the hearts
of many of the defenders of Arthur the interest which he had at
first excited. Even in the bosom of the court itself a party had
declared in his favor.

'If you convict him I will never forgive you!' said the wife of the
judge-advocate to her husband, who was charged with the support of
the prosecution.

'I shall certainly convict him,' replied the magistrate, 'for I
am as well convinced of his guilt as if I had seen him commit the
crime.'

'And I would not believe it,' said Arthur's fair champion, 'even if
I had seen it.'

'It is a fortunate thing for society that women cannot serve on
juries,' replied the advocate-general, shrugging his shoulders;
'it would be out of the question for them to convict a criminal,
provided he was five-and-twenty, well made, with bright eyes and
curling hair.'

In accordance with that law of gradation which seems so natural that
it is observed even in affairs of the greatest moment, the case of
Gorsay had been reserved for the last of the session. The petty
larcenies, misdemeanors, forgeries, murders without premeditation,
and other ordinary crimes, punishable at most with the galleys, were
first hurried over, exciting but little interest except in members
of the bar, and the habitual attendants upon the assizes: but when
the day came for the trial of the prisoners, whose names were in all
mouths, the court room was not large enough to contain the crowds
which early in the morning besieged its doors. Almost the whole
space allotted to the public on ordinary occasions was now reserved
for the more favored amateurs of justice. Many young men, who had
been on terms of intimacy with Arthur, exhibited great curiosity to
see how he would look when placed upon the culprit's stand. These
excellent friends, introduced within the privileged inclosure, some
by favor, others under the robes of members of the bar, settled
themselves clamorously on the seats of the lawyers, behind the
tribune, wherever in short they could find a seat or foot-hold. By
a gallant attention on the part of the president of the assizes,
the interior of the judgment-hall had been exclusively reserved for
ladies of condition, who were there crowded together, bustling and
buzzing like a swarm of bees in their hive. On the previous evening,
the greater part of these butterflies of fashion had cast with
dramatic effect their bouquets at the feet of Mademoiselle Taglioni,
who was then performing at Bordeaux; and now, with the person half
hid by a large veil, (at the court of assizes the veil is etiquette,
as the bouquet is at the theatre,) with pockets well supplied with
scent-bottles, and handkerchief in hand ready for the expected tear,
they were awaiting, but not in silence, the dénouement of a drama
more piquant than that of the theatre, and emotions more touching
than the enchantments of the Sylphide.

The simultaneous entrance of the court and prisoners produced in
this brilliant audience one of those sudden movements which resemble
the phenomena of electricity. The whole assemblage rose with one
movement; and soon it appeared that the women had the advantage over
the men; for all of them, even the most timid, in the excitement
of the moment, had sprung upon their chairs. The plebeians in the
hindmost ranks, protested with indignant outcries against this
screen of hats and shawls, which at such an interesting moment hid
from their gaze the spectacle so long and anxiously waited for. Some
time elapsed before the constables could restore order and obtain
silence: at length the female part of the audience consented to be
seated, and the plumed bevy settled down, as the waves of the ocean
subside when the tempest which excited them has passed away.

All eyes, however, remained intently fixed upon the two accused,
who, in obedience to that principle of equality with which the law
regards all its victims, were placed side by side, the gentleman and
the galley-slave on the ignominious bench alloted to the prisoners.
Two months of captivity, the termination of which might be the
scaffold, had impressed upon the features of Arthur deep and visible
traces. The elegant young man, who during the preceding winter
had obtained in the most brilliant saloons of Bordeaux a success
which was due at least as much to his good looks as to his wit, now
presented himself to the companions of his happy days, pale, wan,
emaciated, and bearing on his countenance the impress of a destiny,
the horror of which, while he bowed before its sway, he seemed fully
to comprehend. But if his brow appeared colorless, and his eye
deprived of the fire which his fair admirers had not unfrequently
remarked in them, his countenance had at least lost none of its
firmness and noble aspect. Without deigning to cast a look upon the
man with whom he found himself coupled, nor upon the audience which,
with greedy eyes and ears, he heard murmuring around him, like a
pack of hounds yelping over their prey, he exchanged a few words
with his counsel, whose friendship and devotion had been of long
standing, and seated himself with a composed air, and remained in a
fixed attitude, apparently indifferent to what was going on around
him.

''Pon honor! the handsome d'Aubian is just now badly named,' said a
youngster with no small pretensions to good looks himself, to one of
his companions.

'The poor fellow cannot feel very much at his ease,' replied the
other, who had been on terms of the greatest intimacy with d'Aubian;
'guilty or not, I should be sorry to have him convicted. But what an
idea, to assassinate this poor old man! There were a thousand other
means to get money.'

'What means?'

'Why, not one of these women here would have refused to lend him
some.'

'Bah! women give, but do not lend,' said a third speaker, in a
sententious tone.

'And is not that the same thing?'

'Either plan is bad enough,' said the dandy, with a prudish air;
'for my part, I would as soon take to stealing.'

'Is Madame Chamesson here?' asked Arthur's friend, who by thus
naming a rich and superannuated old woman, from whom the young
coxcomb was more than suspected of receiving supplies, effectually
closed his mouth.

In order to make a favorable impression upon the jury, Bonnemain,
who knew well the influence that the appearance of a prisoner often
makes upon them, had employed all the little arts of the toilet
which his person and situation would allow. Clad in a new suit,
(thanks to the ten louis' of Monsieur Gorsay,) newly shaven, with
modest and humble aspect, hands placed upon his knees, he held
himself in an attitude so benign and reverential, that at the sight
of this second Ambrose de Lamela, more than one spectator could not
help whispering to his neighbor, 'Is it possible that this can be
a liberated galley-slave? From his appearance, one would give him
absolution without confession.'

The empanneling of the jury, the reading of the decree of reference
and accusation, the interrogation of the accused, and the deposition
of a number of witnesses, took up the whole of the first sitting;
nor did the interest of the audience flag for a moment; but the
mysterious and tragic character of the drama did not develope itself
in all its deep import, until the second day, when from the witness
chamber came forth an old man whose white hair, imposing features,
and countenance calm in its severity, excited among all ranks of
spectators a murmur of pity and respect. It was Monsieur Gorsay.

       *       *       *       *       *

DURING two months, the sanguinary resentment in which the last
energies of a man on the verge of the tomb had been concentrated
had suffered no abatement; but it had by degrees undergone those
modifications which time and reflection always bring with them.
To the furious rage, the insatiable thirst for revenge, the blind
frenzy, which in the first instance had caused him to regard the
slightest delay in his vengeance as a mark of base imbecility, had
succeeded a determination cold, patient, implacable, and the more
terrible, inasmuch as instead of finding vent, it was restrained
within the recesses of his own bosom. By long boiling in the heart,
that crucible of flesh hotter than a brazen furnace, the disordered
passions came at length to cast off the _scoriæ_ which changed the
nature of their temper. The last stage in this refining process is
hypocrisy, that wondrous power, which gains in depth what it hides
upon the surface, and whose burst, when it breaks forth, is like the
explosion of a volcano.

Monsieur Gorsay had thus comprehended the necessity of curbing his
vengeance in order to render it more effective. When he entered the
court-room, his countenance and deportment would have done credit
to a consummate actor. Far from betraying the deadly hate which was
gnawing at his heart, his eyes, as they rested for a moment upon
Arthur, only expressed a mournful compassion, by which the audience
were sensibly affected. At this look, in which he had expected to
have found rage but not deceitful pity, d'Aubian felt that his
doom was fixed; and replied by a bitter smile to the magnanimous
forgiveness with which the old man seemed to overwhelm him. The eyes
of Monsieur Gorsay then glanced over the convict without resting on
him; but in spite of the rapidity of the movement, the expression
was so significant, that to hide the impression produced, Bonnemain
turned away his head, and for some time kept his eyes fixed steadily
on the ground.

'What a fine old cock it is!' said he to himself; 'I was sure that
he would not send me to the gallows. A great comfort it will be to
him to have this tall fellow's neck stretched! Egad! had I been
married to such a pretty wife, I would have acted just so myself. A
bad fellow, that d'Aubian. When I think of the damage I was going to
do this respectable old gentleman, I feel quite ashamed of myself.
But what a devil of an idea to say to me, 'Bonnemain, rid me of this
man and you shall have ten thousand francs,' and then to show me,
at the same time, twenty thousand in that cursed secretary, which
wouldn't be opened! Who could hesitate between ten thousand and
twenty thousand?'

The most profound silence prevailed while Monsieur Gorsay replied
to the questions of form which the presiding judge of the assizes
put to him. This formality being finished, the old man sat down in
front of the bench and turned toward the jury; then in a deep voice,
the faltering tones of which seemed the effect of the regret which a
generous mind feels at being compelled to turn accuser, he repeated
word for word the declaration which he had made on the day of the
attempted assassination. This recital stated in substance, that
being asleep at the moment when he received the first blow, Monsieur
Gorsay, before losing entirely his consciousness, had recognized the
features of the murderer, who had lit a taper to enable him to force
the secretary.

'Look at the accused,' said the president to the witness; 'are you
quite sure that he whom you recognized was Arthur d'Aubian?'

The old man turned toward the prisoner, and cast upon the lover of
Lucia a look in which triumph was admirably veiled by the semblance
of pity. 'It was he indeed!' said he, with a sigh; 'in vain do I
wish not to recognize him.'

A general and prolonged sensation throughout the crowded audience
followed this declaration. Arthur alone remained apparently unmoved,
and contented himself with a scornful smile.

'Monsieur President,' said one of the jurors, when silence was
reestablished, 'I should like the witness to tell us whether prior
to this attempt there was any subject of enmity between the accused
and himself.'

This question excited a lively interest, particularly among the
females, who though constrained to believe in the guilt of Arthur,
could not admit that a robbery was the end in view. The prisoner
himself slightly colored, and seemed to experience a secret
disquietude. Monsieur Gorsay, however, was prepared for every
interrogatory, and this one gave him neither surprise nor trouble.

'Monsieur d'Aubian and myself,' replied he, 'have been for a
long time neighbors; and our intercourse has always been that of
confidence, of cordiality, and I may say of friendship; and on
my part at least, spite of the blood that has been spilt, these
sentiments are not yet annihilated. I feel this in the deep grief
I have experienced these two months past; and I assure you that
this unhappy event has caused me more anguish of mind than bodily
suffering.'

The altered voice and sad expression of countenance of the old man
excited in the audience a new murmur of pity.

'So then,' continued the president, 'you know of no cause to which
the attempt, of which you have been the victim, may be attributed?'

'The cause,' replied Monsieur Gorsay, in a melancholy tone, 'is
in my opinion that deplorable passion for play, which has already
ruined so many young men worthy of a better fate. Monsieur d'Aubian
played deeply and unsuccessfully: my advice could not withdraw
him from this abyss, which every day became deeper. In a moment
of despair he must have thought of the money which he had seen me
receive some time before. Why did not the unfortunate man ask me for
it, instead of seeking to gain possession of it in such a deplorable
manner? If he had only placed confidence in me; if he had considered
that the purse of an old friend was at his service; this fatal event
could never have happened, and we should not have been both here; I
in despair at being his accuser, and he----'

The old man here paused, as if intense grief had cut short his
words; and his outstretched arm, which he had raised to designate
Arthur by a gesture of affection, dropped heavily to his side.

This touching discourse, this mock appearance of paternal grief,
produced among the spectators, and even on the benches of the judges
and jury, one of those thrilling emotions which honest hearts always
feel at the sight of an heroic action. Monsieur Gorsay, pitying
instead of heaping curses upon his assassin, appeared to the pious
part of the audience a most virtuous observer of the precepts
of the gospel; the men of letters compared him to Don Gusman
bestowing forgiveness upon Zamora; the women even, seduced by a
greatness of soul, set off by the long white hair, studied accent,
eyes expressive in spite of age; in a word, by all the dramatic
accessories which are so effective, suddenly transferred to the
magnanimous old man the interest which most of them until then had
preserved for the young accused.

'How handsome he must have been forty years ago!' cried one of them,
in an artless transport.

'He is so still,' replied her neighbor, outdoing her in this
admiration; 'moral beauty has no age. What generosity! What
nobleness! I can now comprehend how Madame Gorsay should have fallen
dangerously ill at the prospect of losing him.'

'It is King Lear!' observed a romantic Philaminta, devoted to the
study of Shakspeare.

This epithet passed from mouth to mouth, and was sententiously
pronounced by those who scarcely understood its meaning.

'Have you any remarks to make upon the deposition of the witness?'
asked the president, addressing d'Aubian.

The accused arose, and seemed for a moment to be struggling with a
violent temptation, which he succeeded in conquering.

'For the sake of my memory,' said he, 'for it is not my life which I
would now defend, I must repeat that I am innocent of the crime of
which I am accused. As for the declaration of Monsieur Gorsay, it
is not for me to dispute it. Let your justice pronounce sentence; I
shall know how to submit to it.'

This protestation seemed as cold as it was constrained, and was
unfavorably received.

'Innocence does not express itself thus,' said to themselves the
greater part of the spectators; 'one does not submit passively to an
unjust sentence, but rather expresses indignation at it.'

A submission so extraordinary strengthened instead of destroying the
proofs. 'This man is guilty,' was the general impression; 'it is
written in his countenance.'

Monsieur Gorsay, having finished his testimony, took his seat among
the witnesses, overwhelmed on his passage with unequivocal proofs of
the deep interest he had excited.

For a few moments the audience were occupied in private converse;
but suddenly this confused murmur was changed to a death-like
silence, on the president's saying, in a voice which was heard
throughout all the assemblage, 'Introduce Madame Gorsay.'

An officer left the hall, and almost immediately returned, preceding
the young wife, who at once became the object of general curiosity.
With head erect, countenance glowing with a hectic flush, and the
inspired air of a Sybil, she advanced with firm step to the edge
of the stand on which the witnesses are placed when they give
testimony. There she stopped, apparently deaf to the words which
the president addressed to her. Her gaze, in which gleamed forth
wildness, ran over the crowded audience beneath her, with unnatural
boldness. Quickly catching the prisoners' seat, she fixed her eyes
upon d'Aubian with an unutterable look of eagerness, of love, and of
despair; then, with a gesture frenzied but not involuntary, Lucia
stretched out her arms toward her lover, and with a thrilling voice,
'Arthur!' exclaimed she, 'I am here!'

This cry of succor, fierce as the roar of a wounded lioness, sent
an electric shudder through the thousand veins of that crowded
multitude, greedy of emotions, and now supplied with them beyond
their most sanguine hopes. In the midst of the general confusion two
men arose, the husband and the lover; the one trembling with rage,
the other with pity.

'This is a trait of madness!' exclaimed Monsieur Gorsay; 'the
evidence of a mad woman cannot be received.'

'Mad!' said Lucia, casting a look of defiance toward her husband;
then turning to the president of the court, 'Question me, Sir; you
will see whether I am mad or not; whether I cannot comprehend your
questions, and answer them in a rational manner. Mad! I may soon
become so; but at this moment I have full possession of my reason.
I know perfectly well what I am doing, and what I am saying.'

'Compose yourself, Madame, I pray you; I am about to put some
questions to you,' said the president, who thought he saw in
the eyes of Lucia the threatening gleams of insanity, which
contradiction might exasperate.

'Monsieur President, I object to this examination;' repeated
Monsieur Gorsay, in a half-choked voice; 'I shall prove that for
some time past the reason of my unhappy wife has been disturbed.
Monsieur Mallet, her physician, and one of the witnesses here
present, if he is willing to tell the truth, can testify to this
fact.'

'Monsieur Mallet,' said the president, 'will you approach and judge
for yourself whether Madame is in a fit condition to undergo an
examination?'

Lucia smiled on the physician as he ascended the steps of the stand,
and stretched out her hand to him when he drew near, with a gesture
full of confidence. The possessor of a secret discovered by his
penetration, the physician would have suffered Arthur to have been
condemned, rather than have ruined a woman for whom he had long felt
an attachment almost paternal; but he did not carry his chivalric
refinement so far as to be willing to save her in spite of herself,
by keeping his mouth closed. 'A man's life is at stake,' thought he;
'if she loves him well enough to sacrifice her happiness for him,
what right have I to prevent her?'

He took the arm of the young woman, to feel her pulse; a superfluous
formality, for it could teach him nothing which he knew not already.
'Madame has a high fever,' said he, in the midst of silence so
profound that it seemed as if every breath was suspended; 'for two
months this has been her habitual state. One of the features of
this malady, which the efforts of art have not yet been able to
subdue, is an irregular exacerbation, which the slightest emotion
increases; but between this irritation of the nervous system and a
disturbance of the mental faculties, there is, thank God! a wide
difference. Madame Gorsay, as she herself has just affirmed, is in
full possession of her reason; and I am convinced that she will
understand perfectly well the questions that may be put to her, and
also the import of her own answers.'

The audience received this declaration of the physician with a
murmur of satisfaction; and in its frivolous cruelty prepared to
devour the scandal, of which for a few moments it feared it would
have been deprived. Transported with rage, Monsieur Gorsay would
have clambered up the steps of the stand to drag down his wife,
but the gen d'armes prevented his passing, and he fell back upon
a bench, where he remained with face hid in his hands, apparently
insensible. Arthur, upon whom Lucia kept her eyes ardently fixed,
besought her by a look not to betray any farther a love, the avowal
of which must cover her with disgrace. In reply to this mute prayer,
he only obtained an impassioned gesture, which expressed her
unshaken resolution to save him or perish with him.

Meanwhile, a lively discussion was going on among the judges, whose
sagacity had not foreseen this romantic incident. For the sake of
public morals, the president wished to suppress the interrogation
of Madame Gorsay, who could throw no light on the main fact of the
assassination. He succeeded in bringing his colleagues over to this
opinion; but the public prosecutor, whose consent was necessary,
was not a man to give up, from motives of humanity, the prospect
of a development of additional crime, which being ingrafted by him
upon an accusation already capital, promised to make it one of the
most interesting criminal trials which the court of Bordeaux had
ever known. On being consulted by the president of the court, the
red-gowned accuser therefore briefly declared that the testimony of
the witness appeared to him to be indispensable.

During this discussion, Madame Gorsay remained upright and
motionless, earnestly gazing upon Arthur. The proudness of her
bearing at this moment might have seemed the effect of a masculine,
or rather a super-human energy, were it not for a tremor, almost
imperceptible, which forced her to lean her hand for support upon
the chair which had been placed for her.

To the questions of form which were addressed her by the president,
she replied in a clear and it might be said a composed manner; but
when he requested her to tell the jury what she knew relating to the
attempt made upon the person of her husband, she paused for a few
moments; not that vulgar timidity caused the heroic determination of
her heart to falter, but as if to collect at this decisive moment
her physical energies, which seemed almost ready to abandon her.

'I have entered this place respected; I shall leave it disgraced!'
said she at length, in an altered but thrilling voice. 'It matters
little. Between _my_ honor and _his_ life I cannot hesitate. For
ten months Arthur d'Aubian has been my lover; Arthur d'Aubian is
my lover!' repeated she, with incredible energy, repressing with a
commanding gesture the murmuring which these words produced; 'for
ten months I have received his visits in my apartment, frequently at
night. At the moment the crime was committed, I was awaiting him; if
he was found in the park, it was because there was no other way to
come to me. Arthur, I repeat, is my lover; who will dare say that he
is an assassin?'

'I will!' exclaimed Monsieur Gorsay, rising in a transport of
ungovernable fury.

'Then do you lie!' cried Lucia, whose look seemed to wither the
old man. 'This man lies!' continued she, pointing with her finger
to her husband. 'I have betrayed him; he knows it; and to revenge
himself, he accuses Arthur of a crime. I have myself proposed to
him to accuse me of the deed. I should not have denied it; but he
would not. The blood of a woman would not suffice him; he must have
that of Arthur; of Arthur whom I love, I do not say more than my
life--that would be but little--but more than my honor!'

Lucia here interrupted herself, and cast her sparkling eyes toward
that part of the hall occupied by the female part of the audience,
among whom a lively agitation was manifested, and whose whisperings
clearly condemned an avowal so contrary to all received usages.

'You speak of immodesty,' said she to them, with a bitter smile.
'Spite of your want of pity, I would not wish any one of you to
become so wretched as to learn that there is yet one thing more
powerful than shame; and that is, despair. Think you, if the
scaffold were not in view, I should thus hold up my disgrace for
your contempt? They are about to kill him, I tell you; and must I
let him die, that your blushes for me may be spared?'

As she pronounced these last words, Lucia reeled and closed her
eyes, while a death-like paleness took the place of the burning hue
with which fever had colored her cheeks. The supernatural energy
which had thus far sustained her, suddenly gave way, as the flame
of a torch is extinguished by a blast of wind. Doctor Mallet, who
stood at the foot of the stand, watching with vigilant anxiety the
slightest movement of the young woman, threw himself forward and
received her in his arms the moment she fell. Others ran to his
assistance, and Lucia was speedily carried into the witnesses' hall.
She remained there for some time, apparently lifeless; but soon
there followed this swoon a succession of convulsions more dreadful
than any she had ever before experienced.

'The court is adjourned for half an hour,' said the president,
despairing of obtaining immediate silence or attention.

These words completely let loose the storm; and the audience-chamber
suddenly assumed the appearance of a tempestuous sea. A hundred
conversations, equally lively, took place at once. The conduct of
Madame Gorsay became the inexhaustible text for comments the most
violent and contradictory. Some thought her crazy, others frightful,
while a third class pronounced her sublime. In general, the old men
were of the first opinion, the women of the second, and the young
men of the third.

'How happy must this d'Aubian be!' exclaimed one of these latter, in
an extatic tone.

'Happy! to be on the culprit's seat!' replied with a sneer a man of
more mature years.

'And what matters that? Is there a humiliation which may not be
effaced, or a grief which cannot be consoled, by the happiness of
inspiring such a passion? Spite of its ignominy, even the culprit's
seat becomes a throne for him who reigns over such a noble heart.
Oh! to be loved thus--and die!'

The kindling eyes of the young enthusiast addressed this sentimental
exclamation to a pretty blonde, whose coquetry had kept him for six
months on the culprit's seat, while waiting for the throne of love.

'To be loved is no doubt vastly agreeable,' replied the
matter-of-fact man; 'but to die! and upon the scaffold! Rather you
than I, my fine fellow!'

On resuming the sittings, the president gave notice that the very
critical situation of Madame Gorsay having rendered it necessary
that she should be removed home, both the accusation and the defence
might have the benefit of her deposition, and that it would remain
for the jury to decide upon its value. 'The list of witnesses is
exhausted,' added he; 'Monsieur the Public Prosecutor has the floor.'

In legislative and judicial discussions, those incidents which
sometimes turn up in a manner completely unexpected, are the rocks
on which ordinary speakers, whose presence of mind is disturbed
as soon as they are taken unawares, usually make shipwreck; but
which master minds, practised in debate, have the power of adroitly
turning to their own advantage. On the present occasion, the public
prosecutor, a native of Bordeaux, although in other respects a
superficial lawyer, possessed in common with many of his countrymen
the faculty of improvisation, which seems, by one act of the mind,
to combine thought and its expression. The reverse of the Abbe de
Verlot, he would have recommenced the siege, and taken Malta, watch
in hand, in ten different ways. Without the least appearance of
embarrassment at an event which seemed to have changed the whole
aspect of the proceedings, this able tactician gradually developed
the plan of the accusation, as he had prepared it in the silence of
his chamber. With the unwearied patience of the ant, adding little
by little, grain of sand upon grain of sand, he heaped upon d'Aubian
a mountain of proofs, under which the strength of Hercules would
have given way; and then, when the mass seemed already sufficiently
weighty, overwhelming, and unmovable, he suddenly added, as a
terrible and unexpected crowning of the work, the deposition of
Madame Gorsay.

'In an excess of despair,' exclaimed he, in a pathetic tone, 'a
respectable old man, a husband cruelly outraged, tells you, 'This
woman is deranged.' A noble and a mournful untruth, which I cannot
blame, but which is still a falsehood! No, gentlemen; this woman
is not deranged; her physician tells you she is not. She is not
mad, unless you term madness the unbridled phrenzy of an adulterous
passion, which, with bold front and audacious eye, unveils itself
in the very sanctuary of justice, there to enact the deplorable
scene with which all hearts seem yet filled. By trampling under
foot all reserve, all modesty, Madame Gorsay thought that she could
save him whom she dares to call her lover. Unhappy woman! Who did
not see, that far from being a justification, her disclosure only
adds another proof to the accusation; a proof perhaps the most
overwhelming of all! What, in fact, does this unheard of declaration
prove? It proves this; that before carrying murder into the house
of Monsieur Gorsay, the accused had commenced by the dishonor of
his wife; thus making one crime the prelude of another. And so
it always happens: '_Nemo repente turpissimus_.' And what! is it
pretended that this disgraceful stain which has just been brought to
the glare of day, can cover over the shed blood? No, gentlemen; the
blood still remains beneath the mire, and nothing shall prevent our
tracking it from the victim directly to the assassin!'

The public prosecutor continued a long time in this strain,
adding weight to his words by impassioned gestures, and fervent
declamation. Proceeding from inductions to oratorical displays,
from arguments to appeals to the passions, he succeeded in making
the guilt of the accused a sort of luminous and baleful star, the
existence of which none but a blind man or an idiot could deny.
At the close of the peroration, Arthur stood convicted of having
attempted to assassinate Monsieur Gorsay, not only for the purpose
of getting possession of his money, but also that he might espouse
the unfaithful wife, who by her widowhood would become a desirable
object for a ruined gambler.

This eloquent piece of pleading produced upon the assemblage an
overwhelming and decided impression, which the advocate of d'Aubian
in vain endeavored to counteract. In vain he urged in favor of
his client the confession of Lucia, which explained so naturally
the circumstances metamorphosed by his opponent into additional
proofs of guilt. In vain he essayed to prove that the deposition
of Monsieur Gorsay was but a calumny inspired by vengeance. In his
rejoinder, more withering even than his first speech, the prosecutor
prostrated irrevocably in the dust every position and argument of
the defence.

The jury, who counted among their number but two unmarried men,
finding in the accused the seducer of a married woman, were not on
that account disposed to be more lenient. In their eyes the offence
against conjugal rights, instead of a palliation seemed an increase
of crime. After a long and serious deliberation, they declared, by a
majority of nine out of twelve, that Arthur d'Aubian was guilty of a
premeditated attempt to murder, followed by an attempt at robbery.
Bonnemain, against whom the prosecutor had abandoned proceedings,
was unanimously acquitted.

In spite of the lateness of the hour, almost all the audience
had remained in their places, that they might be present at the
dénouement of the drama. The two prisoners, who had been removed
from the hall while the foreman of the jury read their verdict,
were presently brought back, and listened with a sort of impassive
silence to the reading of the verdict, the requisition of the public
prosecutor for the pronouncing of sentence, and finally the double
decree pronounced by the judge. The only sign of joy manifested by
the galley-slave on being acquitted, was a guttural sound produced
by the eagerness with which he once more resumed the free use of his
respiration.

'I should like devilish well to have a cup of water, or even of
wine,' said he to the gen d'arme at his right.

Arthur received the verdict of the jury with firmness; but when the
president pronounced the sentence of the court, which condemned him
to twenty years hard labor in the galleys, his head sunk upon his
breast, and he remained for some time apparently stupefied.

'Alphonse,' said he at length, in a low voice to his defender, who
was sitting in front of him, 'you have done what you could for me,
and I thank you; but the moment has come: remember your promise.'

'It is not a decree of death!' replied the young advocate, turning
deadly pale.

'It is the decree of a thousand deaths!' replied the condemned, with
energy; 'would you have me go to the galleys? Remember your oath;
you could not save my life--at least preserve my honor.'

He bent forward toward his friend; their hands met and interchanged
a long and mysterious embrace. On resuming his position, Arthur
saw, rising from the midst of the dense crowd, a lean and sinister
figure, whose devouring eyes were fastened upon him with an
expression of ferocious triumph. He replied to the fury of this look
with the calm and disdainful smile of a man who rises superior to
his fate.

'Monsieur Gorsay,' said he, in a firm tone, 'look at me well, that
you may not forget me at your hour of death!'

With these words, Arthur applied to his breast the point of the
dagger which his friend had just given him, and with a firm hand
buried it in his heart. He remained for a moment upright, his
eyes wide open and fixed upon the old man, whom their terrible
fascination filled with involuntary dread, and then suddenly fell
like a tree severed by the axe.

A cry of horror arose on all sides. 'Dead!' exclaimed Doctor Mallet,
who was among the first to hasten to him. 'She mad, and he dead! My
God! may Thy judgment be more merciful for them than that of men!'

'Dead! very dead indeed!' said Bonnemain, in his turn leaning over
the body of the young man stretched at his feet. 'To stick himself
in that fashion because he was sentenced for twenty years! What a
fool!'

       *       *       *       *       *

THREE months after the trial, on a gloomy winter's evening, Doctor
Mallet entered the house of Monsieur Gorsay, to which, since their
return from Bordeaux, he had been a daily visitant. Without asking
for the old man, he ascended immediately to the apartment of Lucia,
whose alarming situation required the assiduous attentions which the
physician bestowed upon her with untiring devotion. He gently opened
the door of her chamber, and approached the bed of the young woman,
who seemed lying in a lethargic slumber. Without awaking her, he
placed his finger on her throbbing pulse, and then with anxious hand
gently pressed her forehead, which he found to be burning like the
alabaster of an ever-lighted lamp.

'The fever increases, and the brain is becoming more and more
affected,' said he to himself, shaking his head with a care-worn
aspect. He then stood for some time, contemplating with mournful
compassion the sufferer whose life he still hoped to save, but of
whose reason he despaired.

'I am sure that something has happened here since yesterday,' said
he at length, in a low voice, to a female somewhat advanced in
years, and of a masculine exterior, who stood before the fire-place
awaiting the doctor's orders.

'I have taken care of many sick persons,' replied the nurse, with
uplifted hands and eyes, 'but have never seen such things as are
going on here. In the first place, last night Madame gets up fast
asleep, as she often does, but this time she tried to throw herself
out of the window. She had got herself half over the balcony before
I could get her in again.'

'You have been asleep then?' said Monsieur Mallet, in a tone of
anger.

'Why I might have had a little sand in my eyes; one is not made of
iron. But it was lucky I had a strong arm; if it hadn't been for
that, this poor lady would not now have had any need of a doctor.
But this is nothing to what took place here this morning.'

'Has Monsieur Gorsay been up here?' asked the doctor quickly.

'You have hit it. And Madame, as soon as she saw him, fell into
convulsions which lasted more than two hours. It took four of us to
hold her; and then we could hardly do it. When her strength was all
gone she fell asleep from weakness; but I have an idea that this
sleep bodes nothing good.'

The recital of the nurse was here interrupted by a slight noise
which the door made as it was partly opened. The physician briskly
turned his head, and saw Monsieur Gorsay, who had stopped at the
threshold. Hastening toward him, he thrust him back into the other
apartment.

'You must not enter here!' said he to him in a tone of command.
'This morning you took advantage of my absence; but now you must
obey me. What is it that you wish? Would you complete your work by
killing her?'

'She is asleep,' replied the old man, in a submissive voice. I
beseech you, doctor, let me enter. What do you fear? she sleeps; she
will not see me.'

'Do you not know the strange lucidness of her slumbers? Even though
sleeping, she will be aware of your presence.'

'Let me but look at her for a single moment,' said Monsieur Gorsay.
'This morning I had scarcely a glimpse of her; and you have kept me
so long from her! Am I condemned never to see her again?'

'Your presence would kill her,' replied the doctor; 'as long as I
am her physician, I shall oppose an interview for which there is
no good object, and which cannot be other than injurious. In her
present deplorable condition, the least increase of excitement would
prove fatal. Spare her then, for Heaven's sake! Does not the blood
of Arthur d'Aubian suffice you? Must you also have that of this
unhappy woman?'

The old man bowed his head with a mournful air, and remained some
moments before replying. Then turning toward Monsieur Mallet a look
of the deepest despair:

'Doctor,' said he, in a tremulous voice, 'could my death save her,
most willingly would I die this moment. But what can I, a miserable
old man, do upon the earth? An object of horror and affright,
without family, without friends, without children! She was all these
to me; she was my joy, my happiness, my treasure. Ah! why was she
not my daughter? Perhaps she then would have loved me!'

'But of what use are regrets, when the evil is past remedy?'

'Past remedy! I know of one, but it requires a courage which I no
longer possess; for old age has weakened my spirit, and leaves it
only the strength to suffer. Do you believe me, doctor? I have
never been a coward; but now--I dare not kill myself. Think not
that it is religion that restrains me; it is fear. I have the
desire for suicide, but not the courage. _He_ had it. He! young and
beloved--_he_ knew how to die. And I, so near the tomb that I have
but to raise the stone to descend into it, I hesitate, and tremble!
Weakness and cowardice--these are man's last companions!'

Monsieur Gorsay seemed to forget the presence of the physician, and
re-descended to his apartment with slow and painful steps. He there
passed the remainder of the evening motionless in his arm-chair,
with head sunk upon his breast, eyes fixed, and draining drop by
drop the inexhaustible sadness in which for many months his heart
had been steeped. At eleven o'clock a domestic entering the room,
he arose and permitted himself to be undressed with the passiveness
of a machine: then, after swallowing a narcotic draught, which his
sleeplessness had rendered necessary, he got into bed.

The most profound silence reigned throughout the house; the
domestics had long since retired to their apartments. The lethargic
sleep of Lucia still continued; and despite the occurrence of the
preceding night, the nurse, according to her custom, was slumbering
in the arm-chair. At length Monsieur Gorsay fell asleep. Suddenly
the old man was aroused by the sound of the window-blind turning
upon itself. Opening his eyes, he perceived with amazement, mingled
with terror, a large band of silver which the moon projected through
the shutters of the Venetian blinds upon the carpet. In a moment
this was obscured by the figure of a man, who leaped into the room,
and proceeded directly toward the bed with the rapid and stealthy
tread of a tiger. Monsieur Gorsay endeavored to rise, but before
he could utter a cry, or seize the bell-rope, he was assailed and
thrown down by the robber, who with one hand grasped him by the
throat, and with the other brandished a long knife, which he had
carried open between his teeth.

'Mercy!--Bonnemain!' murmured the old, man, who by the light of the
moon had just recognized the murderer.

'Not a word! or I strike!' replied the galley-slave, in a low voice.
'Listen to me: you must get up, open the secretary, and give me the
money. If you hold your tongue I will do you no harm; but if you
attempt to speak a single word, I will let out your blood like that
of a fowl! Do you understand me?'

Frozen with terror, Monsieur Gorsay made a sign of assent. He then
arose, with the assistance of Bonnemain, who by way of precaution
kept fast hold of his arm, took a key from the pocket of his
riding-coat, opened the secretary and drew from the secret cavity
the casket filled with gold, upon which, for the last five months,
the galley-slave, by night and by day, had not ceased thinking.

'Is this the whole?' said he, as his eyes gloated over the prey.

'It is all that I have here,' replied Monsieur Gorsay, in a half
articulate voice; 'but I have some silver in the library; must I go
and bring it?'

'Thank you; you might alarm the servants, which would not be so
pleasant. Too much appetite is hurtful. I must be content with the
rouleaus.'

'Take them then; I give them to you; and I swear never to betray
you.'

'I believe you; before an hour the beaks will be on my haunches, as
the other time; not such a fool!'

With these words, the galley-slave, by a movement as rapid as
unforeseen, passed behind Monsieur Gorsay, grasped him tightly,
closed his mouth with his left hand, while with the other he stabbed
him in the side with anatomical precision. Stricken to the heart,
the old man bit convulsively the fingers of the assassin, uttered
a stifled groan, and expired. Bonnemain laid him upon the floor in
silence, and assured himself that no pulse beat any longer. Certain
then of never being denounced by his victim, he arose and plunged
his hand into the casket which stood upon the secretary. At this
instant, the noise of a door opening sent an icy chill through his
veins. He turned in confusion, and by the light of the moon, which
alone illuminated the scene of murder, he discerned at the entrance
of the chamber a figure in white, which to a superstitious mind
might have seemed the avenging spirit of the murdered man. This
apparition moved directly up to the assassin, who in his fright
dropped both the dagger and the rouleaus of gold. Crawling on his
hands and knees, he succeeded in regaining the window, through which
he sprung with a desperate effort. He traversed the garden, scaled
the wall of the inclosure, and fled across the country, bearing on
his hands, as on the former occasion, blood but no gold.

Two hours after this, the attendant of Madame Gorsay awoke, and
perceived that the bed of her charge was empty. Alarmed, she ran
to the window but found it closed; she then saw that the door was
partly open. Lighting a taper, she followed from chamber to chamber
the tracks of the somnambulist, who in her progress had not closed
any of the doors behind her. She at length came to the threshold of
the chamber of Monsieur Gorsay, where she suddenly stopped, uttering
a shriek of horror, which aroused and terrified the whole household.

In the full moonlight which illuminated part of the room, Lucia,
with dishevelled hair and closed eyes, was sitting by the dead body
of her husband. The childish amusement in which she seemed to be
seriously engaged told that the wanderings of madness were joined
to those of somnambulism. She held the casket on her knees, turned
out the rouleaus, one after the other, and scattered the pieces of
gold upon the carpet, arranging them in symmetrical figures. The
blood which flowed profusely from the old man's wound was mingled
with this sport, and the fingers of the smiling idiot were dabbled
in the purple gore.

Lucia, dragged from the fatal chamber, awoke only to fall into
terrible convulsions, during which the last rays of reason seemed
to be extinguished. The scene which had been enacted five months
before on this spot was now repeated in a more fatal manner. The
judicial inquest established in a positive manner that Madame
Gorsay, in a fit of somnambulism, had assassinated her husband,
against whom, since the death of Arthur d'Aubian, she had cherished
an implacable hatred. It also appeared clearly demonstrated that
she had only perpetrated during sleep a murder which had been long
contemplated during her waking hours. Among the parties who held
the inquest there were more than one who thought that even sleep
was not a sufficient excuse for the deed, and that the matter ought
to be brought before a jury; but the insanity of the accused having
been legally proven, took away all pretext for a criminal procedure.
Instead, therefore, of being incarcerated in a prison, the wretched
widow was placed in a lunatic asylum; a step which to many seemed
too lenient.

       *       *       *       *       *

ONE day in the year 1838, among the persons whom curiosity had
brought to the Institution at Charenton, might be seen a citizen
of some fifty years of age, fat, well-conditioned, ruddy, and
with clothes very well brushed. He gave his arm to a buxom female
bedecked in full suit of holiday attire, and a finger to a child of
about four years of age, whom maternal vanity had equipped in the
martial uniform of an artillery officer. This group, a type of city
felicity, the last reflex of patriarchal manners, was one which
might have brought a smile of malice to the lip of an artist, or
have furnished food for more serious reflection to a philosopher.

The head of this interesting family, who was about taking his
son in his arms to give him a better view of the inmates of the
establishment, suddenly stopped at sight of a female patient, still
young and beautiful, who, without paying attention to any one, was
walking up and down the small inclosure, repeating in a plaintive
tone the name of 'Arthur.'

'What on earth ails you, Monsieur Bonnemain?' said the tawdry lady
to her spouse. 'Why, you are as white as a sheet, and are all in a
tremble!'

'It is from hunger then,' replied the old galley slave, as he
recovered his sang froid, who, thanks to the dowry of his wife, had
become the head of a flourishing commercial establishment; 'let us
go to dinner. Achille is sleepy. These fools amuse me no longer. We
have had enough of this stuff!'




THE COUNT OF PARIS.

THIS BEAUTIFUL REPLY WAS MADE DURING THE RECENT DEBATES CONCERNING
THE REGENCY OF FRANCE.


I.

    WITHIN the palace walls they wept,
      The mother and her son;
    She, the young widow of a prince,
      And he, her first-born one:
    The stamp of royalty was set
      Upon his broad, fair brow;
    He was the kingdom's pride and boast--
      Heir of its glory now.

II.

    Wo for the doom of Orleans' line!
      Wo for the loved one dead:
    Wo for the king whose hope lies low--
      The land whose peace has fled!
    Already are dark threats breathed forth,
      And others claim the place
    That should be his, that princely boy's,
      The noblest of his race!

III.

    They come to ask his mother's rights,
      His mother's and his own;
    The widow and the fatherless,
      They stand in grief alone!
    It was in honied tones they spoke,
      Yet 'twas a bitter word:
    'The Regent of our France must know
      To wear and wield a sword!'

IV.

    The spirit of a line of kings,
      The Bourbon's race of pride,
    Flashed from the boy's bright eye, and thus
      His fearless voice replied:
    'I have a sword; my mother's hand
      Can wave a banner bright,
    And France will fight for both of us,
      And for our holy right!'

V.

    God shield thee on thy doubtful path,
      Heir of a fickle throne!
    A bloody race, an early doom
      Its noblest ones have known;
    The hand that should have guarded thee,
      Hath mouldered to decay;
    God save thee in thy peril's hour,
      And guide thine onward way!

  _New-York, July, 1843._
  A. R.




SKETCHES OF EAST-FLORIDA.

NUMBER ONE.

'OFFICER OF THE NIGHT.'


I HAVE few antipathies, but there are some that I do battle with at
sight or smell. Whether persons or things, I _appreciate_ them at
once; as some persons of keen perceptions will tell immediately when
a cat is near them. You will hear people talk of what they call a
'presentiment of evil.' This is all humbug. If they would look about
them, they would find, each one, his respective cat; or, to speak
magnetically, his 'opposite pole.'

Corporal F---- was my antipathy, my 'opposite pole,' my cat; and
for that matter, a _Tom_-cat, and a very saucy one. We had never
spoken, and knew nothing of each other; our eyes had never met, but
we had stolen glances, each way, giving strong confirmation of what
the mere presence of each sufficiently indicated; to wit, a decided
hostility. I had felt uncomfortable some mornings before, and knew
perfectly well that I had a cat to find; but I did _not_ know, till
afterward, that Corporal F---- had reached town that very day. It
was a common fancy with me, subsequently, that I knew what part of
the town he was in at any given time; and this may have been fancy
only, or it may have been a fact magnetical.

Our first meeting was in ----, East Florida. I had been in that
warm-bath of a climate just long enough to get well soaked through,
and was beginning to act out that dreamy languor of body and soul
that fits one so exactly for the cigar-life--the lounging, easy
nonchalance of that sunny land; in short, without that excess of
high spirits which is an irritation, I was superlatively happy--till
I met Corporal F----. He was to me immediately a large spot on the
sun; and although I couldn't always _see_ the spot, I knew it was
there, and keeping off so much sunshine. His arrival, as I viewed
it, was impertinent, and not at all in aid of the object I had in
coming a thousand miles to that delicious climate. With a generous
ingenuity, I thought at first of proposing to him to draw cuts, to
decide which of us should leave town. He had not the look of being
cared for, and I could not imagine his absence would be missed at
all, except by me; while as to myself, to say nothing of the party
I was with, I rather thought that the girls who had taken so much
pains to teach me their waltzes and Spanish dances----But that's no
matter. The risk to me would be an unrighteous one, and the project
was abandoned.

We were a party of half a dozen, who had left New-York as the
severe winter of '35 and '36 was setting in, and reached ---- by
way of Picolata, making the last safe passage over that road. The
Indian war had just broken out, and the whole country was in arms.
Shortly after our arrival, the north part of the town was picketed
off at about half a mile from the outskirts, with a guard, here and
there; and a cordon of military posts stretched along the western
side, around to the sea. A large gun was then placed in the middle
of H----'s bridge, pointing into the pine barrens; the usual night
patrol of southern cities was doubled, and the place declared under
'martial law.' Every able-bodied man was expected to do service; and
if that expectation failed to be met by any one, that 'individual'
was assisted by a corporal and guard. I was an 'able-bodied man;'
sound in every particular. The hot sun had already browned my face
so that there were no delicate indices of ill health; and if I had
been a shade darker, I might have been knocked off at the market
for at least seven hundred dollars. I was full of '_tusymusy_,' and
ready for any thing, but wished to be myself the master of the 'how
and when' of any enterprise that I was to engage in.

I was anticipated. Happening to criticise the appearance of the
different companies about town, in too public a manner, the
sovereigns were offended, and it was resolved that I should be
victimized. I was ordered to appear at the Fort, armed and equipped
for immediate service, as one of a small guard of Minorcans and
Spaniards, posted a mile and a half out of town; of which guard,
Bravo was corporal, and ---- captain; precisely as I should like
to have put them in a shipping-bill for the East-Indies. Well, I
declined the invitation. I was from the 'mountain-land,' and for
some days, my blood had been going up with the thermometer, at
the strange goings-on about town. There appeared to me a quite
unnecessary preparation of powder for mere home consumption. Beside,
what did _I_ know about war, that they should select me, when the
streets were full of Uncle Sam's men, and hardly room enough for
them at the outskirts to spread their tents? I did _not_ call at the
Fort. I didn't even send my card, or my regret. Of course I was not
surprised the next morning, at parade hours, to see Corporal Bravo
and guard coming down the street with apparently hostile intentions.
It might be accident that they approached so near the house;
but people in that climate never move without an object; and I
accordingly passed through a gate in the rear, merely to air myself
in a different direction. Bravo enquired for me very particularly
at the house, breathed a few moments his men, who were in a high
excitement; made a rapid revolution, and marched back to the Fort,
a mile distant, to report that I was not to be found. At afternoon
parade, the same military movement was repeated, and I had again the
same charming view of the H---- turkey-buzzards and small snipes on
the beach, with fiddlers innumerable, and in the back-ground the
pine woods of the wilderness.

After a few days, I was trapped by mere civility; a very _forcible_
thing, by the way, as all women know very well, but there are men
who never can learn it. A polite note came from the captain, asking
me to call at his quarters; and I was very soon ushered into a room
that was lined with muskets and swords and men to use them. The
captain received me pleasantly, complimenting me upon my 'esprit du
corps' in being master of my own company, etc; but I saw the game at
once; and bursting into a laugh at the savage looks of the guard,
surrendered at once, merely asking the courtesies of a prisoner
of war. I was immediately gratified--with three muskets, one for
myself, the others to protect me on either wing, carried by friends
who insisted on an arm each side; and so with a strong support in
the rear by the rest of the guard, and Bravo in front, cutting the
way with a drawn sword, we marched to the Fort. When we entered the
walls, and came in sight of the commandant, I expected to be 'cut
in sunder at the waist,' but was merely noticed with a careless
severity, and told to look on, and be ready at the next parade.
We then assumed the form of a rhomboid, in which I was at equal
distances from the respective angles, and marched a mile and a half
to the camp. After showing me 'the fortifications,' which consisted
of a pine-board enclosure of about ten feet by twelve, I was taken
into the hot sun to be drilled privately. This was a very short
operation. I handled the musket with a kind of desperation, which
very soon convinced the corporal that I had the 'real stuff' in me;
especially in my last manoeuvre, which consisted in cocking the
piece suddenly, and lowering the muzzle to his breast; upon which,
with military abruptness, he declared the drill over, and myself
perfectly _au fait_ at all military operations.

I was now instructed in other arts and mysteries of war; and was
told, among other things, that an officer from town generally
visited each camp during the night, and that then every man was
to be belted and ready for inspection. When the sentry received,
in answer to his challenge, '_Officer of the Night_,' his duty
was to cry out, for timely notice at the camp: '_Corporal of the
Guard--Grand Rounds--Officer of the Night_.' This, in Bravo's
opinion, was the grandest of all military affairs that were executed
without waste of powder. The officer of the night had not been
round, for a week, but he was always to be expected. Bravo and
myself were very soon on excellent terms. I rather liked him, in
spite of the burlesque of his name; for as such men generally do,
he had contrived to assume something so like his translation, that
it passed very well for the real article. If he did not fulfill
his full meaning, his efforts were at least well-meant, and he had
a saucy good humor that was quite companionable. That night we
had two sentries out, stationed some hundred yards each side of
the camp; and somewhere about the 'small hours' I took my first
'stand at arms' on the northern pass, and challenging noises all
night, without reply, acquitted myself very much to the corporal's
satisfaction. A few days passed very pleasantly away, and I was
enjoying my military life so much that I had entirely forgotten
Corporal F----. It should be premised, that I knew nothing of his
being a corporal, and cared as little. I had no objection to his
being a perfect Nabob, if he would only keep out of my way. I now
learned that he had command of the next post north of us, and only
about half a mile distant.

One charming morning, after an 'off night,' when I was allowed
to stay in town, I sallied into the street, _en route_ to the
parade-ground, humming to myself in mocking-bird style, my belt
snug and faultlessly white, and musket leaning with an off-duty
obliquity that was not pardonable merely, but quite the thing, when
I suddenly _felt_ that Corporal F---- was in the street! He was
not to be seen, but I knew perfectly well that he was standing in
a shop-door, only a short distance ahead. The streets in that old
town are very narrow, so that on meeting a cart, the safest way is
to post yourself flatwise against the wall, and admire the prospect
in the opposite direction till the cart is cleverly by. Of course
the foot-paths, such as they are, are close to the wall, and give
no room for steps to houses, where, as in most cases, they are
built directly on the street. I was on the same side with Corporal
F----. If in passing, the corporal should attempt the street, there
would be a collision. These mathematical problems suggested that
I could cross over, as it was only a long straddle, but I had no
desire to do so. Almost unconsciously, however, my musket went to
the perpendicular, my eyes fixed where I thought the north star
ought to be, (magnetic coincidence!) and my marching-foot was
coming down with extra emphasis, at a point just abreast of him,
when I thought--it might be imagination--but I thought his foot
moved out slightly from the threshold. Quick as the thought, which
was lightning in my then state of the brain, I wheeled, brought my
musket with a ring upon the lime-stone, and looked Corporal F----
dead in the face! He returned the look with less interest than I
expected, but he didn't waver a hair, and our eyes fixed upon each
other as steadily as though we had been playing at small-swords.
There was barely breathing room between us; and at one time his
lips moved as about to speak, but he said nothing. Of course, _I_
had nothing to say, but if _he_ had any explanation to make, I was
then ready to hear it; and if not----I was going on in this manner
to myself, when it occurred to me that he was unarmed, and I had a
musket, with a tremendous bore, (especially a great bore of a hot
day) and a ball then in it, that I would not have dared to have
sent within three points of the most distant vessel in the offing.
Without taking my eye from him, I resumed my up-street facing; the
accenting foot forward, musket to shoulder, and immediately marched
up street.

If Bravo had seen this evolution, and my march up the street, how
smoothly he would have rolled out his Spanish braggadocia upon my
military training! As I passed under balconies loaded down with gay
girls, fingers may have been kissed at me; quite likely; I never
knew, for I went 'right on' with set teeth to the Fort.

And now, would Corporal F---- challenge? I certainly had given him a
chance, and I was in a perfect fever to bring matters to a crisis. I
am not a fighting man. I never eat veal, or any thing that's killed
young; preferring to wait till I am convinced that from wet days and
cold winters the beast must have become indifferent to a knock on
the head: but who could refuse his antipathy? Who could live in the
same air with his tom-cat?

The day passed--and I was not challenged.

That night, as we lay about the camp-fire, I was possessed of a
sudden inspiration, and immediately gave a loud shout. Bravo looked
up enquiringly, and Boag, who was privy to my antipathy, sprang to
his feet, ready for any emergency. Boag knew that something was
in the wind. I paid no attention to either of them, but called up
Tom, my errand-boy, and gave him the requisites, with a pass, for
a gallon of Santa Cruz, sugar, etc; and all the eggs he could find
in town, and then despatched a few men with a boat, for a load of
oysters.

Boag was the only other American in our camp. He happened
in Florida, in what manner I don't know, from Charleston,
South-Carolina, and fell an easy victim, having been captured before
I had that pleasure. He was the happiest man I ever knew; happy in
every thing he undertook, and careful not to undertake too much.
His sagacity upon that point alone would have made a character of
any ordinary man. The mere motion of the man seemed to be a high
enjoyment, and his bowling at nine-pins was the very perfection
of carelessness. He was never guilty of a 'spare,' and would have
shuddered at the nicety and precision of hitting any particular pin.
But Boag's highest happiness, literally and technically, was in
his composition of egg-nogg. Egg-nogg from Boag was irresistible;
a smooth, and chaste production: the white of a pullet's egg,
deliciously flavored, was all you could think of, until--some time
after taking it.

About nine o'clock, the roast and 'nogg were ready; and then, as we
grouped about the fire you should have looked in upon us, to have
seen happy faces. The Spaniards in a perfect sputter of talk and
gesticulation as though every oyster burnt to the stomach; Boag
presiding every where with his stick; and myself, the Mephistophiles
of the occasion, lying on a board, the windward side of the group,
taking just enough of the 'nogg to digest each particular oyster,
and no more. Toward midnight, they had worried themselves sleepy,
and crept off to their berths. Bravo bringing up the rear, and
laying himself out in a very grand manner, his legs and arms
indicating all points of the compass, to signify, I suppose, that
he ruled in all directions. After waiting a suitable time for the
sentries to become careless, I beckoned to Boag, whose intuition was
as perfect as a woman's, and he followed me stealthily into the long
salt grass bordering the beach. The sentries were ordered to fire
immediately upon any one who refused to answer their challenge; and
knowing that the sentry we had to pass was only half-drunk, I had a
painful apprehension that the egg-nogg was after all a questionable
fore-thought. We had gained but a short distance, when the quick
challenge sent us headlong in the grass. The sentry couldn't leave
his post, and probably concluded that some wild fowl had risen
between him and the sky, and settled down again. Emerging again,
at about the same distance on the other side of the sentry, we
were again challenged, and made our salaam, as before, in the same
unhesitating manner. Presently the challenge was repeated, and we
thought we heard the click of his musket. The night was painfully
still, and it might be the sharp cry of a disturbed snipe, or the
snapping of a brand at the camp-fire. We were breathless 'for a
space,' and the musketoes seemed to know perfectly well that we
durst not raise a finger to brush them off. Then creeping along till
we were sure of being within the shade of the forest, we came to the
perpendicular again, and walked on rapidly to the camp of Corporal
F----. I hinted to Boag to keep calm, and ready for any thing that
might turn up; at which he looked amazed, but said nothing; no doubt
wondering that I had not yet learned to appreciate him. At this
moment, we received an abrupt challenge from the advanced guard of
Corporal F----. I shouted back, with all the strength of egg-nogg,
the magic words, '_Officer of the Night!_' And oh! what a relief to
that sentry, as he made the pine woods ring with '_Corporal of the
Guard--Grand Rounds--Officer of the Night!_'

Turkey-buzzards flew about on the tree-tops, and the whole family of
wild fowl, coughed and wheezed out their disturbance upon the still
night. Then arose the hum of the camp. A dozen sleepy Spaniards
sprang from their berths, swearing vociferously; lights waved,
swords clattered to the hip, and down came Corporal F----, with his
men superbly belted, their heads leaning back to the north star,
and muskets flashing in the torch-light of three negroes coming on
before.

At a short distance from us, Corporal F---- gave a tremendous
'Halt!' upon which, I made two steps forward, and waving off the
little niggers to the right and left, stood in bold relief--the
Officer of the Night.

'Well, of course Corporal F---- drew his sword, and 'cut you in
sunder at the waist?'

Not at all; but if that column of men, together with Corporal F----,
had immediately fallen over backward, I could not have been better
satisfied of their astonishment. The short silence was so terrible
to Boag, that feeling he must say something, he suggested a want
of candles, in a feeble way; and then, with a hurried 'Right about
face--march!' the Corporal and guard vanished in the darkness.

Reader, I am sorry to hoax you, but there was no catastrophe. An
antipathy looked dead in the face is always _pointless_. I was not
challenged by Corporal F----; and as corporal, I never saw him
after that night. I never knew his name; and it is quite probable
that five years afterward I passed my wine to him in that same old
antiquated town. There was a face at our hotel that reminded me very
much of Corporal F----; but with five years, my antipathy had gone,
and my tom-cat was a very clever companion.




EPIGRAM OF PLATO TO A DECEASED FRIEND.


    AS once thou shon'st, a morning star,
      With life's young glory round thy head,
    So now thou deck'st the western sky,
      Soft gleaming from among the dead.

  W. H. H.




AUTUMN.


    ON woodland and on mountain side
      Rich, varied tints appear;
    By mossy stone and wandering wave
      Pale leaves are falling sere;
    The garden flowers all scattered lie,
      In sorrowful decay,
    And the greenness of the valley slope
      Is fading fast away!

    And are the verdure and the bloom
      In their fresh prime so dear,
    That thus the spirit mourneth o'er
      The ruin of the year?
    No! 'tis because true types are they
      Of lovelier, dearer things;
    Hopes, joys, and transports, unto which
      The soul so fondly clings.

    There is a moral in each leaf
      That droppeth from the tree;
    In each lone, barren bough that points
      To heaven so mournfully:
    Mute Nature, in her silent way,
      A mystic lesson tells,
    And they who watch the Sybil well
      May profit by her spells.

  _Richmond, Virginia._
  BON-ROSNI.




FIORELLO'S FIDDLE-STICK.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.


AMONG the men of rank in London, who were distinguished during
the last century for their love of music, the Baron Baygo held a
prominent place. This worthy man found music in every thing. Did
a door creak upon its hinges, did a chair make a shrill sound in
gliding over the floor, presto! in an instant our melomaniac seizes
his tablets and marks down the corresponding musical inflections.
There was not, in short, an itinerant merchant of the streets of
London whose favorite cry had not been reproduced in the collection
of Baron Baygo. To speak truth, however, it must be confessed that
the musical education of our Baron had not been of the most thorough
character, being rather superficial than solid. He was consequently
obliged to have recourse to an amanuensis to note down for him,
in a proper and artist-like manner, all the noises, good, bad, or
indifferent, which figured in his musical _agenda_.

To procure a person of sufficient tact and patience to understand
and humor all the Baron's whims, it may readily be imagined was no
easy task. Having changed a score of times his musical secretaries,
he succeeded however at length in attaching to him the celebrated
Fiorello, an Italian violinist of rare talent, and as simple and
candid in character as the majority of his countrymen are crafty and
astute.

Still the Baron, in spite of the three hours which he devoted
every day to the practice of the violin, could never attain the
faculty of playing with correctness; and his harmonicidal hand was
continually entangled in difficulties, and made sad havoc with the
doleful-sounding flats.

Fiorello was almost in despair. At length, the Baron, one day
throwing his violin on the floor, cried out in a rage: 'Yes! I have
already restrained myself too long; but patience! I am determined
that these cursed flats shall bother me no longer!'

'What is it you mean, my Lord?' said Fiorello, in astonishment.

'Why I mean to say,' replied the Baron, 'that this very night I will
make a motion in the House of Lords, to oblige musical composers
from henceforth to leave out all those infernal flats from their
music, under a heavy penalty.'

'Ah ha!' said Fiorello, bursting into laughter; 'the proposal will
be a pleasant one.'

'It will at least have a good moral effect, Sir,' replied the Baron,
with dignity. 'Have we not a statute against profane swearing?'

'Certainly, my lord.'

'Well then, were it not for these vile flats, I should not have
broken it, for my own part, more than a thousand times, since I
commenced the practice of the violin.'

It never appeared, however, that the Baron carried his threat into
execution.

One day, when the Baron, after three years of close application,
had come to handle the bow passably well, and could execute with
tolerable correctness a solo of Jarnovich, leaving out the flats,
he declared to Fiorello that he had made up his mind to give his
friends a taste of the first fruits of his newly-acquired talent;
and he accordingly directed him to make arrangements for a concert
for the ensuing Saturday.

By order of the Baron, notes of invitation were sent out to
princes of the royal family, to the grand dignitaries of the
united kingdoms, to the speakers of the two houses of parliament,
and to the lord-mayor of London. So well known in high life were
the foibles and eccentricities of the Baron, that each one took a
malicious pleasure in accepting the invitation.

The day appointed for the concert at length arrived. Fiorello was
very thoughtful; and at breakfast, spite of the repeated invitations
of the Baron's niece, a sprightly girl of sixteen, with whom he sat
at table, scarcely swallowed a mouthful.

'What ails you, my good master?' said Miss Betsey to him.

'Alas! Miss,' replied the poor musician, 'I fear that his lordship
will compromise this evening my twenty years of honorable
professorship.'

'What! is that all, Signor Fiorello? Is not your reputation already
sufficiently established? Take my advice; place yourself on the side
of the laughers; and believe me, they will be the most numerous
party this evening.'

Fiorello, in spite of the encouragement of Miss Betsey, repaired to
the rehearsal of the concert with much fear and anxiety. When the
time for its commencement arrived, the Baron, carrying his head very
erect, mounted the stage prepared for the solo players, and without
waiting to see if the others were ready, went to work in a most
pitiless manner upon the piece he had selected for his début.

It was a frightful charivari! But the musicians were paid to find
out great talent in their patron, and the applause he received,
although given with a degree of _empressement_ which might seem
a little ironical, made him the happiest of mortals. So far, all
went on well; but when, in the evening, the Baron saw among the
invited guests the brother of the king, an excellent violinist, and
his cousin, the Duchess of Cambridge, who had the reputation of
being one of the first musicians of the day, he was seized with an
insurmountable panic, and ran to find Fiorello. But the professor
had departed about noon, and his servant could not tell what had
become of him.

'Come on then!' said the Baron; 'the die is cast! I must play, cost
what it will! I will at least, however, make use of the fiddle-stick
of my master, who, without the least regard for my reputation, has
abandoned me at this critical moment, in such a shameful manner.'

The concert commenced with a magnificent chorus of Handel, which
brought forth immense applause. Then La Mengotti warbled in a divine
manner an air of Pæsiello, and was conducted back to her seat in
triumph. The order of the programme now designated the solo of the
Baron. Trembling from head to foot, he took his place, and bowed
profoundly to the august assemblage; while the orchestra attacked
the overture, which usually precedes those morceaus which are
designed to give eclat to a virtuoso. To the astonishment of all
present, the Baron executed the opening part of the concerto with
a vigor and precision that was marvellous. The audience, who had
come with the intent of laughing at their entertainer, were lost in
perfect amazement. But still greater was their astonishment, when
the Baron executed, with consummate taste and skill, a delicious
vitanello, which was set in the midst of the greatest difficulties
of his piece, like an odor-breathing violet in the midst of a
bunch of thorns. All arose with one accord; handkerchiefs waved in
the air; and the name of the Amphytrion of the entertainment was
mingled with the most hearty _vivats_. The poor Baron experienced a
sensation that he had never before known; his limbs trembled beneath
him, and his forehead was covered with huge drops of perspiration.

The next day, the valet-de-chambre of Baron Baygo, while arranging
the instruments which had been used at the concert, observed that
the hair of a valuable bow was covered with a thick coating of
candle-grease. Astonished at this phenomenon, he carried it to his
master, who, equally puzzled, sent for Fiorello, and holding up
the bow, said: 'Here, my dear master, is your fiddle-stick; it
was of great service to me last evening, I assure you; for without
it I should not to-day have carried my election as Speaker of the
House. Leave it with me as a token of remembrance, and accept this
as a mark of my esteem.' Thus saying, he slipped into the hand of
Fiorello a draft on his banker for a hundred pounds. 'But explain
to me,' added the Baron, 'how comes the hair of the bow in such a
condition?'

Fiorello hung down his head, without replying. 'Oh, uncle!' cried
Miss Betsey, 'I will tell you all about it. Last night, during the
concert, Signor Fiorello was hid behind the screen; and it was he
who made all the beautiful music, while you were scraping the fiddle
so hard, with a fiddle-stick that made no noise!'

For a few moments, the Baron stood confounded. 'Marvellous effect
of self-love!' at length he exclaimed, for with all his foibles he
was at bottom a man of sense; 'so excited was I last evening, that
I really thought it was myself who executed those beautiful pieces!
But come, I must not quarrel with you, my dear Fiorello; and I
beg leave to double the amount of this draft, for the sake of the
stratagem, which has saved my reputation as a virtuoso. But I see
plainly that I must stop here, and play no more upon the violin,
lest this affair should get wind.'

The Baron kept his word; he gave up for ever his favorite
instrument; but in order to make himself amends, he diligently
collected, from time to time, all the different inflections of voice
of the members of the upper house; and a curious medley it was!




SUNSET: THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

AIR: 'THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.'


    OH! how glorious the vision, when the Sun sinks to rest,
    Mid the bright fields Elysian, on Evening's soft breast;
    While brilliant and glowing with purple and gold,
    The clouds round him flowing, their splendors unfold!

    How calmly, serenely, his beams die away,
    As he lingers so sweetly on the confines of day!
    Then leaving behind him the shadows of night,
    He claims for his treasure a day ever bright.

    'Tis thus with the pilgrim, when life sinks apace;
    Bright angels attend him at the end of the race:
    And hov'ring around him in glorious array,
    They rejoice in his future--an infinite day!

    Oh! how joyful he lingers, while DEATH doth release,
    With his cold icy fingers his soul, filled with peace!
    Then leaving earth's regions of sorrow and pain,
    He joins the blest legions, with JESUS to reign.

  T. W. S.




SONG OF THE WESTERN STEAMBOAT-MEN.

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.[A]


I.

    YE mariners who sail the seas,
      I'm told you've made the boast,
    Of all who go upon the waves
      You hold yourselves the toast;
    But list to me, ye mariners,
      As bounding on ye go,
    A-cracking up your merry ship,
      And your wild yo! heave ho!

II.

    I'll not deny, ye mariners,
      It is a joyous thing
    To see ye dashing on your way,
      Like bird upon the wing;
    Ye wave a farewell hand to home,
      And then away ye sweep,
    To where the blue sky rests upon
      The bosom of the deep.

III.

    But mariners--but mariners,
      When loud the storm doth blow,
    Ye have a toilsome time, my boys,
      With your wild yo! heave ho!
    And when at last the calm comes on,
      And ye swing upon the sea,
    Sad, sad are then your thoughts of home,
      And sadder they will be.

IV.

    Oh! how ye at the sweepers tug,
      And how ye have to tow;
    And faint and weary comes the cry
      Then of your yo! heave ho!
    Ye say ye hate to hear our noise,
      Our puffing and our buzz;
    But don't forget, ye mariners,
      That 'pretty is that does!'

V.

    Blow high or low, ye mariners,
      'Tis all the same to us;
    The storm may blow its last breath out,
      What care we for the fuss?
    And I've not told of shipwrecks, boys,
      Upon the stormy main;
    The long-boat swamped, and the wild crew
      Who'll ne'er see land again.

VI.

    To be rowed up a great salt sea,
      Beats rowing up Salt River;
    And where we'd strike a snag and land,
      Why, you'd be gone forever!
    We go ahead so steadily,
      And never give a lurch,
    Ye'd take us for a hide-bound chap
      A-hurrying to church.

VII.

    But though we puff as stately, boys,
      As any Dutchman smokes,
    We eat the best, and drink the best,
      And crack the best of jokes.
    Why mariners, ye're months away,
      On hard junk-beef ye feed,
    While we have turkey, toast and tea,
      And every thing we need!

VIII.

    In every port ye boast there's one
      To spend the cash ye give her;
    Why, we have sweet-hearts, mariners,
      On both sides of the river!
    We ask not for the starry lights
      To cheer us on our way;
    We've eyes that flash from every wood
      The clearest kind of ray!

IX.

    There's SAL, she peeps from Cypress-Swamp,
      And Bet from Buckeye-Beach;
    And we've a passing word for both,
      And a sly kiss for each.
    I'm told you say, 'cause boilers burst,
      Uncertain is our breath;
    To die by bursted boilers, boys,
      Is just our nat'ral death!

X.

    And don't _ye_ die in calm and storm,
      And don't ye die in slaughter?
    And don't they wrap you in a sheet,
      And chuck you in the water?
    You're food for fishes, mariners!
      Ha! ha! your faces fall!
    Well, here's a health, my boys, to each,
      And a long life to all.

XI.

    Broad, broad lands are between us, boys,
      But our rivers seek the sea,
    And by them, in our merriment,
      We send good luck to ye:
    Good luck to ye, brave mariners!
      And mind, my boys, whenever
    Ye weary of your ocean life,
      Ye're welcome on the river!

      [A] THIS spirited Song is from 'The Adventures of a Poet, a Tale
      told in Rhyme,' by F. W. THOMAS, Esq., author of 'Clinton
      Bradshaw,' etc. We have been permitted to peruse the poem in
      manuscript; and are so impressed with the life and variety of
      incident which pervade it, and the ease and grace of its
      execution, that we cannot omit the expression of a hope that it
      may soon be given in a printed form to the public. The
      self-complacent tone of the stalwart boatmen of the West, will
      remind the reader of DIBDIN'S sailor who 'pitied the poor
      devils ashore' in a hurricane whose music was so welcome to
      him on the deep.

        ED. KNICKERBOCKER




THE 'EMPIRE STATE' OF NEW-YORK.

BY AN ENGLISHMAN.


THE above is but a significant title. New-York justly merits the
appellation of the 'Empire State.' Considered only as one of many
independent commonwealths linked together in a peaceful union, what
an idea must her grandeur convey of the American confederacy; of the
strength of the chain which binds together such unwieldy masses, and
renders the compact firm and enduring! It is a harmony which, if it
continues, will be more wonderful than any save that of the spheres.

We enter into few statistics; we merely state the impressions
of an inhabitant of the Old World at taking a general survey of
this portion of the New; a glance at those great features which
strike the mind of the most casual observer. New-York possesses in
herself whatever would be necessary to constitute a great Empire,
if distinct and separate; cities, towns, villages, rivers, lakes,
mountains, soil, productions, and the most celebrated wonders in the
world of nature and art. In extent equal to Great-Britain, she is
magnificent in population, dominion, in developed and undeveloped
resources. Within her limits Nature has exhausted every element
of the beautiful or the sublime. The ocean thunders on her East,
and the Great Cataract upon her West. Erie and Ontario are two
great seas upon her borders, where the mariner may lose sight of
land; whose billows are equal to those of the ocean, in storms
which wreck the shipping destined for her provincial ports. The
mighty river St. Lawrence, with its thousand islands, separates
her from the British possessions on the North. On the North-east
stretches Lake Champlain, one hundred and twenty miles, with all its
variety of scene, from the low and swampy shore, to the boundary
of steep mountains close to the water's edge, or the cliffs where
a hollow, murmuring noise is heard when the breeze blows, from the
waters splashing in the crannies of the rocks. There are islands
encompassed with rocks, shores ornamented with hanging woods, and
mountains rising behind each other, range after range, with a
magnificence which cannot be described; but richer than all is she,
when she receives the waters of Horicon, the loveliest of lakes! It
embosoms two hundred islands, and is shadowed on either side by high
mountains, while its waves are of such delicious purity as to reveal
the slightest object which sparkles upon its bottom at any depth.

New-York has within it the sublime mountain scenery of the
Kaätskills, where the eagle wheels over their hoary summits, and the
winds receive an edge which sometimes kills the flowers of May in
the valley. It has primeval forests where the axe has not sounded,
and a few red men yet linger amid their gloom; and it has plains
which stretch themselves for miles, like the prairies of the far
West. It has solitudes where the foot of man has scarcely trod; and
yet for three hundred miles, from the Hudson to the great lakes,
it has city after city, town after town, village after village, in
one unbroken chain, rising like magic on the borders of lakes or in
the heart of vallies, where a few years since reigned the silence
of nature; a proud attestation of the superiority of the Saxon
race. Situated in a most favored zone, with skies hanging over it
for the greatest portion of the year unclouded as those of Italy,
it enjoys the four seasons, with their accompanying blessings, in
equal distribution; the spring with its gradual advances; the luxury
of summer; the autumn with its prodigal abundance; and that which
enhances all these, and is likewise full of sublimity, the snows
of winter. Whoever has sailed upon its rivers, or clambered its
mountain-sides, or descended into its vallies, or gazed upon its
cataracts, but most of all, has become acquainted with its works of
art, must acknowledge that this is preëminently the EMPIRE STATE.

But the Bay of New-York, rivalling the noblest in the world for its
depth, expansiveness, and beauty of its rising shores, is another
feature which deserves to be mentioned; and then we come to a city,
destined also to stand in the first class. Accustomed as I had been
to entertain an unpardonable prejudice and ignorance concerning the
New World, and almost to confound the name of American with the
red aborigines, it was with unfeigned surprise that I found myself
in such a city, stunned with the hum of her incessant bustle and
commerce, in the midst of somewhat fresh but stately buildings, and
mingling with the crowds in a thoroughfare, considering its extent,
one of the most magnificent in the world. Enthusiasm banished
every prejudice. I beheld on all sides the aspect of a luxurious
metropolis; well-furnished shops, churches, public buildings, and
private dwellings, which would have graced any city of Christendom.
Fountains in various parts were throwing up their waters to a great
height, and with profuse liberality. A river flowed through the
streets, brought from a distance of forty-five miles by an aqueduct,
in design and execution one of the most bold, stupendous works of
any age or country; yet some of my countrymen, who profess to write
books, have not even alluded to it.

Surrounded by so many wonders, I looked for something to remind
me of the past; to convince me that all this was not the work of
magic, or of a few years. I could not persuade myself that the
Indian ever rambled through the forests which covered the site of
this city, and that the canoe shot silently over the waters where I
beheld such a forest of masts. Just then, attracted by the sound of
music, and the eager looks of a crowd, I observed twelve Indians,
(among them were some handsome women) standing on a balcony which
fronted the main street of the city, wrapped in blankets, with
painted faces, and ornamented with a variety of gew-gaws. They
were Sioux, who had come on under the care of an agent, and were
exhibited as a show. The crowd gazed for a few moments, and passed
on with indifference: but it was a spectacle calculated to plunge
one into the most serious reverie. Here were the descendants of the
original possessors of the soil; the same class of men whom Columbus
described when he kissed the soil of which he took possession;
children of the same frailties, ornamented in the same manner, the
worshippers of the same spirit! Here was the bustling Present;
they were the representatives of the Past; the poor children whose
fathers once possessed this whole continent, now gazed at, as if
they were cannibals from the South Seas! As they stood erect on the
balcony, unconscious of the ardent gaze of the crowd, dignified,
silent, and unmoved, they seemed to me like antique pictures hung
upon a wall, in a garb and costume long since obsolete. They carried
with them their arrows and their tomahawks, but these had long ago
become powerless against the arts of civilized man. They looked
down upon the Saxons, and saw the race which had destroyed their's.
Around them the marble and the granite were piled in stately
buildings; the columns of Christian temples rose before them, and
the interminable streets of a great city. I gazed again at the poor
children of the forest, then at the accumulating crowd, and all the
evidence of power which I saw around; and the juxtaposition appeared
to illustrate most forcibly the forces and resource of two races of
men. The twelve Sioux on the balcony, with their blankets, hatchets,
and store of arrow-heads, were to the physical strength and arts of
the surrounding people what the whole race of the red men is now to
the race of the whites.

The greatness of the city of New-York, which is the metropolis of
the whole country, belies its provincial name, and its prosperity
attests its unrivalled position near the sea. According to the
present ratio of its increase, in less than twenty years it will
number over half a million of inhabitants, and in less than a
century will attain the rank which London now holds. The Old World
pours in its wealth perpetually, and it is the great centre and
mart of commerce for the New. Thither all the streams of commerce
converge and meet. The cold regions of the North, the cotton-growing
South, the great valley of the Mississippi, and beyond the Rocky
mountains to Astoria, the wild regions of the utmost West contribute
to its wealth. But passing by the feature of a great city, what
a river has New-York! I refer not to any of those which lie upon
her borders, and are shared by other states or nations, but to the
HUDSON, which is all her own. 'I thank GOD,' wrote the elegant
IRVING, soon after his return to his native State, from a long
residence abroad, 'I thank GOD that I was born on the banks of the
Hudson! I fancy I can trace much of what is good and pleasant in
my own heterogeneous compound, to my early companionship with this
glorious river. In the warmth of my youthful enthusiasm, I used to
clothe it with moral attributes, and almost to give it a soul. I
admired its frank, bold, honest character; its noble sincerity and
perfect truth. Here was no specious, smiling surface, covering the
dangerous sand-bar or perfidious rock; but a stream deep as it was
broad, and bearing with honorable faith the bark that trusted to its
waves. I gloried in its simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow; ever
straight-forward. Once indeed, it turns aside for a moment, forced
from its course by opposing mountains, but it struggles bravely
through them, and immediately resumes its straight-forward march.
'Behold,' thought I, 'an emblem of a good man's course through
life; ever simple, open, and direct; or if, overpowered by adverse
circumstances, he deviate into error, it is but momentary; he soon
recovers his onward and honorable career, and continues it to the
end of his pilgrimage.' The Hudson is, in a manner, my first and
last love; and after all my wanderings, and seeming infidelities, I
return to it with a heart-felt preference over all the other rivers
in the world. I seem to catch new life, as I bathe in its ample
billows, and inhale the pure breezes of its hills. It is true, the
romance of youth is past, that once spread illusions over every
scene. I can no longer picture an Arcadia in every green valley; nor
a fairy land among the distant mountains; nor a peerless beauty in
every villa gleaming among the trees; but though the illusions of
youth have faded from the landscape, the recollections of departed
years and departed pleasures shed over it the mellow charm of
evening sunshine.'[B]

  [B] OUR readers will not have forgotten the initial '_Crayon Paper_'
  from which our correspondent derives this exquisite passage. It may
  be found in the number of this Magazine for March, 1839.

    ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

We can add little to a picture like this, save the reiteration,
that the Hudson _is_ one of the noblest rivers in volume, and that
its scenery is the grandest, of any river in the world. The Rhine,
through a part of its course, is dreary and uninteresting. The
Mississippi is incredible in its length: it rises amid the wintry
snows, and passes into the insupportable heats of summer, bearing
to another great city of the American union, fifteen hundred miles
from New-York, the immense wealth of its valley. It is the Father
of Waters. But its stream is always turbid; its shores flat and
gloomy; its aspect melancholy, yet suggestive of deep thought. But
the Hudson rolls brilliantly from where its thin streams rise in
the mountains, until it swells into a magnificent river, and bursts
into that noble bay. Here are no castles upon the beetling crags,
associated with olden story; or hoary ruins, every stone of which
could tell a tale. Here are no ivied turrets, or moss-grown walls,
or battlements crowning the rock; yet it lacks not, though it needs
not, the charms of history and associations of the past: it needs
not the embellishments of romance or pen of the poet; it is grand
enough to fill the mind with contemplations of itself. Follow its
course in one of those princely boats, miracles of architecture!
three hundred feet in length, which rush daily over its surface,
swift as the lightning, yet more gracefully than swans--the
'KNICKERBOCKER'! Now it is wide enough for whole navies to ride at
anchor; and the distant shores look dim, which afterward approach
each other, and present the aspect of gay meadows and cultivated
fields. Now it rushes around mountainous promontories, or cuts
its passage through immense piles of perpendicular rocks, which
stand yawning on either side as if a giant had torn them asunder
to let the river pass through. Ossa is piled upon Pelion, Pelion
upon Ossa; and from the grandeur or beauty of the neighboring
scene, the eye is directed by turns upon the waving outline of
distant mountains. They are like the ocean-color, 'darkly, deeply,
beautifully blue.' Sometimes the river becomes an expansive bay;
then a lovely lake shut in with hills; then a fair and even-flowing
stream. Memory can scarcely do justice to that splendid variety
of highland and lowland, precipice and verdant field, towns and
villages; and the swift boat makes all this one moving panorama.

Nor does the river abate in interest if you follow it two hundred
and fifty miles, where its origin is found in the little brooks and
delicious streamlets where the trout harbors, or among the thickets
where the frightened deer hastens to plunge into the lake. There is
a region in the northern part of the State, wild and uninhabited,
containing two hundred little lakes. There are to be found scenes of
indescribable beauty, to which only the pencil of the painter could
do justice; and yet there are few to tell him where to transport his
easel. Its pathless wilderness precludes also the huntsman; and deer
and an abundance of wild game are secure in the fastnesses which
have never been invaded by man. Yet is all this little, compared
with the dominions of the Empire State. The traveller who directs
his course westward from the Hudson to the great lakes, will pause
at every step to wonder at her variety of productions, her endless
resources, the magical growth of towns which have some scores of
thousands of inhabitants, and yet twenty years ago contained only a
few log-cabins of the hunters! The whole space is a series of long,
swelling undulations; uplands which slope away for miles insensibly
into rich-bottomed vallies, each one possessing its broad, deep
lake; and every one of these lakes is a perfect gem. Otsego, Oneida,
Skeneateles, Owasco, Cayuga, Seneca, and a score of others are
passed in succession; and on the shores of each the lover of the
picturesque might spend weeks with profit and delight. With such a
prodigality of waters, and especially in the vicinity of the great
lakes, the thunder-storms engendered by the summer heats are of
terrific grandeur. One would think that the dissolution of nature
was at hand. Some one has justly remarked that all things here are
on a large scale.

But the memories of the traveller are destined to be effaced, when
he hears for the first time the thunders of the Great Cataract, and
his eyes are turned to behold the cloud of spray which rises like
perpetual incense above its brink. From the sea-shore to Niagara
is now scarcely two days of easy travel. Not many years since, to
go thither, one was compelled to plod his way through a tangled
wilderness, trusting to uncertain pathways, in momentary fear of
wild beasts or wilder savages; and when he arrived at the place,
nothing but the rapture of the vision could enable him to forget
the perils of the journey, and the prospect of the return. One was
forced to pass by other sublimities of nature, which are now unseen
because they have disappeared; the gloom of forests and gigantic
trees, and the tumult of other cascades and waterfalls which are
avoided by a more direct route. The transition is most remarkable
from the heart of a great city, hundreds of miles distant, to the
brink of this stupendous precipice. The forests which used to
intervene, are reduced to separate clumps or groups of trees, which
whirl round on the verge of the horizon, and disappear, making the
head giddy; and one occasionally beholds the trunk or mummy of a
gigantic oak prostrate on the ground, preserving its ancient form
and semblance, but ashes to the core. This is where the pioneer
has been; and these are but the shadows of difficulties which once
impeded the traveller at every step.

Oh! the Rapids! the Rapids! It would atone for months of peril, to
know the exultation which arises from looking on that congregation
of billows! There they come, from the whole chain of lakes and
great inland seas, an incalculable host, plunging down a long
sloping hill-side, which is the bed of the wide Niagara river near
the chasm; storming the foundations of fast-anchored islands, and
shattered by the obstructions which they hurry with them, the
fragments of the convulsion which burst open the abyss where they
leap! They seemed to me infinitely more grand than the sea when it
rolls its huge breakers to the shore after a storm. Look onward,
and the prospect is alike infinite. The sky and the white crests of
waves form the boundary of vision, and seem as if they poured out
of the sky, so great is the descent; the waters gorging the wide
stream, and impeded at every step by rocks, and concealed caverns,
whirl, writhe, and _agonize_, with a violence of agitation of which
it is in vain to endeavor to convey an idea. It is the highest
example of wrath and strength in the elements, exerted without
any cessation or rest. The sea is upheaved mightily, but it is
_sometimes_ calm, and reflects the clear sky. The volcano intermits
its fiery grandeur. The conflagration dies in ashes, where its
little spark was first kindled. The freshet, which is irresistible
in its might, subsides in violence, and permits the flowers to grow
up again on the fertile banks, and be imaged in the tranquil stream.
The wildest hurricane which bears upward the oak, abates into the
musical winds. But here the fury is unceasing; there is only an
awful, unnatural calm upon the brink of the precipice. And it is
difficult to believe that there is any thing yet behind the curtain,
and that all this display of waters, grand as it is, cannot convey
the faintest idea of that which remains, and is but the ushering in
of a more glorious spectacle.

Think of the gentle river in the valley, with just current enough
to preserve its purity, and so visited by the winds that it would
not ruffle the swan's breast which reposes upon it so gracefully!
Then turn hither for contrast, and look in vain on this mad flood
for a single image of peace! Standing on the bridge which spans the
American cataract, and stretches to the islet which conducts you to
Goat Island, you look down and shudder. Nothing which breathes could
be tortured in that flood a moment, and live. Come then and look
into the abyss, and see the waters take the last plunge! And here
description ceases, for the simple reason that it would be all in
vain. With a grand sweeping arch, they roll forward over the ledge,
are calm and silent upon the brink, then dashed into atoms on the
rocks far below. The white smoke gushes up as from a hot furnace to
the sky! Oh what a cataract, and rocks, and river, whirlpools, and
awful chasms, solitude and yet communion with spirits, silence and
yet 'mighty thunderings!' I thought I had died, and was breathing an
immortal life in a new planet, where every surrounding object was
more vast and incomprehensible. I listened to a voice which combines
all sounds, yet chords with none in nature which it resembles; not
with the bass of ocean, not with the winter winds. It is something
which connects you palpably with the Past; a carrying of the
thoughts and imaginations far backward: like listening to the blast
of a trumpet prolonged by an angel from the beginning of time. A
storm burst tumultuously above the cataract. The long reverberations
of thunder would have terrified in another place; but here they
added nothing to the sublime. At last the sunshine, after a little
interval, broke out of the clouds, and rain-bows crowned the glory
of the scene, whose rich tints were perpetuated when the moon arose.
For here on the very spot, in the midst of the violent element,
where one might almost doubt the word of DEITY that he would not
again overwhelm the earth with water, among the manifestations
of His presence, sublimer than any but those on Sinai, he has
dissipated every doubt, and hung over the whole magnificent scene
his perpetual bow of promise.




GREEN SPOTS IN THE CITY.


    YE fill my heart with gladness, verdant places,
      That 'mid the city greet me as I pass;
    Methinks I see of angel steps the traces,
      Where'er upon my pathway grows the grass.
    I pause before your gates at early morning,
      When lies the sward with glittering sheen o'erspread;
    And think the dew-drops there each blade adorning,
      Are angels' tears for mortal frailty shed.

    And ye, earth's firstlings! here in beauty springing,
      Erst in your cells by careful winter nursed,
    And to the morning heaven your incense flinging,
      As at HIS smile ye forth in joy had burst;
    How do ye cheer with hope the lonely hour,
      When on my way I tread despondingly;
    With thought that HE who careth for the flower
      Will, in HIS mercy, still remember me.

    Breath of our nostrils, THOU! whose love embraces,
      Whose light shall never from our souls depart;
    Beneath thy touch hath sprung a green oasis
      Amid the arid desert of my heart.
    Thy sun and rain awake the bud of promise,
      And with fresh leaves in spring-time deck the tree;
    That where man's hand hath shut out nature from us,
      We by these glimpses may remember THEE.

  _New-York, June, 1843._
  MARY E. HEWITT.




A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD.


    I DREAMED that childhood had returned;
      And oh! 't was sweet to roam
    Through flowery meads, and birchen groves,
      That skirt my lowland home.
    Again I chased the butterfly,
      And plucked the heather-bell,
    And wove a flowery coronal
      For one who loved me well.
    Again, with bounding step, I ran,
      And placed it on his brow;
    Again I to the heart was pressed
      That's cold and silent now.
    I saw with joy the mild eye beam
      That never looked unkind;
    But with a parent's fondness still
      To all my faults was blind.

    My dream then changed; yet still I was
      That parent's hope and pride;
    Though stern realities of life
      Forced childhood's joys aside.
    I lived, in memory, o'er again,
      With bitter tears and sighs,
    The hour when, far from home and friends,
      I closed his dying eyes.
    E'en in that hour of dread and death,
      How placidly he smiled;
    And left a lasting legacy,
      His blessing, for his child!

    With agonizing start, I woke,
      To feel life's every ill;
    Yet, 'mid misfortune's withering blast,
      I hear that blessing still:
    And echo seems, where'er I rove,
      In gilded hall or bower,
    To greet me with the voice of love
      I heard in that lone hour;
    A gleam of bliss amid the gloom
      Of sorrow's solitude;
    A talisman to draw my thoughts
      Where vice dares not intrude.
    It oft has checked my wild career
      When borne on passion's wing;
    For oh! a parent's blessing is
      A sweet, a holy thing!

    In fancy, oft I follow on
      That faint, sweet voice of love,
    Till, leaving earth and earthly cares,
      I soar to realms above;
    And scenes of dazzling brightness rush
      On my bewildered sigh:
    My spirit feels the Godhead there,
      In majesty and might.
    And sounds seraphic greet mine ear,
      And heavenly anthems swell:
    There, 'mid the choir, his voice I hear
      Who loved me long and well;
    And, as the song of praise is raised,
      In cadence sweet and mild,
    Again the passing spirit says:
      'ALMIGHTY! bless my child!'

  I. G.




ANECDOTE OF A BOTTLE OF WINE.

  TRINCOLO.  Oh Stephano! hast any more of this?

  STEPHANO.  The whole butt, man!

  CALIBAN.   Hast thou not dropp'd from Heaven?

  STEPHANO.  Out of the moon I do assure thee; I was
                      The man in the moon, when time was.

  CALIBAN.   I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee;
                      My mistress shew'd me thee, thy dog, and bush.


I CONSIDER the wines of France to bear the same rank in comparison
with those of other countries, that the highest order of lyrical
effusion sustains in the world of poetry. Ordinary Rhenish wines are
it's satires and pasquinades; Port is didactic verse; while among
the first growths of the Rheingau, of Madeira, and of Spain, are
to be sought the Shakspeares, the Homers, the Miltons, Virgils and
Dantes of the wine-crypt.

It is in conformity with this poetical disposition of things, that,
when I expect a visit from my friends, I descend into my wine-vault
or mount the stairs of my attic. There, with keys in hand, I unloose
the spirits of the mighty past, and restore in their happiest
temperament and condition, and to their bright and animated destiny,
the effulgent glories of the grape.

It was not always thus, dear John! 'I do assure thee,' as my motto
says, 'when time was,' a few cobweb'd bottles of old Madeira upon
the upper shelf of a chamber closet not too near the surface of
the earth, and a case or two, and basket or two, in a distant
receptacle, were, in the golden days of thy better manhood, but
faint precursors of thy rich and cherished hoards; thy vaulted
cellar and thy loaded wine-chamber--fraught as these now are with
the result of distant voyages, of curious tastings, of patient
research, and of elaborate choice illustrated with a benignant and
happy fortune. And yet those were glad days, bright days, precious
days; were they not? What a flavor, what a zest the wines wore when
thou and I were young! And the cookery! dear Sirs, how well-dressed
things were in those days!

We were living in a French boarding-house celebrated for it's
_cuisine_. Our wine of course depended upon our proper self, but I
have never met with a better _table d'hôte_ than we were wont to be
seated at, particularly upon any intimation to our worthy host that
we expected friends, and wished to entertain them with our best.
There was nothing of the 'busy hum of preparation,' nor any anxiety
about the successful practice of the cook, nor disappointment in the
marketing, nor rising in the dawn of morning after a feverish night
to acquire, at any cost, the first specimen of the season; nothing
of that state of perturbed feeling which a tourist among us well
calls 'stirring Heaven and Earth to give a dinner;' but the hour
came, the guests were punctual, and we sat down with young hearts,
young spirits, and above all, young palates to the board.

Among those few cobweb'd bottles that I have adverted to, upon that
upper shelf, in that chamber closet, of that upper story, there
might in those days have been discerned one that stood, like a star,
APART; the treasured, cherished, garnered bottle that should upon
some _alba dies_ occasion grace our bachelor's repast. It was twin
bottle to one that had been opened for us in that City of Refuge
of good wines, Charleston South Carolina, in those days not less
certainly than now, the abode of the hospitable, the accomplished
and the brave. Our host there had produced its fellow as a specimen
that he was desirous his friends should appreciate. 'Oh Stephano,
hast any more of this?'

When I arrived in New-York after _ten_ days and _ten_ nights of
continuous posting, (the distance is now accomplished I am told
cleverly in _three_,) the flavour of that wine still regaled my
palate; there was a spiritual vineyard flourishing within my
heart; the fragrant blossom, the young grape, the purple cluster,
the yielding pressure, and the nectareous juice; the autumnal
grape-leaf with its magic dyes, and all the long history of joy
which it is given to one or two rare specimens of the wines of this
life to impart to the spirit of man; to impress upon his nerves;
and to be recalled in sensations that make glad the fountains of
his heart, and dispense his affections among his fellow men; all
these were present to my senses, and delighted me with a varied,
an intellectual, and constantly reviving joy. I had never known so
perfect a beverage; and I wrote at once to my friend, offering him
in exchange any description of wine that he could name to me, bottle
for bottle.

He returned for answer an expression of regret that one only bottle
remained of the batch; and intreating my acceptance of what I
prized so highly, sent it on without delay. This was that lonely
bottle, that stood, in vague and uncertain light like a Hero of
Ossian, upon that upper shelf, in that chamber closet, of that upper
story. Often did I gaze upon it, often apostrophize it, praise it
with a recollected gladness, remember its acquirement, delight in
its possession, and wonder when the time might come, and when the
friends, that should deserve the peerless, the incomparable offering.

Upon a certain memorable day, and punctual to the moment, came a
chosen party of my most honored and distinguished friends. The
dinner was beyond praise, and all the appointments good. No crowd,
no tumult, no excuse, no delay in serving, no vacant seat, no chair
with small open hexagons of split rattan to disfigure the person of
the guest for three successive days when the dress is thin, or to
torture him when the weather is cold with pains which he is ashamed
to complain of or even to mention----a practice, Mr. Editor and all
who hear me, still obtaining in some houses in New-York, and at
times, especially in winter, more abhorrent to the thoughts than is
the martyrdom of St. Lawrence, since heat upon a gridiron is in many
of its appliances preferable to cold upon sharp rattan. No; each
guest had his cushioned chair, 'with ample room and verge enough;'
and course after course, and wine after wine, appeared, and was
enjoyed, discussed, and quietly disappeared, alike without want or
waste.

Well, the time of the repast came for my selected wines: they were
all prepared, and all in the finest order and condition. The series
was a perfect one; a veritable ladder of transport; up which the
spirits of my guests ascended gracefully, step after step, as each
higher and higher flavour presented itself to their gratified and
entranced palate. At the last, sole remaining bottle of the list,
came my Charleston acquisition. It is certainly in bad taste to
expatiate upon one's wine from the chair, but as this was the only
bottle of it's kind in the world, it seemed necessary to introduce
it with a word that should at least perform that ceremony.

I told the story of its acquisition, and expressed the pleasure it
gave me to present on this occasion the one remaining bottle of the
world. We had been conversing a moment or two before, I remember, on
the comparative advantages in drinking wine, between the _sip_ and
the _throw_, and had come to the conclusion, (which I think every
man of sense must ultimately arrive at,) that the latter is the true
way to enjoy the full _aroma_ of the beverage, and at once to gain
that gratifying descent, and that ascent to the wits; in short that
satisfying blessedness of taste, which the mere sipper of potations
of whatever kind must vainly aspire to know; say what you may to the
contrary, Mr. T. G.!

The bottle was uncorked, decanted, and the wine came forth, in the
profound silence and expectation of the guests, bright as the beam
of your mistress's eye! The attention of all present was so absorbed
by their interest in this only bottle, that until every man's glass
was filled, hardly a sound was perceptible except the gurgling of
the long-necked decanter as it distributed its glorious contents and
passed with wings from hand to hand around the board and returned
drained to the head of the table. Toasts were at that time in
vogue; and as soon as I had said, '_Our hospitable friend in South
Carolina, may his own last bottle reward him for the pleasure of
this gift_,' each man did ample justice to the wine.

How shall I recount the catastrophe that ensued! We are all sinful
men born to trouble as the sparks fly upward, and it seemed as if
the wine had also dealt ample and instant justice upon us! Every
soul present was struck through the heart and liver to the spine!
All rose instantly from the table, speechless, aghast, and terrified
with the effect! There was a napkin or handkerchief over the mouth
of each, and if we could have articulated a word, we might have
exclaimed with the sons of the prophets at the feast in Gilgal, 'Oh
my Lord, there is death in the pot!'

But it was impossible to relieve ourselves by words; it was
literally in tears and groans that the guests made for the door,
vanished from the room, escaped from the house, and left me,
appalled, transfixed, incapable of utterance, standing at the head
of my deserted table, and feeling that 'No man said, 'God bless
him!''

For a fortnight, three weeks, a month, no one of my guests had his
mouth _right_! I was afraid to walk in the streets lest I should
meet one of them; there was a paralytic stricture in the countenance
of each member of that sad party; in some it wore an expostulatory,
an admonitory, in some a remonstrant, and in all the look of _a much
injured person_. I must except one gentleman whom however I did not
get a glimpse of until six weeks had elapsed. He was a well-bred
Frenchman, with all the suavity and grace of manner that belongs
to his class and nation. I shall ever feel grateful to him for the
first kind word I had received since the discomfiture; though I
have sometimes had doubts, judging from the reïnstated appearance
of his lips, whether he had taken more than half a glass: 'My dear
Sir,' said he, 'when I had the pleasure to dine with you at your
very agreeable party, there was one wine that had flavour very
exemplary, ma foi!' I acknowledge it, I said. 'I think you did say
it was American wine?' I did, I replied. 'What is the name if you
please, as I pay much attention to the _sujet_ of wines?' I named
it. 'Will you be so very kind as write it in my tablet?' I prepared
to comply; and telling him that I was not quite certain of the
correct orthography of the word, wrote in large characters, the
word, 'SCUPPERNONG.'

  JOHN WATERS.




ON THE DEATH OF A CLASSMATE.

    'OH! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung,
    When peals the requiem for the loved and young!'

  W. G. CLARK.


    WE waste no sorrow o'er the verdant tomb
    When whitened Age is called to meet its doom;
    With shattered bark, on life's wild current driven,
    The tempest, threat'ning death, but wafts to heaven;
    And the freed spirit, borne on eagle wing,
    Mounts to the regions of eternal spring.
    No; 'tis not Age we mourn; life's course is run,
    And soon, at best, must set its sinking sun.

    We weep no sad adieu when infant years
    Fly this cold vale, where joy still ends in tears;
    Ere yet a cloud has dimmed their morning sky
    Which hangs outspread so clearly blue on high;
    That sky the tempest's wrath will soon deform,
    And the day, dawned in sunshine, close in storm.
    Oh! who would bid that wandering spirit stay,
    Which seeks a fairer realm, a brighter day!

    But when th' Avenger in his withering track
    Strikes in its bloom the pride of Manhood down,
    The heart's sad strings, but faintly echo back
    The plaintive murmurings of Sorrow's moan.
    'Unhappy youth!' ere life was well begun,
    And thy brief day had seen scarce half a sun,
    The roses from thy fading cheek have flown,
    And DEATH, the spoiler, marked thee for his own!




GLEANINGS FROM THE GERMAN.

BY WILLIAM PITT PALMER.


COUNSEL.

    SOUL of light in stone enthroned
    Is the precious diamond;
    Son of light, do thou endure,
    Like this gem, still strong and pure!


EPITAPH.

    READ, wanderer, a husband's moan:
      My wife was young and fair!
    Now lies upon her heart a stone,
      And mine--is light as air!


ON THE EPITAPHS IN A CHURCH-YARD.

    FALSEHOOD, O man! delights thine eye:
    Thou teachest even stones to lie!


ON BAVIUS.

    GIVE him to drink of Lethe's wave! why not
    Let the poor bard forget that he's forgot?


LADIES' TONGUES.

    FRANKLY, ladies' tongues, confess
      Ye must wag perforce:
    Faith! the sex might, as I guess,
      Without tongues discourse!


THE GRAY-BEARD.

    NEARCH is blind, and deaf, and lame,
      The prey of time's corrosive greed,
    And long of crafty heirs the game;
      When will the dead man die indeed?


GARLANDS.

    YOUTH, with chaplets grace thy brow,
      But the garland choose with care;
    Wreathed with laurel fadeth late,
      Wreathed with myrtle soon, the hair.


FRIEND AND FOE.

    LET warning wisdom's kindly speech
      Thy friend his faults and failings show;
    But let thy mute example teach
      The love of virtue to thy foe.


PLEASURE.

    LIST a mortal's quest, sweet Pleasure!
      Why so fleeting?--answer, pray:
    Lost as soon as found, thy treasure!
      None can thy dear presence stay.

    Thank thou, Fate, she cried, whose minions,
      All the gods, love me alone;
    Were I fashioned without pinions,
      They would keep me for their own!




THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.


MORE than a week had elapsed since the rupture between Rhoneland and
Rust; and during that period Jacob neither saw him nor heard from
him. But in that interval he had become confirmed in his purpose of
resistance; and had resolved, come what might, to risk any thing,
rather than submit to the mental bondage which had hitherto crushed
him. Steadfast in this purpose, he quietly awaited the movements of
his adversary.

On one fine afternoon, the bright rays of a setting sun streaming
through the window fell upon the face of the old man, as he was
dozing in his room, and awakened him. Starting to his feet, and
casting his eyes hurriedly about him, he exclaimed; 'I tell you no;
I tell you _no_, Michael Rust. It shall never be! Ah Kate!' said he,
looking about the room, and seeing no one except his daughter, 'it's
you, is it?--only you? And I've been dreaming? Well, well; thank God
it was no worse! It's strange I should have dreamed that Michael
Rust wanted you, Kate, and asked for you. But no matter; kiss me,
child. We've done with him. There's a comfort in that. We shall be
quite happy--happy as we once were. Shall we not, Kate?'

Kate's lips quivered, as she pressed them to his forehead; and there
was a busy little voice at her heart, which whispered a name, and
brought up recollections that nearly choked her, as she said, in a
low tone, 'Quite happy.'

'But Kate,' said her father, placing an arm about her waist, while
he put back her hair with his other hand, and looked anxiously in
her face, 'you don't say happy, _as in old times_.'

Kate was silent. What could she say, when her young heart was
breaking? But at last she _did_ say:

'It certainly will make me happier, much happier, than I have been,
to know that you are once more yourself; that that evil, daring man
has lost his influence over you, never to regain it; and that there
is nothing to harrass you and break you down, as there once was. All
this makes me quite happy. Indeed it does!' But there was that in
her tone which belied her words, and Rhoneland observed it.

'Ah! child, child!' said he, shaking his head sorrowfully. 'I see
it all. Ned Somers has much to answer for. I loved and trusted him.
God forgive him that he meditated so vile a wrong! He was to me as
my own son. Had he loved you, Kate, openly and honorably as a man
should, and as you deserve to be loved, and had he asked you from
me, I would not have said _no_, Kate. But he acted like a villain;
and I've cast him off forever.'

Kate became very pale, and her voice grew thick and husky, as she
asked: 'Father, will you answer me a question?'

'Yes Kate, a hundred,' said he, drawing her more closely to him.
'I'll sit here all day long, and answer you. Now that _he_ is gone,
I feel quite young and boyish again; and nothing gladdens me more
than your voice. Now go on. What is it?'

The girl took his hand in both her's, and looking steadily in his
face, asked: 'Who told you the tale which set you against Ned?'

'Who?' inquired Rhoneland; 'who? Why, he--Rust.'

'And have you never found, in the course of your dealings with that
man, that he could forget or pervert the truth; or even invent a
falsehood, when it served his own purpose?'

Jacob Rhoneland laughed to himself, in a low chuckling tone, and
rubbed his hands. 'What, lie?--Rust lie? Bless you, child, he does
that more than any thing else. Ha! ha! He's a deep one, depend on
it.'

'And can you see no reason for his traducing Ned?' said she, the
blood mounting to her face, as she spoke. 'Was there no plan of his,
which Ned's presence here crossed, and which rendered it necessary
to prejudice you against him?'

The old man pondered; looked at her, and then at the floor; and at
last sank back in his chair, in a deep and unpleasant reverie; from
which he was only aroused by a knock at the door. 'Go to your room,
Kate. It's Enoch. I'll open the door myself.'

Kate had scarcely left the room, and Jacob had not yet risen to obey
the summons, when the door of the apartment opened, and Michael Rust
walked in, as quietly and serenely as if nothing had happened.

'Good evening, friend Jacob,' said he, bowing low, and speaking in
his softest tone. 'I'm here again, you see. I could not give you up
so soon. I could not let a trifling misunderstanding break off old
friendship. I had'nt the heart to do it, good Jacob. There was a
severe struggle between pride and friendship, but friendship gained
the day; and I have come with an open heart to offer you my most
humble apology, and to ask you to forget and forgive. I feel that I
took an unwarrantable liberty with Kate; but I loved her, Jacob, and
was hurried too far by my feelings. I was wrong, and you acted as a
father should. Let us forget the past, and be as we were.'

Michael stretched out his hand, as he spoke, and even held it so,
for some moments; but Rhoneland neither took it, nor looked at it,
nor at him, nor uttered a word in reply; but with both hands resting
on the top of his cane, which he had taken to assist him in rising,
and his chin on them, sat looking out of the window, as if there
were no other person than himself in the wide world.

What was it that bowed the bold, bad man, who had never yielded
to him before?--who had trodden on his very neck, mocking his
sufferings, jeering at his agony of mind; returning threats for
supplications, and revilement for tears; and now brought him a
suppliant to his feet? Was it that strange, mysterious feeling which
sometimes tells a man that the hour of his fate is approaching, and
that his time is measured? Was the coming storm flinging its shadow
over his path, even before the bursting of the tempest? Did he
feel the earth sinking beneath his feet; and was he glad to grasp,
even at a decayed and shattered branch to hold him up? Or was it a
part of a deeper policy; and was there yet something to be gained
by clinging to his former dupe? It may have been a mixture of all
these feelings; but certain it is, that there he was; the same
thin, bowing, cringing hypocrite, with a tongue of oil and a heart
of flint, endeavoring by soothing words and fawning lies once more
to win back the man who had turned his back upon him. And equally
certain it is, that a more unyielding, impenetrable, imperturbable
piece of humanity he had never met with; for to all his fine
sentences, allurements, and artifices of every kind, he received no
reply.

'This tack won't do,' thought Rust. 'He won't swallow honey. I'll
give him wormwood; but before that, one more attempt.'

'Jacob, my friend,' said he, drawing a chair nearer to him, seating
himself, and sinking his voice; 'perhaps you think I meant ill about
your daughter?'

The old man moved restlessly, but was silent. Rust saw that he had
touched the theme which would arouse him.

'You were mistaken, my friend. Would that the intentions of all were
as pure as mine.'

'Speak of something else,' replied Rhoneland, abruptly. 'I'll not
hear you on that subject.'

'But you must,' said Rust; 'indeed you must, my old friend. Not that
I would annoy you; but I came here for that express purpose; and
_must_ speak of her.'

Rhoneland looked keenly at him, and then at the floor, grasping the
sides of the chair firmly; as if to restrain himself from violence,
and Rust went on.

'I'm a man of few words, Jacob. Kate's a dear, sweet girl. I love
her; she loves me. Will you give her to me for a wife?'

'It's false!' said Rhoneland, starting to his feet. 'If there be a
single person in this world whom Kate hates more than another, it is
you! Give her to _you_ for a wife!' exclaimed he, in a bitter tone;
'give _her_ to _you_--YOU! I'd see her in her coffin first! Go,
Michael Rust,' said he, extending his hands toward him; 'your power
is at an end in this house. Go!'

'Not quite, good Jacob!' said Rust, in a low, fierce tone. 'Not
_quite_, good Jacob! I know what your plans are; what your hopes
are. I know what Enoch Grosket can do; and in what he'll fail. He'll
fail to vindicate Jacob Rhoneland. He'll fail to vindicate himself.
He'll fail to overthrow Michael Rust. He and Jacob will soon be
cheek by jowl with those whose good deeds have placed fetters on
them. It's well, Jacob, it's well. We'll see who'll win the race.
Pause, good Jacob, pause before you decide. I give you five minutes.
With Michael Rust for a son-in-law, you are safe.'

Rhoneland grew exceedingly pale; and then summoning his resolution,
said:

'I _have_ decided. Though it cost me my life, you shall not marry
Kate. Go!'

'Jacob Rhoneland, one word.'

'Not a syllable!' said the old man, grasping his heavy cane, and his
face becoming purple with anger: 'viper! begone! If you darken my
doors one moment longer, I'll fling you into the street!'

'Good-by, Jacob,' said Rust; but not another word did he utter, as
he left the house. His face was ashy pale; his features pinched
and sharp; and he gnawed his lip until the blood came from it.
Regardless of his appearance; with his long locks hanging in tangled
flakes about his face, he hurried on. Dead and corpse-like as his
features were, never was a fiercer spirit at work, to give life and
energy to human frame; never was there a stronger concentration
of dark passions in a human heart. His pace was quick and firm;
there was no loitering; no pausing at corners, to think; no sign
of irresolution. Darting along the street where the old man lived,
and striking into one of the wider cross-streets of the city, he
followed it until it brought him into Broadway. This he crossed,
and plunged into that labyrinth of narrow streets which run between
that and the Bowery. Threading them, with the ready step of one
familiar with their turns and windings, he neither paused to inquire
his direction, nor to read the sign-boards; but even in the darkest
and dreariest corners, his knowledge seemed certain and accurate.
The twilight had darkened into night, and the streets were narrow;
and as he proceeded in the direction of the more fated parts of the
city, dim figures, which like bats were shrouded in holes and dark
hiding-places in the day time, were beginning to flit about, yet he
felt no hesitation nor fear. In the most gloomy and blighted of all
these places, he paused, cast a quick suspicious glance about him,
to see that none watched him, and then darted up an alley between
two houses, so ruined and sagged that their gables met over it like
a gothic arch. Groping his way along, he came to a door at the foot
of a flight of stairs which terminated the passage. He did not pause
to knock; but pulling a string, opened it, and ascended a pitch-dark
staircase, which in like manner was terminated at the upper end by
a door. At this he knocked loudly. He was answered by a gruff voice
which inquired:

'Is that you, Joe?'

'No,' replied Rust.

'Well, if you ain't Joe, who are you? If you ain't got a name, peg
away; for blow me, if I open till I hear it.'

There was a noise, as if the speaker, in conclusion of his
observation, drew a chair or bench along the floor, and seated
himself.

'Come Bill,' said another voice, 'this won't do. You'd better open
it.'

A muttering from Bill showed that he thought otherwise; but the
person who had spoken, apparently not heeding his disapprobation,
got up and opened the door, giving to Rust as he did so a full view
of the interior of the room.

At a table sat a man with coarse red hair, and a beard of several
days' growth. He was a brawny fellow, six feet high, with a cast in
one eye, which seemed to have been injured by a deep gash; the scar
of which still remained, commencing on the very eye-lid, crossing
one cheek, and his nose, and giving an air of sternness to features
which needed not this addition, to express much that was bad. His
companion, who had opened the door, was a man of smaller build,
with broad, square shoulders, dark sharp eyes, narrow forehead, and
overhanging brows, and a thin, tremulous lip; and though possessed
of less physical strength than his comrade, looked much the most
dangerous man of the two.

They both eyed Rust for a moment, without speaking, and then
the larger of the two said to his comrade: 'Tim Craig, hand the
gentleman a chair.'

'I don't want one,' said Rust abruptly. 'Have you seen Enoch?'

They both shook their heads.

'He'll blow on me, and you, and others.'

The two men looked at him, and then at each other, but said nothing.

'He's set himself up against me--_me_!' said Rust, his thin lip
curling and yet trembling as he spoke.

'He's a dark man, that Enoch,' said Craig, in a low tone. 'There's
no good in crossing him, Mr. Rust.'

'Crossing him! crossing _him_!' exclaimed Rust. 'He has crossed
_me_. Who ever did _that_, and prospered! Ho! ho! Enoch, Enoch! you
mistook your man!'

The two looked anxiously at each other, but did not speak; and
although they had the thews and sinews which could have torn the
thin form before them to shreds, it seemed as if they both shrank
from him with something like fear.

'It has come to the death-struggle between us,' said Rust; 'one or
the other must fall.'

'If you're the one?' inquired Craig.

'Others must go too,' replied Rust; 'they _must_.'

Craig gnawed his lip.

'If Enoch goes, he goes alone,' continued Rust. 'He must be out of
my way; he knows too much.'

The men exchanged looks; but the larger of the two seemed to
leave all the speaking to the other, merely listening with great
attention, and occasionally favoring his comrade with a glance,
whenever it seemed necessary.

'I have no time to stay now,' said Rust, turning to Craig: 'I've
told you enough. Grosket is in my way. I must be rid of him.'

Craig put his finger to his throat, and deliberately drew it across
it. 'You're a ticklish man to deal with, Mr. Rust. Is that what you
mean?' said he.

'I say I must be rid of him,' replied Rust, fiercely. 'Are you
deaf? Are your brains addled? Rid of him--_rid_ of him--RID of him!'
exclaimed he, advancing, and hissing the words in the man's ear,
while there was something in his look and manner that caused even
the bold villain he addressed to draw back and assume a somewhat
defensive attitude. 'Do you understand me now? Law won't do what I
want. I prescribe no mode; but Enoch Grosket must be out of my path.'

'You're growing red-hot, my master,' said the man, bluntly. 'But I
must have what you want spoken out. Shall he be knocked on the head?'

'Hasn't he committed a murder, burnt a house, stolen, embezzled? I
think I've heard of his having done something of the kind,' said
Rust, earnestly.

'Of course he has. He's done 'em all, if you like. Bill knows
something about them. Don't you, Bill?'

'Oh! yes,' said Bill, refreshing himself from a large pitcher of
water. 'This 'ere vorter is very weak. Blowed if I ain't forgot what
liquor smells like; and it's so long since I see'd a dollar, that
bless me, if I think I'd know one. I'd have to go to some obligin'
friend to ax what it was.'

This declaration of ignorance was accompanied by a look of
consummate disgust into the pitcher, and another of a very peculiar
character at Rust.

That worthy, however, seemed not unused to meeting with gentlemen in
similar trying circumstances; for he gave both the look and language
an interpretation which, considering the enigmatical mode in which
they were expressed, fully met the views of the man who uttered
them; and thrusting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a handful of
silver, which he flung into the pitcher, and said:

'Perhaps that will improve the water.'

Bill made no other response than a broad grin; and then said in a
more business-like tone:

'Well, about that murder, and house burnin', and all that. What do
you want?'

'I want proof of it against Grosket, if he did it.'

'In course he did it,' replied the man, with a knowing look.

'Well, bring me the proof of it, and bring it soon. You know where
to find me.'

He turned on his heel, and even before they were aware that he had
left the room, he was on his way through the street.

His course was now to his old den. When he reached it, he found even
that paragon of clerks, Mr. Kornicker, absent. This was a relief;
for he was too much excited to care to have any witness of his
appearance.

'It struck seven as I passed the town-clock,' said he. 'It wants an
hour to the time fixed. I'll wait.'

Although it was dark, he flung himself on a chair, without striking
a light, and sat for some time in silence, tapping the floor with
his foot. But rest was not the thing for his present mood; and he
soon started up, and paced the room, muttering to himself. At last
the clock struck eight. The lights, which shining from the windows
in different parts of the building, somewhat relieved the gloom of
his room, were extinguished one by one, and it became pitchy dark.
Rust lighted a candle; placed it on the mantel-piece, and stood
looking at it for some moments. He heard a step on the stairs; but
it ascended to the floor beyond, then descended, and went out in the
street. He looked at his watch; it was but five minutes after eight.
'God! how slow the time went!' Perhaps his watch had stopped. He
put it to his ear: tick, tick, tick! There seemed an interval of a
minute between every stroke. 'Five minutes past eight; ten minutes
more, and _she_ will be here,' muttered he; 'and then I shall know
the worst.'

He put the watch in his pocket; and looking at the ceiling,
attempted to whistle; but it would not do. His blood was in a fever.
Hark!--was that a footstep on the stairs? No, it was only the tread
of a person overhead. Hist! what's that? He stood stock-still, and
listened. There was a slight shuffling noise in the passage; and
then a faint tap at the door.

Rust sprang forward, and opened it. A female, muffled in an old
cloak, stood cowering on the outside.

'Ha! it's you at last!' exclaimed he, in that abrupt, energetic
manner, which suited his character better than his more usual tones.
'What news?'

The woman, either to gain time, or because she was really exhausted,
staggered to a chair, and turning her face to the light, revealed
the features of Mrs. Blossom.

'Ah's me! ah's me!' said she, leaning back, and sighing heavily.
'It's a wearisome way I've come, old and feeble as I am--old and
feeble, old and feeble--a very wearisome way.'

There must have been something in the look of Rust, who stood before
her with his black, glowing eye fixed on her's, that was peculiarly
startling; for she paused in her whining, and turning to him, said:

'What do you look at me so for?'

'Is there no reason for it?' said Rust, in a low voice. 'Is there no
trust betrayed? Have you done all that you swore to do?'

Mrs. Blossom, hardened as she naturally was, and as she had become,
by long following a pursuit which requires no little assurance, was
not without some signs of trepidation at this question.

'No, no; I haven't. I swear I haven't,' said she.

'I placed two children in your charge,' continued Rust, in the same
low tone. 'They were never to leave it, except for one place--the
grave.'

Mrs. Blossom's wan features grew paler, as she whispered: 'Not so
loud, Mr. Rust, not so loud.'

'As you please; I'll whisper,' said Rust, suiting the action to the
word; and speaking in a whisper, yet so distinct and thrilling, that
each word seemed to come like a blow. 'I placed two children under
your charge; and unless I required them, and unless they grew ill,
and died, they were to become what you are. Where are they? I want
them.'

Mrs. Blossom looked hopelessly about her, as if she meditated an
escape; but seeing no chance of any, she cast a deprecating eye at
Rust, shook her head, and said nothing. Rust went on in the same
strain:

'They were with you two months since; going on gloriously;
travelling at a hand-gallop to the grave. I have heard strange
stories of them since. Are they true?'

Still the woman was silent.

'Answer me!' said Rust, his fury gradually getting the mastery of
him, and his voice bursting out loud and clear. 'Where are they?'

Mrs. Blossom clasped her hands and looked at him, but uttered not a
word.

'Where are the children? Answer me!' said he, starting to his feet,
and darting up to her, his eyes perfectly blood-shot with fury,
and the foam standing round his lips; 'the children, I say--_the
children_! GOD d--n you!--do you hear me?'

Mrs. Blossom cowered down in the chair, and made one or two futile
efforts to speak; her thin blue lips quivered; but no sound came
from them; while a kind of idiotic smile fixed itself on her
features.

'THE CHILDREN, I say!' exclaimed Rust, gnashing his teeth with rage;
and seizing the woman by the shoulders in his paroxysm of fury, he
shook her until she reeled and fell to the floor. 'What have you
done with them? Answer me; or by the God of Heaven I'll crush you
beneath my feet!'

Before his amiable intention, however, could be carried into effect,
Mrs. Blossom had recovered her wits, her feet, and not a little
of her usual spirit; and turning upon him, with eyes flashing as
brightly as his own, she said:

'They're gone, Michael Rust; gone, _gone_! Do you hear that? Gone,
where when you next see them you will wish the undertaker had
measured them before. Gone, gone! ha! ha! You won't see the lambs
again. So much for striking an unprotected female, Michael Rust.
That for ye! _that_ for ye! THAT for ye!' And she snapped her
fingers in the face of the disappointed schemer, and left the room,
slamming the door loudly after her.

Rust clasped his hands, as she went out, and raised his eyes to
heaven.

'Gone!' repeated he, in a low tone; '_gone!_--both gone! And
I--I?--what will become of me? Is it for _this_ that I have
toiled and slaved for years; that I have stooped to meanness and
dissimulation; have steeped myself in crime, and have had felons and
miscreants of every dye for my associates? For years have I been
on the rack: no more quiet hours, or peaceful dreams; no more love
from those of the same blood; but cursed, hated; hated with the
worst hate, the hate of one's own kindred; my schemes thwarted, my
hopes blighted; a felon; my dearest hopes crumbled to dust; these
two children restored to their rights; Kate married!--and I, _I_,
where shall I be? God of Heaven!' exclaimed he, dashing up and down
the room, 'shall these things be? _Shall_ I fall?--shall _they_
triumph? Never! never! Be yourself, Michael Rust!' said he, in a
choked voice; 'be yourself! be yourself! This has happened from
trusting others. Rely on yourself, Michael; be cool, Michael; and
then thwart them--thwart them!'

He paused and stood in the middle of that room like a statue.
Slowly and by degrees every trace of excitement disappeared from
his features, until they had assumed a sharp, rigid, fixed look;
and then, he said, pursuing the same theme: 'Thwart them; _thwart_
them, Michael Rust! Work, toil, cringe, lie, steal, murder--aye, do
_any_ thing--but thwart them, thwart them! Good Michael Rust, don't
suffer yourself to be a by-word in their mouths! And if you fail,
Michael, die fighting. There's something noble in _that_. Be it so;
be it so!' said he, in a stern, abrupt tone. 'They've driven me to
extremities. Nothing but desperate measures can save me. Desperate
measures shall be tried. Does success require a life? Well, well;
the world's overloaded; it shall have one. If I attain it, it will
be another's; if I fail, it will be my own: the grave is a quiet
resting-place; a better one than the world, when a man's foiled
in all his aims. But I'm weary, I'm weary!' said he, in a low,
desponding tone; 'my head's dizzy, and my brain confused, by the
troubles which have come so thickly upon me to-day. I must rest.'

Drawing a chair to the table, he seated himself upon it; bent his
head down upon the table, and exhausted by the excitement of the
last few days, which had taxed even his iron frame beyond its powers
of endurance, he soon slept heavily.




THE SEASON OF DEATH.


    OH! thou resistless and relentless power!
      Mighty, mysterious in thy every form:
    Unbidden thou com'st to mar the natal hour,
      Stealing the heart's young pulse, with life scarce warm.
    And thou art there where the green vine is turning
      Its gentle fragrance from Love's rosy bower;
    And thou art there where silent stars are burning,
      Sweetly and calmly, o'er the bridal hour.
    And thou art there where young Joy in his mirth
      Presses his cup to lips of human wo,
    And thou art there where Pleasure hath its birth,
      Following its footsteps wheresoe'er they go!

    And ah! where art thou _not_, mysterious DEATH!
      The young, the fair, the pure in heart, are thine;
    Beauty, and love, and power, these all have breath
      But for thy conquering; and hope divine,
    And bliss, and sweet affection, and the tear
      That sparkles in the eye of love; the sigh
    That moves soft pity in the soul sincere,
      All, all are thine, O Death! for all must die!
    Passing like blossoms from the earth away,
      All that of life or being hath its share;
    The heart hath scarce its hour of hope to pray,
      For thy cold hand, O Death! is everywhere!

  _New-York, September, 1843._
  EDMUND BREWSTER GREEN.




THE MEMOIRS OF COUNT ROSTOPTCHIN.

WRITTEN IN TEN MINUTES.


A LADY one day said to the celebrated Count ROSTOPTCHIN that he
ought to write his memoirs. The next day the Count handed her a
little roll of paper. 'What have you here?' asked the lady. 'I have
obeyed your commands,' replied he; 'I have written my memoirs; here
they are.' The lady was not a little surprised at the promptness of
the performance; and hastened to peruse the following morceau, the
caustic wit and piquancy of which will remind the reader of the keen
satire of Voltaire.


MY MEMOIRS, OR MYSELF AS I AM.

WRITTEN IN TEN MINUTES.


TABLE OF CONTENTS.

     I. MY BIRTH. II. MY EDUCATION. III. MY SUFFERINGS. IV.
     PRIVATIONS. V. MEMORABLE EPOCHS. VI. MORAL TRAITS. VII.
     IMPORTANT RESOLUTION. VIII. WHAT I WAS AND WHAT I MIGHT HAVE
     BEEN. IX. RESPECTABLE PRINCIPLES. X. MY TASTES. XI. MY DISLIKES.
     XII. ANALYSIS OF MY LIFE. XIII. BOUNTIES OF HEAVEN. XIV. MY
     EPITAPH. XV. DEDICATORY EPISTLE.


CHAPTER I: MY BIRTH.

ON the twelfth day of March, 1765, I emerged from darkness into
the light of day. I was measured, I was weighed, I was baptised. I
was born without knowing wherefore, and my parents thanked heaven
without knowing for what.


CHAPTER II: MY EDUCATION.

I WAS taught all sorts of things, and learned all kinds of
languages. By dint of impudence and quackery, I sometimes passed for
a _savant_. My head has become a library of odd volumes, of which I
keep the key.


CHAPTER III: MY SUFFERINGS.

I WAS tormented by masters; by tailors who made tight dresses for
me; by women, by ambition, by self-love, by useless regrets, by
kings, and by remembrances.


CHAPTER IV: PRIVATIONS.

I HAVE been deprived of the three great enjoyments of the human
species; theft, gluttony, and pride.


CHAPTER V: MEMORABLE EPOCHS.

AT the age of thirty, I gave up dancing; at forty, my endeavors
to please the fair sex; at fifty, my regard of public opinion; at
sixty, the trouble of thinking; and I have now become a true sage,
or egotist, which is the same thing.


CHAPTER VI: MORAL TRAITS.

I WAS stubborn as a mule, capricious as a coquette, frolicksome as
a child, lazy as a dormouse, active as Bonaparte, and all at my
pleasure.


CHAPTER VII: IMPORTANT RESOLUTION.

NEVER having been able to master my countenance, I let loose the
bridle of my tongue, and contracted the bad habit of thinking aloud.
This procured me some pleasures and many enemies.


CHAPTER VIII: WHAT I WAS AND WHAT I MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

I HAVE been very sensible of friendship and confidence; and if I
had been born in the golden age, I might perhaps have been a very
excellent man.


CHAPTER IX: RESPECTABLE PRINCIPLES.

I HAVE never meddled in any marriages or scandal. I have never
recommended a cook or a physician; and consequently have never
attempted the life of any one.


CHAPTER X: MY TASTES.

I TOOK pleasure in small parties, and was fond of a walk in the
woods. I had an involuntary veneration for the sun, and his setting
often made me sad. Of colors I preferred blue; in eating, beef with
horse-radish; for drinking, cold water; at the theatre, comedy
and farce; of men and women, open and expressive countenances.
Hunchbacks of both sexes always had a peculiar charm for me, which I
could never define.


CHAPTER XI: MY DISLIKES.

I HAD a dislike to sots and fops, and to intriguing women who make
a game of virtue; a disgust for affectation; pity for made-up men
and painted women; an aversion to rats, liquors, metaphysics, and
rhubarb; and a terror of justice and wild beasts.


CHAPTER XII: ANALYSIS OF MY LIFE.

I AWAIT death without fear and without impatience. My life has been
a bad melo-drama on a grand stage, where I have played the hero, the
tyrant, the lover, the nobleman, but never the valet.


CHAPTER XIII: THE BOUNTIES OF HEAVEN.

MY great happiness consists in being independent of the three
individuals who govern Europe. As I am sufficiently rich, meddle
not with politics, and care very little for music, of course I have
nothing to do with Rothschild, Metternich, or Rossini.


CHAPTER XIV: MY EPITAPH.

'HERE lies, in hope of repose, an old deceased devil, with a
worn-out spirit, an exhausted heart, and a used-up body. Ladies and
Gentlemen, pass on!'


DEDICATORY EPISTLE TO THE PUBLIC.

DOG of a Public! discordant organ of the passions! thou who raisest
thy minion to heaven, and then plungest him in the mire; thou who
extollest and slanderest without knowing why; image of the tocsin;
echo of thyself; absurd tyrant; offscouring of the meanest houses;
extract of the most subtle poisons and of the most exquisite
perfumes; representative of the devil among the human species; a
fury masked in Christian charity!--PUBLIC! whom I feared in my
youth, respected in my riper years, and despised in my old age; it
is to thee that I dedicate my memoirs. Gentle Public! I am at last
out of thy reach, for I am dead, and consequently deaf, blind, and
mute. Mayest thou enjoy these advantages for thy own repose and for
that of the human race!

       *       *       *       *       *

WE read in the '_Bibliographie Universelle et Portative des
Contemporains_' that 'when Count Rostoptchin visited Paris,
people were not a little surprised to find a man of wit and good
breeding in one whom until now they had regarded as a 'ferocious
Tartar.' This brutal epithet was no more suitable to a man like
Count Rostoptchin than that of 'an incendiary,' with which Madame
d'Abrantes has honored him in her memoirs. A great many piquant
sayings are attributed to him, of which we will merely quote the
following: 'I came to France,' said he, 'to judge for myself of the
real merit of three celebrated men; the Duke of Otranto, Prince
Talleyrand, and Potier.[C] It is only the last who seems to me to
come up to his reputation.'

  [C] A celebrated comic actor.

Here is another piquant anecdote. One day when the Emperor Paul I.
was surrounded by a numerous circle, among whom were many Russian
princes, and count Rostoptchin, his favorite minister, 'Tell me,'
abruptly asked he of the latter, 'why are you not a prince?'

After a moment's hesitation at this singular question, Count
Rostoptchin replied:

'Will your Imperial Majesty permit me to give the true reason?'

'Undoubtedly.' 'It is because my ancestor, who came from Tartary to
settle in Russia, arrived there in the winter time.'

'Ah! and what had the season of the year to do with the title that
was given him?'

'This, your Majesty; when a Tartar-lord made his first appearance at
court, it was the custom for the sovereign to give him the choice
between a fur-cloak and the title of prince. My ancestor arrived
during a very severe winter, and had the good sense to prefer the
former.'

Paul laughed heartily at this reply; and turning to the princes
who were present: 'See, gentlemen,' said he; 'you may congratulate
yourselves that your ancestors did not arrive in the winter!'




ANACREONTIC.


I.

    PULSE of my heart! dear source of care,
      Of stolen sighs and love-breathed vows;
    Sweeter than when, through scented air,
      Gay bloom the apple-boughs!

II.

    With thee no day can winter seem,
      Nor frost, nor blast can chill:
    Thou the soft breeze, the cheering beam,
      That keep it summer still!




INTERNATIONAL COPY-RIGHT.


CRISPIN, who stole leather to make shoes for the poor, was none
the less a thief, says Wolfgang Menzel, in an article on literary
piracy. But Menzel is a German, and it would be alike absurd
and unsafe for an eminently practical people, like ourselves,
to be governed in regard to our national policy by an eminently
philosophical people like the Germans. We are by no means certain
that Crispin is not a fellow to be copied: before we pronounce
judgment upon him, we must know whether he stole from his own
countrymen, or from foreigners. There is a vast difference; a
difference as great as the countries may be apart. Nothing can be
more evident than the proposition that a nation cannot exist by
domestic thievery, for I cannot steal from my neighbor unless my
neighbor steal from abroad. Therefore, in considering a theft,
nationally, it is of the first importance to know who it is that has
been robbed. Like many other acute critics, Menzel has furnished a
very potent argument to refute his own doctrines, by reasoning a
little too close: the parallel between the shoe-maker who steals
his leather for the benefit of the people, and the printer or
book-publisher who pirates the contents of a book, is a peculiarly
unhappy one for the cause he advocates. Nothing can be more evident,
no principle is more strongly interwoven in our policy as a
nation, than that of encouraging domestic manufactures. It is very
plain that if the material for our books cost us nothing, we can
manufacture them more cheaply than a rival nation that is compelled
to pay their authors for producing them; it is also equally evident
that they can therefore be afforded at a cheaper rate to the people,
and that the quantity sold will be in proportion to the lowness
of the price, and that the intelligence of the people will be in
proportion to the number of books that are read: if, in addition
to the contents of our books, we could pirate the leather, paper,
types, and ink of which they are composed, we should be the most
enlightened and independent people in the world, if we are not so
already.

The trade of authorship has always entailed on its professors
poverty and disease. The sedentary habits which it induces must
of necessity undermine health: the abstraction from the every-day
affairs of life, requisite to its successful prosecution, almost
always causes insanity, or at least mania; and it is not clear that
monomania is not an essential feature of authorship: in fact, the
history of authorship is but a record of wretchedness. No other
profession has furnished an exclusive chapter of calamities. We
never hear of the calamities of merchants, of brick-layers, or
cultivators. If then we can save our countrymen from the exercise of
a calling so manifestly injurious to their happiness and welfare,
by availing ourselves of the labors of foreigners, to whom we owe
neither protection nor fealty, what man who wishes well to his
country will have the temerity to oppose a practice so conducive
to our national prosperity? We have declared ourselves a free and
independent people; but could it be said that we were either free
or independent, if we were restrained, by self-imposed laws, from
making free with the labors of a rival nation, separated from us
by an ocean of three thousand miles? or independent, if we were
dependent upon ourselves for our intellectual pabulum?

The only independent nation of modern times was the Algerines, now
unhappily extinct. They were a model people! They were free and
independent, in the most liberal and extended sense. They were
dependent upon themselves for nothing which they could take from
other nations; and so fully did they carry out their principle
of national independence, that they looked to a foreign power to
furnish them with their governors. No native of the soil was ever
harrassed by the cares of government. All their rulers were imported
from abroad.

In respect of mere corporeal rulers, we are as yet far behind the
Algerines, but virtually we are in advance of them as respects our
governing power. No one will deny that to rule the mind is far
better, more honorable, more arduous, and more important, than to
rule the body. Our mental rulers are all foreigners; the majority
of them pensioners of a government that advocates and inculcates
principles directly opposed to those that we profess. They rule
us by means of the books that we cunningly pirate from them, and
thereby save ourselves a very great amount of trouble and expense.
It is true that some of our people are mad enough to attempt to
divide this ruling power with these foreigners, by publishing books
themselves; but their efforts only prove the correctness of our
assertion; for in order to smuggle their works into notice, they
are compelled to make them so nearly like those that are printed,
that they could not be distinguished from them, were it not for
their title-pages. Evidences of these truths abound, on all sides,
as well in the Church as the State. Some of our young preachers
have improved their opportunities of studying foreign books to that
degree, that they have boldly confessed that the great reformation
was not only unjustifiable, but a real detriment to the cause of
humanity. Others have professed a faith in the fine old conservative
doctrine of the divine right of kings; and one young presbyter
that we know, has quitted his country, and now officiates as a
chaplain in the dominions of her most gracious majesty, Victoria the
First. Other blessings equal to these are continually manifested by
our rulers and legislators, who give abundant evidence that they
have profited by the continual influx of foreign mind. One great
statesman, of the Virginia school of politics, a great patriot and
a great orator also, profited to such an extent by his foreign
books, that he could not even read a work that had been re-printed
in this country. But we would not be thought to advocate so sublime
and patriotic an extension of the great principle of pirating as
this, because it would deprive our artisans and tradesmen of a very
profitable business. Perhaps the most remarkable and beneficial
effect of our independence of ourselves, is manifested by the
clergy, who depend almost entirely upon England for their theology,
and thereby become so thoroughly imbued with an independent spirit,
that when they happen to be troubled with a thoracic disorder, or
any other disease, immediately leave their flocks to the care of the
great Head of the Church, and hurry off to Europe to consult foreign
physicians, and inhale a mouthful of foreign air.

But the real benefits of the present system of pirating English
books, consist in the employment given to capital and labor. Our
paper-mills, type-founders, printers, binders, and book-sellers,
are kept in constant employment by the intellect of Great Britain.
The brain of Walter Scott alone gave employment to a greater number
of mechanics and tradesmen than that of any American since the
revolution, with the exception of Fulton. It must be borne in mind
that the imagination of a foreign author creates for us a source of
employment, which but for him would not exist; beside furnishing for
us a never-failing source of recreation and profitable enjoyment.
Were it not for Scott and Bulwer, Boz and James, we should have
no novels to read; were it not for Tom Moore, we should have no
songs to sing; and but for foreign composers, we should have no
music. Since the successful experiment of ocean navigation, we have
become more and more independent of ourselves; and we now have
the gratification of seeing London newspapers hawked about our
streets, to the very manifest falling off in the manufacture of the
home article. If we still remain true to ourselves, and resolutely
shut our ears to the complaints of these interested and mercenary
writers, both at home and abroad, the time will soon come when our
people will be saved entirely from all literary drudgery, and even
our newspapers be re-publications of London Times' and Chronicles,
as some of our Magazines already are of London and Edinburgh and
Dublin monthlies.

How absurd, how impudent, how mercenary and grovelling, it is in
these British authors to require of us to pass a law that will
deprive ourselves of such great advantages, merely to put a few
dollars in their pockets, and encourage a set of men among us
to supplant them, and so inculcate a spirit of base and servile
self-dependence among our people! The great object of an author
should be fame. No true genius will exert himself for filthy lucre.
It must be infinitely more grateful to a high nature to be read by
thousands, than to be paid by hundreds; and therefore we benefit
these foreigners in spite of themselves, by re-printing their works
at a cheap rate, thereby greatly enlarging the circle of their
readers, and adding to their reputation. It is very true that the
British Parliament has passed a law giving to American authors the
privilege of copyright as soon as a reciprocal law shall be passed
by us; but are we to be dictated to by the British Parliament? Are
we to be reminded of our duty by foreigners, who thus make a show of
their magnanimity, only to entice us to follow their example? Shall
we become mere copyists of another nation? Forbid it Justice! forbid
it Independence!

If we concede to the foreign author a right of property in the
productions of his brain, which after all is merely the distillation
of other people's ideas expressed in some other way before him, or
at best the promptings of Nature, which are the common property of
mankind, like air and sun-shine, we shall next be called upon to
recognize the inherent and indestructible right of an author to his
works, for all time.

When a citizen purchases of government a quarter section of land
in one of the territories, and pays for it at the rate of a dollar
and a quarter the acre, it becomes his own property, and the whole
nation would rise up like one man to defend him in the undisturbed
possession of it to the end of time. But if this same citizen should
devote the flower of his manhood, the vigor of his intellect, and
even the land itself which he may have purchased of his country, in
the production of a book for the benefit of humanity, he would have
no right to the possession of his work but for a very limited number
of years; and although he would be protected in the possession of
his land, or the products of it, from foreign aggression, we would
not allow him any protection in the enjoyment of the product of his
brain, even though a foreign nation should civilly agree to respect
our law for that purpose if we should think proper to pass one.

The reasons for these distinctions in regard to different kinds of
property are so very clear and conclusive, so exceedingly simple
and obvious, that we do not choose to insult the understanding
of our readers by repeating them. Some of the advocates of an
international copy-right have urged in its favor that a measure so
just could not be otherwise than politic, and that it would be safe
to adopt one, without any regard to expediency, but relying solely
upon truth and justness. But such a principle as this is directly
at variance with the genius of our constitution and laws; and were
it adopted in one case would be urged as a precedent in another,
and an entire overthrow of our system of government would be the
consequence. Were so mischievous a principle as this once adopted
by our legislators as their rule of action, what would become of
those noble specimens of eloquence with which we are favored every
session of Congress, when members who are perfectly agreed as to the
justness of a measure, dispute for weeks and months in regard to its
expediency or profit? What would become of our army and navy, and
our corps of diplomatists? What would become of many of the peculiar
institutions of the North and of the South? In short, how would our
representatives contrive to lengthen out a session, or even make a
speech for _Bunkum_, to be read by their constituents?

The subject widens as we write; absurdities throng around our quill,
striving to get down to the nib of our pen; and the very fulness of
the argument chokes our utterance; we grow fustigatory and impatient
to lay about us; but we must conclude in the words with which an
ingenious cotemporary a few months since began an essay upon the
same subject, namely: '_Copy-right is a humbug_.'

  'FULGURA FRANGO.'




LINES TO FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

ON READING 'FORGET-ME-NOT,' IN THE JULY KNICKERBOCKER.

BY CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.


I.

    WHEN spring-time fancies haunt the brain,
      Or cluster round the young heart's shrine,
    No sadness clogs the dreamer's strain,
      To bid him o'er his lot repine:
    By Love's first fantasies oppressed,
      He hies him to some stream-laved spot,
    And sighs along the blue-flower's breast,
      'Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!'

II.

    To manhood's sterner cares allied,
      The image lords it o'er his will;
    In vain the struggles of his pride,
      The form and features haunt him still.
    His pillow sought, the toils of life,
      Trade, strifes, defeats, all are forgot,
    While with one theme his dream is rife:
      'Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!'

III.

    Poor dreamer! like his fleeting years,
      The autumn of his fond desires
    Pours disappointment's icy tears,
      To quench his youth's delusive fires.
    Within his heart, time and despair,
      To foil his hopes triumphant plot;
    Unmoved at his unceasing prayer,
      'Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!'

IV.

    Like to the flower when autumn comes
      To seek its folds with chilling breath,
    And winter's earliest whisper roams
      Its heart among, to tell of death;
    Thus on man's heart, as o'er the flower,
      Fall tears, with grief and anguish hot,
    And speeds the cry to Heaven's high POWER,
      'Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!'




THE MAIL ROBBER.

NUMBER FOUR.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.


SIR: I can only account for your conduct by this one supposition:
you must be a _drinking-man_. Nothing but the repeated, though
perhaps unconscious, inebriation arising from an excessive use
of stimulating drinks, could produce that torpidity of the moral
sentiments which is manifested by your editorial career. Your late
allusion to the cordwainers of Xeres, or in vulgar tap-room slang,
'_sherry cobblers_,' is very strong against you. Your ill-timed
merriment--the jocose levity of your 'Editor's Table'--all go to
confirm my theory. You indulge--I know you do.

Now, Sir, as a strict Washingtonian, and the corresponding secretary
of two temperance societies, I request you for the benefit of the
community to make a statement of your case, with a phrenological
chart of your developments, a brief account of your habit of body,
your temperament, age, etcetera, together with the amount which you
absorb daily, and a history of your propensity. In the anticipation
of such a statement, I forego any offence at whatever may formerly
have passed between us. You are to be pitied rather than detested.
I know, from experience, that under the influence of stimulants
we are not always accountable agents. We should be merciful one
to another; and although I have heretofore found it difficult to
repress my disgust at your folly, I assure you that I am far from
entertaining unchristian feelings. May you yet live to become a
respectable member of society, and an ornament of our ranks! You may
find worthier employment in conducting some religious journal or
temperance periodical. If you become sincerely anxious to reform,
and to distinguish yourself as an ardent champion of virtue, the
society will feel pleasure in lending you their powerful aid. Our
funds are at present somewhat low, in consequence of the prodigious
expense of a late fair and several temperance pic-nics in the
country, at which we nobly burned many whole hogsheads of the most
costly Jamaica and Cogniac spirits. The sight of the self-destroying
monster wasting away in the blue intensity of his own suicidal
flame, excelled any thing in the way of moral grandeur that I have
witnessed since the Croton-aqueduct celebration. Still, in spite of
our tremendous disbursements, I will venture to promise you, if you
enlist under the banners of the cause, a handsome situation, either
as a Reformed Inebriate, or a travelling County-Delegation Jubilee
Pic-Nic Poet and Orator. Depend upon it, that under the cold-water
system your profits will be increased, your morals improved, your
appetite and intellectual faculties enlarged and well-balanced, and
all the fibres of the frame restored to a firm, vigorous tone.

Touching the subject of these letters, I would observe that our
English friend has done very wisely in permitting their publication.
But surely you will not think of accepting his favors without giving
him an adequate requital. I am told they are extensively read, and
add much to the attractions of your Magazine. He certainly ought to
be most handsomely paid. Having never thought it worth while to make
any poetry myself, I cannot well judge of the labor of making it,
or of its value; but I know that we have repeatedly paid clergymen
in New-England thirty or forty dollars for a temperance ode, and
hymn to match. For my own part, I am willing to sink my demand
(albeit a prior one) in favor of his own claim. He will consider
the propriety of either going on shares with me, or allowing me
whatever premium he may think just upon each letter. Instrumental
as I have been in preserving his epistles from the dangers of
flood and fire, and procuring their secure transmission, through
the pages of the KNICKERBOCKER, to their destination, he will not
neglect my hint. I am willing to look upon it as merely a commission
business; my object being rather an amicable arrangement, and a
mutual understanding of each other's interests, than any thing of a
mercenary nature. Whatever profit may fall to my hands shall all be
faithfully devoted to the Cause.

I send you herewith a splendid pictorial illustration, colored to
the life, of the awful appearance of the interior of a drunkard's
stomach. It has produced a powerful sensation in Boston, and may
persuade you to reflect upon the possible condition of your own
intestines.

I beg that you will by no means print this letter, as it may look
like trumpeting my own goodness.

  Yours, etc., in the Pledge,

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTWITHSTANDING the foregoing injunction of the pacified financier
not to print his letter, it is evident that he intended it for the
public eye. It would moreover be most unjust not to let the world
into a knowledge of his many virtues. As to our own vices, and
especially the one here dwelt upon with so much fervor, we must be
permitted to remark, in reply to the commiseration and advice of our
moral friend, that during the whole course of a life 'now some years
wasted,' we were never 'groggy,' 'intoxicated,' 'boozy,' 'swipsed,'
'cut,' 'how-came-you-so,' 'swizzled,' or 'tight,' but _once_; and
assuredly _that_, as DOGBERRY says, 'shall be _suffegance_.' On
a certain evening of one of the remote 'days that were' in our
history, we remember ('ah! yes! too well remember!') trying to
discover whether there was any foundation for the suspicion of a
friend, that we had been over-'indulging' at a supper-party from
which we both were returning. The fact truly was so. We ascertained,
in endeavoring, for the satisfaction of our friend, to 'toe a mark'
in the pavé, that the side-walk invariably followed the lifted
foot; and that when we essayed to set its fellow down, the pavement
receded in such a terrific manner that the sole encountered it with
a good deal more of emphasis than discretion. We recollect, too,
that the key-hole of our bachelor's-apartment was found to have
been stolen on that memorable evening, rendering our key nugatory,
adscititious, of no account, and so forth; and that when, by the aid
of a fellow-lodger, we had achieved our room and bed, we found the
latter emphatically a 'sick' one, and at times during the night in a
very 'sinking condition;' so much so indeed, that at one period we
began to 'despair of its _recovery_.' But that one abuse of Nature,
(who always revenges herself, and at once, upon her assailants,)
taught us a lesson which we have never forgotten, and never shall,
'unto thylke day i' the which we crepe into our sepulchre.' For the
rest, we certainly _do_ affect an occasional glass of _good_ wine
at a cheerful board, with congenial guests; such wine as we are
informed, on the _best_ authority, 'maketh glad the heart of man;'
such as Saint PAUL recommended to his brethren 'for their stomach's
sake;' a wine, in short, which 'creates a spiritual vineyard in the
heart,' and 'dispenses one's affections among his fellow men.'

  ED. KNICKERBOCKER.




LETTER FOURTH.

TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, FLORENCE.

BY THE HANDS OF SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., LONDON.


    ON the rough Bracco's top, at break of day,
      High o'er that gulf which bounds the Genoese,
    Since thou and I pursued our mountain way,
      Twenty Decembers have disrobed the trees.

    Rome lay before us, hid beyond the peaks
      Which rose afar, our longing eyes to guide;
    The wave was one whose name a history speaks,
      The Tyrrhene sea--the pure blue Tuscan tide.

    So many summers, in their gay return,
      Have found my pilgrimage still incomplete,
    Doomed as I seem, Ulysses-like, to earn
      My little knowledge by much toil of feet.

    Charmed by the glowing earth and golden sky,
      In Arno's vale you made yourself a nest;
    There perched in peace and bookish ease, while I
      Still journeyed on, and found no place of rest.

    And here I am in this prosaic land,
      This new Hesperia, less be-rhymed than thine,
    Here try the skill of my neglected hand
      To catch the favors of the chary Nine.

    And here, amid remembrances that throng
      Thicker than blossoms in the new-born June,
    Thine chiefly claims the witness of a song
      That still at least my heart remains in tune.

    You will not fail to pardon as you break
      The blushing seal that bears the well-known crest;
    And every line, however rude, shall wake
      Kind thoughts of him who wanders in the West.

    But never hope (with so refined a sense
      Of what is well conceived and ably wrought,)
    To find my verse retain its old pretence
      To the smooth utterance of an easy thought.

    For who can sing amid this roar of streets,
      This crash of engines and discordant mills?
    Where, ev'n in Solitude's most hushed retreats,
      Machinery drowns the music of the rills?

    True, Nature here hath donned her gala robe,
      Drest in all charms--wild, savage, and sublime;
    Within one realm enfolding half the globe,
      Flowers of all soils, and fruits of every clime.

    Yet nothing here conveys the musing mind
      Beyond the landmarks of the present hour,
    Since every impulse is of sordid kind,
      Among this race, that moves the Fancy's power.

    No mighty bard, with consecrating touch,
      Hath made the scene a nobler mood inspire;
    The sullen Puritan, the sensual Dutch,
      Proved but a barren fosterage for the lyre.

    Beauty should speak: however fair the shore,
      With balmy groves which all the coast perfume,
    Until his eloquence the minstrel pour
      Over the landscape, vainly must it bloom.

    E'en thy dear Italy, whose ashes now,
      Albeit feebly, warm our Saxon strains,
    Was once, ere yet her vallies felt the plough,
      Fameless and voiceless as Iowa's plains.

    Imagine old OEnotria as she stood
      In Saturn's reign, before the stranger came;
    Ere yet the stillness of the trackless wood
      Had heard the echoes of a Trojan's name.

    Young Latium then, as now Missouri's waste,
      Was dumb in story, soulless and unsung:
    Whatever deeds her savage annals graced
      Died soon, as lacking some harmonious tongue.

    Up her dark streams the first explorers found
      Only one dim, interminable shade;
    Cliffs with the growth of awful ages crowned,
      Amid whose gloom the wolf and wild-boar preyed.

    Afar, perchance, on some sky-piercing height,
      Nigh the last limit of the eagle's road,
    Some stray Pelasgians had assumed a site
      To pitch their proud, impregnable abode.

    Pent in their airy dens, the builders reared
      Turrets, fanes, altars fed with daily flame;
    But with their walls their memory disappeared:
      Their meanest implements outlive their name.

    What race of giants piled yon rocks so high?
      Who cut those hidden channels for the rills?
    Drained the deep lake, and sucked the marshes dry,
      Or hollowed into sepulchres the hills?

    These, in the time of Romulus, were old;
      Even then as now conjecture could but err;
    In prose or verse no chronicler hath told
      Whence the tribes came, and who their heroes were.

    A few rough sculptures and funereal urns,
      Which still are mocked by unimproving Art,
    Perplex the mind till tired reflection turns
      To the great people dearer to her heart.

    Soon as they rose--the Capitolian lords--
      The land grew sacred and beloved of GOD;
    Where'er they brandished their triumphant swords
      Glory sprang forth and sanctified the sod.

    Ev'n yet their tombs, though dateless and decayed,
      Allure the northern pilgrim from afar;
    Still Contemplation's orisons are paid
      Where any fragments of their trophies are.

    Nay, whether wandering by the swollen Rhone,
      Or by the Thames, we mark the Cæsar's tracks,
    Wondering how far, from their Tarpeian flown,
      The ambitious eagles bore the praetor's axe;

    Those toga'd kings, the fathers and the knights,
      Are still our masters, and within us reign;
    Born though we were by Alleghany's heights,
      Beyond the desolation of the main.

    For while the music of their language lasts,
      They shall not perish like the painted men
    (Brief-lived in memory as the winter's blasts)
      Who here once held the hill-top and the glen.

    These had their passions, had their virtues, too;
      Were valiant, proud, indomitably free;
    But who recalls them with delight, or who
      Their coarse mementos with esteem can see?

    From them and their's with cold regard we turn,
      The wreck of polished nations to survey,
    Nor care the savage attributes to learn
      Of souls that struggled with barbarian clay.

    With what emotion on a coin we trace
      Vespasian's brow, or Trajan's chastened smile,
    But view with heedless eye the murderous mace
      And chequered lance of Zealand's warrior-isle.

    Here, by the ploughman, as with daily tread
      He tracks the furrows of his fertile ground,
    Dark locks of hair, and thigh-bones of the dead,
      Spear-heads, and skulls, and arrows oft are found.

    On such memorials unconcerned we gaze;
      No trace remaining of the glow divine,
    Wherewith, dear WALTER! in our Eton days
      We eyed a fragment from the Palatine.

    How rich to us th' Imperial City seemed,
      Whose meanest relic vied with any gem!
    The costly stones on kingly crowns that gleamed
      Possessed small beauty, if compared with them.

    Cellini's workmanship could nothing add,
      Nor the Pope's blessing, nor a case of gold,
    To the strange value every pebble had
      O'er which perchance the Tiber's wave had rolled.

    It fired us then to trace upon the map
      The forum's line, the Pincian garden's paths;
    Ay, or to finger but a stucco scrap
      Or marble shred from Caracalla's baths.

    A like enchantment all thy land pervades,
      Mellows the sunshine, softens autumn's breeze;
    O'erhangs the mouldering town and chestnut shades,
      And glows and sparkles in the golden seas.

    No such a spell the charm'd adventurer guides
      Who seeks those ruins hid in Yucatan,
    Where through the tropic forest silent glides,
      By crumbled fane and idol, slow Copan.

    There, as the weedy pyramid he climbs,
      Or notes, mid groves that rankly wave above,
    The work of nameless hands in unknown times,
      Much wakes his wonder--nothing stirs his love.

    Art's rude beginnings, wheresoever found,
      The same dull chord of feeling faintly strike;
    The Druid's pillar, and the Indian mound,
      And Uxmal's monuments, are mute alike.

    Nor here, although the gorgeous year hath brought
      Crimson October's beautiful decay,
    Can all this loveliness inspire a thought
      Beyond the marvels of the fleeting day.

    For here the Present overpowers the Past;
      No recollections to these woods belong,
    (O'er which no minstrelsy its veil hath cast)
      To rouse our worship, or supply my song.

    But this will come; the necromancer Age
      Shall round the wilderness his glory throw;
    Hudson shall murmur through the poet's page,
      And in his numbers more superbly flow.

    Ev'n now perhaps, the destined soul is born,
      Warm with high hope, though dumbly pent within,
    To shield his country from the common scorn,
      That never duly hymned her praise hath been.

    Enough--'t is more than midnight by the clock;
      Manhattan dreams of dollars, all abed:
    With you, dear WALTER, 't is the crow of cock,
      And o'er Fièsole the skies are red.

    Good night! yet stay--both longitudes to suit,
      At once the absent and returning light,
    Thus let me bid our mutual salute;
      To you _Buon giorno_--to myself Good night!

  T. W. P.




LITERARY NOTICES.


     ANNALS AND OCCURRENCES OF NEW-YORK CITY AND STATE IN THE OLDEN
     TIME. BY JOHN F. WATSON, ESQ. NEW-YORK: BAKER AND CRANE.

HERE is a new work touching the KNICKERBOCKERS, which _we_
are especially bound to notice; and this we do with the more
satisfaction, that we can heartily commend it to the notice of our
readers, or what is the same thing, to 'the public at large.' We
perceive by a few pages of the work which have been laid before
us, that this is an enlargement of a former edition, favorably
known to the reading public, entitled '_Historic Tales of Olden
Time concerning New-York_.' It now notices the rise and progress
of the inland country and towns, relates much concerning the
pioneer settlers, and details the hostilities and ravages of their
Indian neighbors. It is in fact a complete history of a buried
age; and brings up to the imagination, for its contemplation and
entertainment, a picture of 'things as they were in the days of
rustic simplicity, so wholly unlike the present display of fashion,
pomp, and splendor.' It is easy to perceive that Mr. WATSON gathers
facts and writes _con amore_; not for profit, in this book-making
age, but because he feels and sees our wonderfully rapid advancement
from small things to great. 'I have written,' he says, 'for New-York
and State; not for money, but for patriotism. I felt it due to
the country, to tell its tale of wonder; and due to GOD, for His
gracious and signal providence, in so settling and prospering our
Anglo-Saxon race, in this new field of His exercise.' To quote the
warm language of one of our contemporaries: 'This is in truth a
work without example for its imitation; and with equal truth, it is
in execution a work _sui generis_. It is a museum that will never
cease to attract. Its annals and statistics will have snatched from
oblivion valuable reminiscences of the early youth of our country;
and will furnish the historian, biographer, and the patriotic orator
with matter to adorn and beautify their productions. He deserves
the gratitude of his country, and the patronage of the reading
community. Wherefore, no American that can read and can afford to
purchase, should be without a copy of this valuable contribution to
the memoirs of early American history.' We venture to predict that
the aged will be delighted to be thus reminded of things which they
have heard of, or perhaps witnessed; and the young will be surprised
to find such a lively picture of the doings of their forefathers.
Among the many subjects considered, are the first settlements and
primitive incidents connected with New-York, Albany, Schenectady,
Rochester, Brooklyn, etc.; notices of the early Dutch times; manners
and customs; dress, furniture, and equipage; local changes; ancient
memorials, and curious facts. Much is said of the Indians; of the
local incidents connected with the revolutionary war; of ancient
edifices and buildings; in short, of every thing calculated to bring
back scenes and occurrences of by-gone times. These matters too are
related in a style peculiar to the author; they are matters moreover
only to have been perceived and scanned by a mind so constituted
as his own. The work is undertaken by Messrs. BAKER AND CRANE, a
young and enterprising metropolitan house, and will be completed
in one octavo volume of about five hundred pages; illustrated with
thirty new pictorial embellishments; and furnished to subscribers
at the low rate of two dollars per copy, payable on delivery. Among
the engravings, which are to be executed in the best manner on
wood, will be two views of New-York City; one of New-Amsterdam in
1659, one of New-Orange in 1673; a map of the city, as it appeared
in 1729; pictures of the old Federal Hall, in 1789; the Walton and
Provost Houses; Trinity church, now numbered in the catalogue of
things that have been; the Merchants' Exchange, destroyed by the
'great fire' of '35; beside numerous other edifices, of interest to
the antiquary; and also views of HUDSON'S arrival at Sandy-Hook;
the Erie Canal, Niagara Falls, the Conflagration of Schenectady,
etc., etc.; and 'last, though not least,' a _fac simile_ of
the head and signature of the good old governor, renowned in
KNICKERBOCKER'S annals as 'PETER the Headstrong,' or 'HARD-KOPPING
PIET.' 'Finally, brethren,' let every KNICKERBOCKER who feels an
affectionate attachment to the home of _his_ fathers, or veneration
for the memory of _their_ fathers, secure at once for himself a
knowledge of all manner of curious things inseparable from our
history, from one who has been called 'the HOMER of his class, and
in archeology, peerless.' Subscription-lists are open at the office
of the KNICKERBOCKER, at the store of the publishers, number 158
Pearl-street, and at the rooms of the Mercantile Library Association.


     LETTERS FROM NEW-YORK. By L. MARIA CHILD, Author of 'The
     Mother's own Book,' 'The Girl's Book,' etc. In one volume, pp.
     276. New-York: C. S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY. Boston: JAMES MONROE
     AND COMPANY.

IN the dedication of this volume, the writer alludes to its being
'deeply tinged with romance and mysticism;' but to our conception,
its pages exhibit a far greater amount of _truth_, undeniable, and
of deep import to society at large, and to our own metropolitan
community especially. Here is a woman who knows 'how to observe;'
and we cannot do a better service to thousands in our city, who
walk its streets and thoroughfares, and visit the hundred-and-one
places of resort in its vicinity, without appreciating or enjoying
the objects of interest or instruction by which they are surrounded,
than to call their attention to the records of the volume under
notice. And having done this, we shall proceed to illustrate the
reason for the faith that is in us that they will thank us for this
recommendation, by presenting a few desultory extracts. Let us
commence them with a remarkable case of instinctive knowledge in
birds, related by the writer's grandfather, who saw the fact with
his own eyes:

     'HE was attracted to the door, one summer day, by a troubled
     twittering, indicating distress and terror. A bird, who had
     built her nest in a tree near the door, was flying back and
     forth with the utmost speed, uttering wailing cries as she went.
     He was at first at a loss to account for her strange movements;
     but they were soon explained by the sight of a snake slowly
     winding up the tree. Animal magnetism was then unheard of; and
     whosoever had dared to mention it, would doubtless have been
     hung on Witch's Hill, without benefit of clergy. Nevertheless,
     marvellous and altogether unaccountable stories had been told of
     the snake's power to charm birds. The popular belief was, that
     the serpent charmed the bird by _looking steadily at it; and
     that such a sympathy was thereby established, that if the snake
     were struck, the bird felt the blow, and writhed under it_.

     'These traditions excited my grandfather's curiosity to watch
     the progress of things; but, being a humane man, he resolved to
     kill the snake before he had a chance to despoil the nest. The
     distressed mother meanwhile continued her rapid movements and
     troubled cries; and he soon discovered that she went and came
     continually, with something in her bill, from one particular
     tree--a white ash. The snake wound his way up; but the instant
     his head came near the nest, his folds relaxed, and he fell to
     the ground, rigid and apparently lifeless. My grandfather made
     sure of his death by cutting off his head, and then mounted
     the tree to examine into the mystery. The snug little nest was
     filled with eggs, and covered with leaves of the white-ash! That
     little bird knew, if my readers do not, that contact with the
     white-ash is deadly to a snake. This is no idle superstition,
     but a veritable fact in natural history. The Indians are aware
     of it, and twist garlands of white-ash leaves about their
     ankles, as a protection against rattlesnakes. Slaves often take
     the same precaution when they travel through swamps and forests,
     guided by the north star; or to the cabin of some poor white
     man, who teaches them to read and write by the light of pine
     splinters, and receives his pay in 'massa's' corn or tobacco.

     'I have never heard any explanation of the effect produced by
     the white-ash; but I know that settlers in the wilderness like
     to have these trees round their log-houses, being convinced that
     no snake will voluntarily come near them. When touched with
     the boughs, they are said to grow suddenly rigid, with strong
     convulsions; after a while they slowly recover, but seem sickly
     for some time.'

Here is a charming sketch of an actual occurrence, which goes far
to confirm the writer's impression 'that instinct is founded on
traditions handed down among animals from generation to generation,
and is therefore a matter of education:'

     'TWO barn-swallows came into our wood-shed in the spring time.
     Their busy, earnest twitterings led me at once to suspect that
     they were looking out a building-spot; but as a carpenter's
     bench was under the window, and frequent hammering, sawing,
     and planing were going on, I had little hope that they would
     choose a location under our roof. To my surprise, however, they
     soon began to build in the crotch of a beam, over the open
     door-way. I was delighted, and spent more time watching them
     than 'penny-wise' people would have approved. It was, in fact,
     a beautiful little drama of domestic love. The mother-bird was
     _so_ busy, and _so_ important; and her mate was _so_ attentive!
     Never did any newly-married couple take more satisfaction with
     their first nicely-arranged drawer of baby-clothes, than these
     did in fashioning their little woven cradle. The father-bird
     scarcely ever left the side of the nest. There he was, all
     day long, twittering in tones that were most obviously the
     outpourings of love. Sometimes he would bring in a straw, or
     a hair, to be inwoven in the precious little fabric. One day
     my attention was arrested by a very unusual twittering, and I
     saw him circling round with a large downy feather in his bill.
     He bent over the unfinished nest, and offered it to his mate
     with the most graceful and loving air imaginable; and when she
     put up her mouth to take it, he poured forth _such_ a gush of
     gladsome sound! It seemed as if pride and affection had swelled
     his heart, till it was almost too big for his little bosom. The
     whole transaction was the prettiest piece of fond coquetry, on
     both sides, that it was ever my good luck to witness.

     'It was evident that the father-bird had formed correct opinions
     on 'the woman question;' for during the process of incubation
     he volunteered to perform his share of household duty. Three or
     four times a day would he, with coaxing twitterings, persuade
     his patient mate to fly abroad for food; and the moment she left
     the eggs, he would take the maternal station, and give a loud
     alarm whenever cat or dog came about the premises. He certainly
     performed the office with far less ease and grace than she did;
     it was something in the style of an old bachelor tending a
     babe; but nevertheless it showed that his heart was kind, and
     his principles correct, concerning division of labor. When the
     young ones came forth, he pursued the same equalizing policy,
     and brought at least half the food for his greedy little family.
     But when they become old enough to fly, the veriest misanthrope
     would have laughed to watch their manoeuvres! Such chirping and
     twittering! Such diving down from the nest, and flying up again!
     Such wheeling round in circles, talking to the young ones all
     the while! Such clinging to the sides of the shed with their
     sharp claws, to show the timid little fledgelings that there was
     no need of falling!

     'For three days all this was carried on with increasing
     activity. It was obviously an infant flying-school. But all
     their talking and fuss were of no avail. The little downy things
     looked down, and then looked up, and alarmed at the infinity
     of space, sank back into the nest again. At length the parents
     grew impatient, and summoned their neighbors. As I was picking
     up chips one day, I found my head encircled with a swarm of
     swallows. They flew up to the nest, and chatted away to the
     young ones; they clung to the walls, looking back to tell how
     the thing was done; they dived, and wheeled, and balanced, and
     floated, in a manner perfectly beautiful to behold.

     'The pupils were evidently much excited. They jumped up on the
     edge of the nest, and twittered, and shook their feathers, and
     waved their wings; and then hopped back again, saying, 'It's
     pretty sport, but we can't do it!' Three times the neighbors
     came in and repeated their graceful lessons. The third time,
     two of the young birds gave a sudden plunge downward, and then
     fluttered and hopped, till they alighted on a small upright log.
     And oh! such praises as were warbled by the whole troop! The
     air was filled with their joy! Some were flying round, swift
     as a ray of light; others were perched on the hoe-handle, and
     the teeth of the rake; multitudes clung to the wall, after the
     fashion of their pretty kind; and two were swinging, in most
     graceful style, on a pendant hoop. Never, while memory lasts,
     shall I forget that swallow-party! I have frolicked with blessed
     Nature much and often; but this, above all her gambols, spoke
     into my inmost heart, like the glad voices of little children.
     That beautiful family continued to be our playmates until the
     falling leaves gave token of approaching winter. For some time,
     the little ones came home regularly to their nest at night. I
     was ever on the watch to welcome them, and count that none were
     missing. A sculptor might have taken a lesson in his art from
     those little creatures, perched so gracefully on the edge of
     their clay-built cradle, fast asleep, with heads hidden under
     their folded wings. Their familiarity was wonderful. If I hung
     my gown on a nail, I found a little swallow perched on the
     sleeve. If I took a nap in the afternoon, my waking eyes were
     greeted by a swallow on the bed-post; in the summer twilight
     they flew about the sitting-room in search of flies, and
     sometimes lighted on chairs and tables. I almost thought they
     knew how much I loved them. But at last they flew away to more
     genial skies, with a whole troop of relations and neighbors. It
     was a deep pain to me, that I should never know them from other
     swallows, and that they would have no recollection of me.'

Mrs. CHILD has a remarkable power of _adaptation_ in her style. Her
similes are often exceedingly forcible and felicitous. Observe the
admirable comparison which closes the ensuing passage, descriptive
of the services at the Synagogue of the Jews, on the Festival of the
New-Year:

     'WHILE they were chanting an earnest prayer for the coming of
     the Promised One, who was to restore the scattered tribes, I
     turned over the leaves, and by a singular coincidence my eye
     rested on these words: 'Abraham said, See ye not the splended
     light now shining on Mount Moriah? And they answered, _Nothing
     but caverns do we see_.' I thought of Jesus, and the whole
     pageant became more spectral than ever; so strangely vague and
     shadowy, that I felt as if under the influence of magic. The
     significant sentence reminded me of a German friend, who shared
     his sleeping apartment with another gentleman, and both were in
     the habit of waking very early in the morning. One night, his
     companion rose much earlier than he intended; and perceiving his
     mistake, placed a lighted lamp in the chimney corner, that its
     glare might not disturb the sleeper, leaned his back against the
     fire-place, and began to read. Sometime after, the German rose,
     left him reading, and walked forth into the morning twilight.
     When he returned, the sun was shining high up in the heavens;
     but his companion, unconscious of the change, was still reading
     by lamp-light in the chimney corner. And this the Jews are now
     doing, as well as a very large proportion of Christians.'

And in this allusion to the tyranny of public opinion, there is an
important truth very adroitly enforced by an apposite anecdote,
timely remembered:

     'FEW men ask concerning right and wrong of their _own_ hearts.
     Few listen to the oracle _within_, which can only be heard
     in the stillness. The merchant seeks his moral standard on
     'change--a fitting name for a thing so fluctuating; the sectary
     in the opinion of his small theological department; the
     politician in the tumultuous echo of his party; the worldling
     in the buzz of saloons. In a word, each man inquires of _his_
     public; what wonder, then, that the answers are selfish as
     trading interest, blind as local prejudice, and various as
     human whim? A German drawing-master once told me of a lad who
     wished to sketch landscapes from nature. The teacher told him
     that the first object was to choose some _fixed point of view_.
     The sagacious pupil chose a cow grazing beneath the trees. Of
     course, his _fixed point_ soon began to move hither and thither,
     as she was attracted by the sweetness of the pasturage; and
     the lines of his drawing fell into strange confusion. This is
     a correct type of those who choose public opinion for their
     moral fixed point of view. It moves according to the provender
     before it, and they who trust to it have but a whirling and
     distorted landscape. Coleridge defines public opinion as 'the
     average prejudices of the community.' Wo unto those who have
     no safer guide of principle and practice than this 'average of
     prejudices!''

Doubtless a vast number of persons as fervently desire the time when
'wars shall cease from under the whole heaven,' as our author. Like
herself, thousands feel that

    'Too long at clash of arms amid her bowers,
    And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast:'

but she will find few who will carry the prejudice which a hatred
of war has created in her bosom so far as she has done. On visiting
what was once the grave of ANDRE, she is shown by the guide the
head-quarters of General WASHINGTON: 'I turned my back suddenly
upon it. The last place on earth where I would wish to think of
WASHINGTON is at the grave of ANDRE.' And she adds, that she never
could look upon ANDRE'S execution 'as other than _a cool, deliberate
murder_!' The stern necessity which impelled the FATHER OF HIS
COUNTRY to this act, at which his great heart, throbbing with the
cares of an infant empire, melted in pity, is termed 'a selfish
jealousy, dignified with the name of patriotism!' All this, however,
is creditable to the _woman's-heart_ of our author; as is her wish,
and the 'strong faith' of which it is the father, that the time is
not distant when 'all _prisons_ will cease from the face of the
earth.' Human nature, howbeit, must undergo an important change
before such an event can take place; and a long time must elapse
before WASHINGTON'S memory can receive any injury from attacks upon
it like the one above cited. We are getting, however, to the end of
our tether, in the 'short commons' left for us in this department;
but after the written and 'illustrated' praise which we have awarded
to the volume before us, we are compelled, in candor, to add a word
or two of censure. Now and then, it must be admitted, our author is
slightly vague and _bizarre_, as if to make good the declaration
in her dedication; and she can be, moreover, on occasion, a little
mawkish; as in the instance where, after the sentiment has been
satisfied, she pumps up a feeling, and 'drags in by ear and horn'
a struggling sentence touching two doves in the room that once was
ANDRE'S; their 'mated human hearts,' and so forth. These and one
or two kindred simulations, or ultra-sentimentalities, are not
_intellectually_ feminine, and must be set down as defects in the
generally natural and fresh style of our gifted author, whose clever
volume we are glad of an opportunity warmly to commend to public
acceptance. Some readers may find in it matters to condemn, perhaps,
but all will encounter much that is deserving of cordial praise.


DEATH: OR MEDORUS' DREAM. By the Author of 'Ahasuerus.' In one
volume, pp. 66. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

WE deem it a substantial tribute to the merits of the poem before
us, that it has elicited the cordial commendations of two daily
journals of authority in our midst; the antipodal editors of which,
(one of them the first of American poets,) in awarding their meed of
praise, candidly confessed that the production was more likely to be
judged by a political standard at the seat of government, than by
any critical measure, based upon an impartial consideration of its
literary qualities. For ourselves, we must say that we have perused
the poem with a pleasure not a little enhanced by the reflection,
that the author has been enabled to find leisure, amidst engagements
which, if one may believe the partizan journals, must needs be
numerous and pressing, to pay that attention to literary pursuits,
which by so many politicians, and utilitarians of another class, are
considered 'useless, if not belittling, to a man of mental calibre
sufficient for any thing more manly than verse-making.' Indeed, this
position we remember somewhere to have seen assumed and defended,
in the words we have quoted. The opening of 'Medorus' Dream,' the
fine lines on 'Death,' have already appeared in the KNICKERBOCKER,
from the manuscript of the author. They will be remembered not only
by the readers of this Magazine, but also by those of very many
journals throughout the Union, into which they were copied, with
expressions of warm admiration. In selecting, therefore, a few
extracts, in corroboration of the justice of our encomiums, we shall
plunge at once _in medias res_ into the volume before us; leaving
our readers to judge whether the writer does not exhibit a hearty
love and keen observation of Nature, in her various phases; a strong
sense of the beautiful and the true; and an ease and smoothness
of versification, which go far to controvert the theory that, for
certain reasons, (among which 'a restless ambition' has been cited
as the chief,) 'there can be little poetry in high places.' Take,
for example, the annexed brief but comprehensive glance at the four
seasons:

    SPRING laughing comes to bless the verdant land.
    Sweet breezes kiss the glowing curls that lie
    Upon her blooming cheek; a lambent fire
    Plays from her radiant eyes; 'neath her light step
    Daisies and cowslips grow. Upon the bud
    She breathes, and quick the rose unfolds
    Its tinted leaves, and, trembling with keen bliss,
    Sips the pure morning dews, and soft exhales
    A gentle odor through the garden's walks,
    More sweet than beauty's breath. Hark to those sounds!
    The warbling notes that rise upon the gale
    Steal o'er the soul like voices of pure prayer,
    Or dream of Eden's joys. O'er all the earth
    Warm sunshine streams, whose fructifying rays
    Strike through the fibrous soil, and quicken there
    A thousand lovely forms; these straightway start
    From that deep sleep which heaven so kindly sends
    Through winter's rugged hour, while soon they join
    The happy circle of all beauteous things,
    That fill the world with perfume and with song,
    Hailing their bounteous mistress, virgin Spring!

    Mark SUMMER, sitting 'neath yon spreading palm,
    Her shady throne. With matron dignity
    She gazes round, and smiles in quiet pride
    While counting o'er the glorious wealth that fills
    Her wide domain. Now wave the growing fields
    Beneath the rip'ning winds and the warm sun;
    Now the soft pulp of the distending fruits
    Imbibes rich nectar from the glowing beams
    Of the calm, golden day. Now Hope sits laughing
    In a world of light, and Promise near
    Weaves the bright numbers of a joyous lay,
    With Plenty still the burden of his theme.

    Next AUTUMN comes, the sweet industrious maid,
    Who garners up the treasures of past days,
    Brown nuts, and yellow grain, and ripen'd stores
    Of mellow'd fruits; yet still a pensive smile,
    As soft as moonlight on some slumb'ring stream,
    Throws o'er her face a melancholy shade
    Of sober thought, as though her heart was sad
    That the large harvests which her sickle wins
    Should leave the earth so bare. And then she sings
    A plaintive strain that echoes through the land,
    Like the wild cooings of some soft-toned dove,
    A note of resignation and of peace,
    Though still a sound of sadness from the soul.

    Lo! WINTER rushes from the land of storms:
    From the cold Arctic regions, where he sat
    'Mong clouds and darkness, and vast misshaped forms,
    He comes, with frosts, and howling winds, and hail,
    And the dark terrors of a sunless sky.
    Unshorn his ragged beard, and his fierce eyes,
    Relentless as the murderer's stony heart,
    Condemns the victim, while his icy breath,
    More deadly than the lightning's fiery gleam,
    Sweeps life into oblivion. Spirit, no;
    Man's finite faculties alone may see
    Such evil in God's goodness: we behold
    A crowning mercy of beneficence
    In Winter's coldest blast. Could earth exist
    Without that change in matter and in form
    By which her strength recuperates, and lends
    An impulse unto Nature's fostering will?
    The pulpy fruit would perish where it falls
    But for the bitter kernel; flowers would fade,
    No more mid sweet ambrosial dews to bloom,
    But for the winter's torpid touch, that crusts
    The leathery seed with its rough coating o'er,
    Freezes its ardent currents ere they spring
    Into ephemeral being, and thus yields
    Unto a small and leaden speck, a power
    Of life perpetual, and from dull clay
    Maintains a breathing world.'

'A ducat to a beggarly denier' that we saw the same ocean, glowing
under the same glorious summer-evening light, as is described in the
lines which ensue. We have never compared notes with our author; but
it seems impossible that the kindred scene in which we revelled on a
memorable occasion at the Telegraph station, by the Narrows, should
not have extended to Fire-Island; the _locale_, we cannot help
inferring, of this picture:

    OFT hath the man who loveth Nature's ways,
    Musing, gone forth alone by Ocean's tide,
    And, gazing on that amaranthine plain,
    Hath mark'd the rich beams of descending day
    Shoot slanting o'er the light and feathery waves,
    Until the sea, by burning passion moved,
    Through all its depths, turns into liquid gold,
    And heaves and thrills beneath those ardent rays,
    With love too strong for mortal minds to know,
    With love too deep for mortal hearts to feel.
    Then, from that glorious main, his soul-lit eye
    Hath wander'd strait to heaven, and in one view
    The pearl, and flame, and amethyst, and gold,
    The shadowy vermeil flush, the purple light,
    The amber-tinted streak, and banner'd clouds,
    Like incense streaming up from Evening's shrine,
    Wafted by gentle gales along the sky,
    The beauty, brightness, majesty, and pomp,
    The gorgeous splendor of the imperial West,
    Burst on his raptured sight! He, happy then,
    While Fancy's spirit-form smiles o'er his head,
    Deems it the lovely sky that canopies
    The land of Paradise.

Here is a wider reach of more varied scenery, yet not less forcible
than the more 'thin compositions,' to use the painter's phrase:

    FIRST, as they look'd, there rose upon the sight
    Long, waving chains of happy-smiling hills,
    Uprising gently from the sloping vales,
    As if to woo the rustling noontide winds:
    Next, wide-expansive, music-making seas,
    Across whose placid, soft-suspiring tides
    The playful breezes fly, on tireless wings.
    Then, 'neath their wond'ring eyes at once display'd,
    Behold, in one far-sweeping, lovely view,
    The broad green vesture of the quick'ning sod
    Trembling with heat, and glowing into life
    Under the warm sun's vivifying beams:
    The Desert's thirsty plains gemm'd with their green
    And cool oases, bright mid barren sands;
    Rivers whose pearly tides stretch'd far away
    Through fertile lands to Ocean's emerald brink;
    And lakes that seem'd, in their transparent depths,
    The crystal eyes of Earth. Here mountains, hills,
    And winding dales, fair seas, and shining lakes,
    And silvery streams, gay-blooming boughs, and flowery turf,
    Conspire, in all their loveliest power, to make
    The warm, the fresh, the pure, and beauteous form
          Of this enamell'd world.'

Lovers of flowers; gentle maidens, scarcely less fragile and fair;
and ye of the 'sterner sex,' who are not ashamed to praise heaven
and earth; we ask you if the ensuing lines are not 'beautiful
exceedingly:'

    The red Rose, blushing in its virgin pride,
    Hangs lightly on its green and briery stalk,
    And kisses from its pale-cheek'd sister's brow,
    With trembling lip, the pearly tear away.

    Here Violets, that spring by stealth at night,
    Of rarer scents and sweeter shapes than those
    Pluck'd by the village maiden in the vale,
    Ere yet the sun hath touch'd their dewy leaves,
    Mingle their balmiest odors and their hues
            With the soft-nectar'd sighs
    Of wind-flowers, pansies, hyacinths, oxlips,
            And sun-striped tulips tall,
    Until the freighted airs themselves grow faint,
    And on their weary way sink down to sleep
    Among the silent wild-flowers watching there.

We have purposely abstained from a detailed review or analysis of
the poem under notice; preferring that the reader should derive
his impression of the performance from such portions of it, taken
almost at random, as we could command space to present; leaving
him to seek in the volume itself that gratification of which
we are sure our extracts will give him a foretaste. It was our
intention to have animadverted upon the use of certain words and
compounds which struck us as being infelicitous; but we can only
transcribe a few of them, without comment, from our pencilled copy:
'JEHOVAH'S _fadeless_ arms;' 'frost-enmirror'd;' 'sun-bedazzled;'
'_ornamentless_ curves;' 'rich-rubied rays,' etc. 'To conclude:' we
consider the present poem a manifest improvement upon 'Ahasuerus,'
which was noticed at length in these pages. The author is now 'well
in harness,' and moves on without incumbrance. Once more we welcome
him to the quiet walks of literature, which he treads so pleasantly;
and again we greet him with '_Macte virtute_!'


     EXERCISES OF THE ALUMNÆ OF THE ALBANY FEMALE ACADEMY, on their
     Second Anniversary, July 20, 1843. Albany: C. VAN BENTHUYSEN AND
     COMPANY.

AH! young ladies! we wish you could 'realize' how greatly gratified
we are to find you so much improved! We say 'improved,' because it
can scarcely be possible that you could have written such charming
compositions, before you had experienced the benefits of the system
of instruction pursued at the institution upon which you reflect
so much honor. We say this in no vain spirit of compliment, but
in all candor. The address of the President, Miss M. ROBINSON, of
this city, is not only excellent in its inculcations and tendency,
but is written with great perspicuity and freedom. The prize poem
by Miss ELIZA WHITNEY of Philadelphia, has many of the elements of
true poetry, while its trifling defects are merely mechanical. The
committee who awarded the prize, one of whom we observe was Mrs.
SIGOURNEY, seem to have hesitated in their choice between this and
three or four other poems of kindred excellence. 'MARY GRAFTON' need
not have sheltered herself under a _pseudonyme_. Her essay on 'What
should be the intellectual education of Woman, to fit her for the
duties of life,' is worthy of a strong and disciplined mind and a
practised pen. The honor of the best essay in French was assigned to
Miss M'CORMICK of Oswego, in this State; yet the committee selected
it in preference to three others, only 'because they were forced
to choose;' a fact which precludes the idea of 'rejection.' The
capital tale entitled 'Home Education,' by Miss MARY E. FIELD, of
Haddam, (Conn.,) must certainly have deserved the honor which it won
among its rivals. We have rarely seen a story, the lessons of which
were so valuable, in a national point of view, kept up with so much
spirit, and eliciting so much interest, in the narrative. On the
whole, so favorably are we impressed with these 'exercises' of the
alumnæ of the Albany Female Academy, that we begin to peer into the
'onward distance,' and to see our own little people winning honors
in that popular institution. 'So mote it be!'


     THE CROWNING HOUR, AND OTHER POEMS. By CHARLES JAMES CANNON,
     Author of 'The Poet's Quest.' etc. With a Portrait of the
     Author. In one volume, pp. 132. New-York: EDWARD DUNIGAN.

THUS is entitled a neat little volume which we find on our table.
Without being a 'great gun' in literature, or destined to make
much noise in the world, Mr. CANNON is yet a clever versifier, and
occasionally 'goes off' with good thoughts very agreeably; while
'the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all
that meets and surrounds him' is quite apparent in his compositions.
The 'crowning hour' is the period when COLUMBUS first discovers
land from the quarter deck of his vessel. Certain incidents of the
voyage, and the emotions of the 'world-seeking Genoese,' form the
staple of the main poem; but the prose of IRVING is far better
poetry than the verse which here records them. The remainder of the
volume is devoted to the republication of several minor effusions
from certain periodicals of these times, and from a previous volume
of the author. The 'Dogberryotype' portrait of Mr. CANNON, in the
opening of his book, strikes us as being in bad taste. We are loath
to interfere with such an exhibition of harmless vanity; but the
picture being what is negatively termed 'no beauty,' we must adopt
the advice of HOLMES to the plain gentleman whose portrait graced
the Athenæum exhibition: 'Don't let it be there any longer! Take it
home, and hush the matter up!' It is but justice to add, however,
that the portrait which fronts the volume under notice does not do
justice to the features of its author. Engravings from Daguerreotype
miniatures have never impressed us favorably, either as faithful
likenesses, or specimens of pictorial art.




EDITOR'S TABLE.


'THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.'--A 'friend and fellow-citizen' of ours
has translated, so far as published, a serial novel, just now
making a great noise in the literary circles of the French capital,
entitled '_Les Mysteries de Paris_,' by EUGENE SUE. Premising
that our readers will soon have an opportunity of perusing in an
English translation some of the most striking of the very remarkable
sketches of this DICKENS of France, we shall content ourselves for
the present with a single extract, embodying a simple, but as it
strikes us, a very touching and impressive scene. The RODOLPHE of
the passage below is a German prince, who has come to Paris, and who
goes forth in disguise to seek out worthy objects of benevolence.
He encounters in '_La Cité_,' a quarter of the town occupied by
the most abandoned classes, a girl of a beautiful, melancholy
countenance, called in the peculiar language of the inhabitants,
'_La Goualeuse_,' or '_Fleur-de-Marie_,' who turns out, in the
subsequent progress of the story, to be a child of his own, whom he
supposed to be dead, but who had in fact been left in the streets
by her nurses. He proposes to take her into the country with him;
and the effect which rural objects produce upon her mind is very
beautifully described in the little episode of 'The Rose-bush,'
which will be found in the opening of the story. The whole tale
forcibly illustrates what a French metropolitan contemporary terms
the '_inépuisable_ imagination' of EUGENE SUE:

     'I BELIEVE you, and I thank you; but answer me frankly: is it
     equally agreeable what part of the country we go to?'

     'Oh, it is all the same to me, Monsieur Rodolphe, as long as it
     is the country; it is so pleasant; the pure air is so good to
     breathe! Do you know that for five months I have been no farther
     than the flower market, and if the _ogresse_ ever allowed me to
     go out of the Cité, it was because she had confidence in me?'

     'And when you came to this market, was it to buy flowers?'

     'Oh, no: I had no money; I only came to see them; to inhale
     their rich perfume. For the half hour that the ogresse allowed
     me to pass on the quai during market-days, I was so happy that I
     forgot all.'

     'And when you returned to the ogresse--to those horrid streets?'

     'I came back more sorrowful than when I set out. I choked down
     my tears, that I might not receive a beating. I tell you what it
     was at the market which made me envious, oh! _very_ envious; it
     was to see the little '_ouvrières_,' so neatly clad, going off
     so gaily with a fine pot of flowers in their arms!'

     'I am sure if you had only had some flowers in your window, they
     would have been companions for you.'

     'It is very true what you say, Monsieur Rodolphe. Imagine:
     one day the ogresse at her fête, knowing my love for flowers,
     gave me a little rose-bush. If you could only know how happy I
     was! I was no longer lonesome! I could not keep from looking
     at my rose-bush. I amused myself in counting its leaves, its
     flowers.... But the air is so bad in La Cité that at the end of
     two days it began to fade.... But you'll laugh at me, Monsieur
     Rodolphe?'

     'No, no! Go on! go on!'

     'Well then, I asked permission from the ogresse to take my bush
     out for an airing; yes, as I would have taken out a child. I
     brought it to the quai: I thought to myself, that being in
     company with other flowers, in this fine and balmy air, would
     do it good. I moistened its poor withered leaves with the pure
     water of the fountain, and then I warmed it awhile in the sun.
     Dear little rose-tree! it never saw the sun in La Cité for
     in our street it comes no lower than the roof. At length I
     returned; and I assure you, Monsieur Rodolphe, that my rose-bush
     lived perhaps ten days longer than it would have done without
     the airings.'

     'I believe it; but when it died!--that must have been a great
     loss for you.'

     'I wept for it; I was very sorry.... Beside, Monsieur Rodolphe,
     since you understand how one can love flowers, I can tell it to
     you. Well, I felt _grateful_ to it. Ah! now _this_ time you are
     laughing at me!'

     'No, no! I love, I adore flowers; and thus I can comprehend
     all the foolish things they cause one to commit, or which they
     inspire.'

     ''Eh bien!' I felt grateful to this poor rose-bush, for having
     flowered so prettily for me--such a one as me!' The goualeuse
     held down her head and became purple with shame.

     'Poor child! with this consciousness of your horrible position,
     you must have often ...'

     'Had a wish to put an end to it? Is it not so, Monsieur
     Rodolphe?' said la Goualeuse, interrupting her companion. 'Oh!
     yes; more than once I have looked at the Seine from the parapet.
     But then I turned to the flowers, the sun, and I said to myself,
     'The river will always be there.... I am only sixteen ... who
     knows?'

     'When you said, '_Who knows_?' you had a hope?'

     'Yes.'

     'And what did you hope for?'

     'I do not know. I hoped--yes, I hoped, '_malgré moi_.' At those
     moments, it seemed to me that my fate was not merited; that
     there was some good left in me. I said to myself, 'I have been
     very much troubled, but at least, I have never harmed any one
     ... if I had only had some one to counsel me, I should not be
     where I am. That dissipated my sorrow a little. After all, I
     must confess that these thoughts occurred oftener after the loss
     of my rose-bush,' added la Goualeuse, in a solemn manner, which
     made Rodolphe smile.

     'This great grief always ...'

     'Yes; look here!'--and la Goualeuse drew from her pocket a
     little packet, carefully tied with a pink favor.

     'You have preserved it?'

     'I think so! It is all I possess in the world.'

     'How! have you nothing you can call your own?'

     'Nothing.'

     'But this coral necklace?'

     'It belongs to the ogresse.'

     'How! do you not own a rag?--a hat, a handkerchief?'

     'No, nothing; nothing but the dry leaves of my withered
     rose-bush; it is on this account I prize it so much.'

     'At each word the astonishment of Rodolphe was redoubled. He
     could not comprehend this frightful slavery, this horrible sale
     of soul and body for a wretched shelter, a few tattered clothes,
     and impure nourishment.

     'They arrived at the '_Quai aux Fleurs_.' A carriage was in
     waiting. Rodolphe assisted his companion to get in, and after
     placing himself at her side, said to the coachman:

     'To Saint-Denis; I will tell you directly which road to take.'

     'The horses started; the sun was radiant; the sky without a
     cloud; but the cold was a little sharp, and the air circulated
     briskly through the open windows of the carriage.

       *       *       *       *       *

     'AT this moment they drew near to Saint-Ouen, at the juncture of
     the road to Saint-Denis and the Chemin de la Revolte.

     'Notwithstanding the monotonous appearance of the country,
     Fleur-de-Marie was so delighted at seeing the fields, that
     forgetting the thoughts which sad recollections had awakened in
     her mind, her charming face brightened up; she leaned out of the
     window, and cried:

     'Monsieur Rodolphe! what delight!... Fields! and thickets! If
     you would only let me alight! The weather is so fine! I would
     like so much to run in the meadows!'

     'We will take a run, my child. Coachman, stop!'

     'How! _you_ also, Monsieur Rodolphe?'

     'I also! yes, we will make it a holiday.'

     'What happiness! Monsieur Rodolphe!'

     'And Rodolphe and Fleur-de-Marie, hand in hand, ran over the
     new-mown field until they were out of breath.

     'To attempt to describe the little gambols, the joyous shouts,
     the fresh delight of Fleur-de-Marie would be impossible.
     Poor gazelle! for so long time a prisoner, she breathed the
     pure air with intoxication. She came, she went, she ran, she
     stopped, always with new transports. At the sight of several
     tufts of daisies, and some marigolds, spread by the first
     frosts of approaching winter, she could not refrain from fresh
     exclamations of delight. She did not leave a single flower,
     but gleaned the whole meadow. After having thus ran over the
     fields--soon tired, being unaccustomed to so much exercise--the
     young girl, pausing to take breath, seated herself on the
     trunk of a tree, which lay prostrate near a deep ditch. The
     fair and transparent complexion of Fleur-de-Marie, ordinarily
     too pale, was now shaded with the most lively color. Her large
     blue eyes shone sweetly; her rosy mouth, half open, disclosed
     her pearl-like teeth; and her heart throbbing under the little
     orange shawl, she kept one hand on her bosom as if to compress
     its pulsations, while with the other she extended to Rodolphe
     the flowers she had gathered. Nothing could be more charming
     than the innocent, joyous expression which shone in that lovely
     face.

     'As soon as she could speak, she said to Rodolphe, with touching
     _naïveté_:

     'How kind is the BON DIEU for having given us such a fine day!'

     'A tear came to the eyes of Rodolphe, as he heard this poor
     abandoned, despised, lost creature, without home, without bread,
     offering thus a cry of joy and thanks to the CREATOR, for the
     enjoyment of a ray of sunshine and the sight of a meadow!'

How do you like that, reader? 'Ithn't it thweet?' Excuse the levity;
but we are trying to divert away two or three persevering drops of
salt-water. 'You shall see more anon: 'tis a knavish piece of work.'

       *       *       *       *       *

REV. JOHN NEWLAND MAFFITT: A LETTER FROM THE 'LITERARY EMPORIUM.'--A
friend of tried taste in matters literary, and a good judge of
_style_, both in matter and manner, whether out of the pulpit or in
it, has sent us the following letter, written some months since to a
correspondent in Gotham. The sketch which it gives of the peculiar
eloquence of Rev. JOHN NEWLAND MAFFITT will be found to partake
largely of the qualities of that remarkable declaimer's pulpit
efforts. We have heard Mr. MAFFITT for five minutes perhaps at a
time, when he was _truly_ eloquent; when his action was natural,
his language pure, and his illustrations striking and beautiful.
But a _sustained_ flight seemed beyond his powers. As was forcibly
observed by a country auditor of his on one occasion in our hearing:
'He is like a cow that gives a half-pail of the richest kind o'
milk, and then up's with her foot and kicks it all over!' But we are
keeping the reader from our friend's epistle:


  _'Boston, Sunday Night._

     'DEAR ----: A quiet day has closed at last, with an excitement
     so great as to fatigue even _my_ temperament; and being still
     too feverish for sleep, I will write you, as it lulls away, the
     history of the matter. Fahrenheit has been rounding the hundred
     to-day, and this has added not a little to the proverbial quiet
     of an Eastern Sabbath. After the afternoon service, Boston
     seemed to be taking a profound sleep. The few feeble news-boys
     at the old State-House had disappeared; the idlers at the New
     Exchange had done wondering; and Long-Wharf was too blistering
     hot for any one to attempt a sail. It wouldn't do to venture
     into those cool, shady streets, that lead nowhere, without
     an object; to be seen to turn and walk back would be wrong,
     in Boston. On reaching my room I sank into an easy-chair,
     and thought of the prayer for rain and cooling winds, and
     whether the hot south wind was made here or at the south side
     of Cuba. A boy's whistle, some half a mile over the hill, at
     Bowdoin-Square, was the only evidence of life; and it was not a
     little provoking, having nothing else to do, to be _obliged_ to
     follow the little rascal, as he wound through the 'Cracovienne,'
     with occasional snatches from 'Old Hundred' and 'Dundee,' and
     worry at the intricate manner in which he combined those rather
     different harmonies. Perhaps the lad was executing a refined
     torture upon some sober old citizen, _trying_ to sleep after his
     long nap just taken at church, and 'not quite prepared to say,'
     with his ear, (very puzzling to him,) that that boy was 'doing
     a theatrical;' and of course it wouldn't do to take him up for
     whistling psalm-tunes. 'Not at all; certainly not; that was
     quite proper and praise-worthy. Let the boy whistle.' I varied
     my own performances by occasionally leaning from the coolest
     window, to see if any body _was_ any where; and deciding in the
     negative, in a perfectly clear and distinct manner, waited for
     the next voluntary from the whistling boy. A spruce young man,
     whom I had never seen before, and who talked of ASHBURTON as
     his bosom crony, had called in the morning, offering a seat at
     church, and an invitation to dinner with Mrs. ----, of the sunny
     land, on the Hill. Well, was there ever such a fool as I, in
     lazily declining those invitations, thinking I could do better!
     That was in the morning, with the glory of a whole day before
     me; but _now_ with only that boy, and all the papers read to
     the last accident! So kind in her, too. She had heard I was in
     town, and thought I might be happy to see her. _Wouldn't_ I? I
     have half a mind now, to send around and say I will be there to
     breakfast!

     'I smoked out my regret with a cigar that almost crumpled with
     the heat; and at last, the tea-clatter at the Tremont roused
     me to the mental effort of declaring a Boston Sunday dull,
     decidedly dull. About dark I ventured into the street, and all
     Boston was astir again; indeed, quite bustling for the sober
     city; and every body so clean, so happy, so almost gay, if it
     were not Sunday, and so exactly at the touching-off point, that
     I fancied they had all been rolling in the surf on the shady
     side of Nahant, during the hot hours that I had been 'listlessly
     lounging life away.' Whew! I couldn't bear it! I affected a
     little smartness, and mingled with the current, trying to be
     pleased with, I couldn't say what; but privately in rather a
     hopeless humor, till I heard one man say hurriedly, 'You can't
     get in;' and another, 'I'll try;' and off he went like a shot.
     Thinking I had got hold of something at last, I followed; and
     as he had drab-breeches, kept an eye on him, squeezing along up
     street and down street, by lane and by alley, till we came to a
     great stream going one way, and directly fetched up square upon
     some thousand people, filling the whole street, before a church;
     from which, above the hum of the crowd, came now and then the
     peal of an organ, and a chorus of voices in hallelujahs. Looking
     up upon the sea of heads, I plunged in as others plunged out,
     and found myself carried to the inner door of the church. The
     aisles were so full that half way up men were too tight together
     to get their hats off; and the whole crowd, inside and out, was
     dotted with women and girls, their bonnets jammed up tight, so
     that they could only look the way they happened to face when
     stopping, whether desirable or not. All sorts of speeches and
     odd remarks were bandied about in a subdued tone; and several
     fat men, dripping, were let out to get dry; whereupon a man in
     a Roman nose slipped off his coat in a twinkling, and looked
     around with immense satisfaction. The abstraction of the fat men
     had left him, for the moment, just room to do it.

     'Presently, from the far end of the church, the clear voice of
     MAFFITT came down upon the ear like a silver bell, and the mass
     was still. He began at once, like a man who knew his calling,
     and had mastered it. His voice was clear, full, and intelligible
     to the farthest ear it reached. He commenced calmly, but with
     nerve and strength which took the whole mass with him at the
     onset; and after getting fairly under way, he cast about for
     argument and illustration. Here began the man's inspiration. His
     thoughts, bathed in sun-light, came rushing one upon another,
     gem upon gem and crowd upon crowd; each full and bold as the
     stars of heaven; moving on like them, separate, but together;
     falling into the ranks from all manner of places; throwing light
     upon each other, like the spears of an host, and all speeding
     onward and upward to their destination. Pausing with his forces
     in mid-heaven, he calls out again and again for tribute, and
     they glance in, like sunbeams, from the land and the deep, from
     earth, and heaven, and the farthest star; till pleased with his
     grouping, he sweeps the picture into a higher light, and shadows
     forth the Throne of the ALMIGHTY! This, with all variety of
     intonation, from clarion to trumpet; every nerve and muscle in
     gesticulation; and no wandering, no pausing, but to the _point_,
     like a thunder-bolt! My dear ----, where are you? If any where
     within hearing, I beg leave to say 'Good night!' I'm tired, and
     presume you are.'

  'Yours, ---- ----.'

       *       *       *       *       *

POEMS BY PERCIVAL.--Mr. PERCIVAL has recently put forth an
exceedingly beautiful volume, of some two hundred and fifty pages,
entitled 'The Dream of a Day, and other Poems.' The book is composed
for the most part of a series of shorter pieces, part of which have
been published in a fugitive form, at different intervals since the
publication of his last volume, in 1827, while part have until now
remained in manuscript. The longer piece, and one of the latest,
which opens and gives the title to the volume, takes its name partly
from its subject and partly from the time in which it was written.
More than one hundred and fifty different forms or modifications
of stanza are introduced in the course of the volume, much of which
is borrowed from the verse of other languages, particularly of
the German. The imitations of different classic measures, as well
as the songs for national airs, are particularly explained in the
introduction to each. We remark numerous gems in this collection
which were written by Mr. PERCIVAL for the KNICKERBOCKER; a fact
which we cannot doubt will secure the patronage of our readers
for the tasteful and most matter-full volume before us. We are
not advised by whom the work is for sale in New-York, but Mr. S.
BABCOCK, New-Haven, is the publisher; and it is but just to add,
that it reflects great credit upon his liberality and good taste.

       *       *       *       *       *

'THE ATTACHE:' BY SAM SLICK.--The clock-maker has lost none of his
shrewdness, his acute observation, nor his sparkling humor. To be
sure, many of his so-called _Yankeeisms_ are only specimens of
cockney dialect; yet he has more genuine wit than is to be found
in all the 'down-east' letters which have been inflicted upon the
public _ad nauseam_ any time these three years. 'Sumtotalize' these
tiresome epistles, as Mr. SLICK would say, and see what nine in ten
of them amount to. Bad spelling, devoid of the ludicrous ellipses
which characterize the orthographical errors of Mr. YELLOWPLUSH,
constitutes the principal attraction of their _style_; while their
_staple_ is derived from the worn-out jokes of HACKETT'S 'Solomon
Swop' or 'Joe Bunker.' But to 'The Attaché;' to portions of which,
with but slight comment, we propose to introduce the reader. Mr.
SLICK'S originality is the originality of _thought_, less than of
_manner_. He is no copyist; and while he equals LACON in saying
'many things in a few words,' he never sacrifices truth to the
mere external form of sententiousness. In his descriptions he is
never striking at the expense of verisimilitude; nor does he permit
his observation of character to be diverted from its naturalness
by over-cumulative features in his picture, which destroy so many
otherwise clever limnings. Not inappropriate to this illustration,
by the by, is this brief but graphic description of one of a great
number of old family pictures which the 'Attaché' encounters in
the baronial hall of a purse-proud JOHN BULL 'of family,' in one
of the shires of England: 'Here now is an old aunty that a forten
come from. She looks like a bale o' cotton, fust screwed as tight as
possible, and then corded hard. Lord! if they had only a given her a
pinch of snuff when she was full dressed and trussed, and sot her a
sneezin', she'd a blowed up, and the forten would have come twenty
years sooner! Yes, it's a family pictur; indeed, they're all family
picturs. They are all fine animals, but over-fed and under-worked.'
Observe the wisdom of the ensuing sentence, illustrating that sort
of brain-picking which some persons resort to, while themselves are
mum as oysters, upon subjects on which noncommitalism is desirable:
'If I can see both eends of a rope, and only one man has hold of one
eend, and me of the t'other, why I know what I am about; but if I
can only see my own eend, I don't know who I am a pullin' agin.'

One of the most amusing sketches in Mr. SLICK'S volume is an account
of a 'pious creeter,' a deacon, who exchanged an old worn-out and
vicious horse for one which he 'considered worth six of it,' and
which he thought gave him 'the best of the bargain, and no mistake.'
It turns out quite the other way, however, the good deacon's
boasting to the contrary notwithstanding:

     'THIS is as smart a little hoss,' says he, 'as ever I see. I
     know where I can put him off to a great advantage. I shall make
     a good day's work of this. It is about as good a hoss-trade as
     I ever made. The French don't know nothin' about hosses; they
     are a simple people; their priests keep 'em in ignorance on
     purpose, and they don't know nothin'.' 'He cracked and bragged
     considerable, and as we progressed we came to Montagon Bridge.
     The moment pony sot foot on it, he stopped short, pricked up
     the latter eends of his ears, snorted, squealed, and refused to
     budge an inch. The elder got mad. He first coaxed and patted,
     and soft-sawdered him, and then whipped, and spurred, and
     thrashed him like anything. Pony got mad too, for hosses has
     tempers as well as elders; so he turned to, and kicked right
     straight up on eend, like Old Scratch, and kept on without
     stoppin' till he sent the elder right slap over his head
     slantendicularly, on the broad of his back into the river, and
     he floated down through the bridge and scrambled out o t'other
     side.

     'Creation! how he looked! He was so mad, he was ready to bile
     over; and as it was, he smoked in the sun like a tea-kettle.
     His clothes stuck close down to him, as a cat's fur does to her
     skin when she's out in the rain; and every step he took his
     boots went squish, squash, like an old woman churnin' butter;
     and his wet trousers chafed with a noise like a wet flappin'
     sail. He was a show; and when he got up to his hoss, and held on
     to his mane, and first lifted up one leg, and then the other,
     to let the water run out of his boots, I couldn't hold in no
     longer, but laid back, and larfed till I thought, on my soul,
     I'd fall off into the river too.'

The elder is decidedly taken in. His new steed is as blind as a
bat, and a member of the '_opposition_ party.' After a series of
provoking annoyances, the new owner of the beast finally succeeds
in getting him on board a steam-boat; but on nearing the shore the
perverse animal jumps overboard:

     'THE captain havin' his boat histed, and thinkin' the hoss would
     swim ashore of himself, kept right strait on; and the hoss
     swam this way, and that way, and every way but the right road,
     jist as the eddies took him. At last he got into the ripps off
     Johnston's Pint, and they wheeled him right round and round like
     a whip-top. Poor pony! he got his match at last. He struggled,
     and jumpt, and plunged, and fort, like a man, for dear life.
     Fust went up his knowin' little head, that had no ears; and he
     tried to jump up, and rear out of it, as he used to did out of a
     mire-hole ashore; but there was no bottom there; nothin' for his
     hind foot to spring from; so down he went agin, ever so deep;
     and then he tried t'other eend, and up went his broad rump, that
     had no tail; but, there was nothin' for the fore feet to rest
     on nother; so he made a summerset, and as he went over he gave
     out a great, long, eendwise kick, to the full stretch of his
     hind legs. Poor feller! it was the last kick he ever gave in
     this world; he sent his heels straight up on eend, like a pair
     of kitchen tongs, and the last I see of him was a bright dazzle,
     as the sun shined on his iron shoes, afore the water closed over
     him forever.'

Take in all the accessories of the above picture, reader, and you
cannot fail to laugh as heartily at the discomfiture of the pious
but 'cunning' elder, as we ourselves did on its first perusal. There
is a fine touch of natural description, and not a little philosophy,
in the following sketch of a dinner at an English gentleman's
country residence:

     'FOLKS are up to the notch here when dinner is in question,
     that's a fact; fat, gouty, broken-winded, and foundered as they
     be. It's rap! rap! rap! for twenty minutes at the door; and in
     they come, one arter the other, as fast as the sarvants can
     carry up their names. Cuss them sarvants! it takes seven or
     eight of 'em to carry a man's name up stairs, they are so awful
     lazy, and so shockin' full of porter. Well, you go in along with
     your name, walk up to old aunty, and make a scrape, and the same
     to old uncle, and then fall back. This is done as solemn as if
     a feller's name was called out to take his place in a funeral;
     that and the mistakes is the fun of it. * * * Company are all
     come, and now they have to be marshalled two and two, lock and
     lock, and go into the dinin'-room to feed. When I first came I
     was dreadful proud of that title, 'the Attaché;' now I am glad
     it's nothin' but 'only an Attaché,' and I'll tell you why. The
     great guns and big bugs have to take in each other's ladies,
     so these old ones have to herd together. Well, the nobodies go
     together too, and sit together; and I've observed that these
     nobodies are the pleasantest people at table, and they have the
     pleasantest places, because they sit down with each other, and
     are jist like yourself, plaguy glad to get some one to talk to.
     Somebody can only visit somebody, but nobody can go any where;
     and therefore nobody sees and knows twice as much as somebody
     does. Somebodies must be axed, if they are as stupid as a pump;
     but nobodies needn't, and never are, unless they are spicy sort
     o' folks; so you are sure of them, and they have all the fun and
     wit of the table at their eend, and no mistake. I wouldn't take
     a title if they would give it to me, for if I had one, I should
     have a fat old parblind dowager detailed on to me to take in to
     dinner; and what the plague is her jewels and laces, and silks
     and satins, and wigs to me? As it is, I have a chance to have
     a gal to take in that's a jewel herself; one that don't want
     no settin' off, and carries her diamonds in her eyes, and so
     on. I've told our minister not to introduce me as an Attaché no
     more, but as Mr. Nobody, from the state of Nothin', in America.'

Mr. SLICK'S ideas of what is facetiously termed 'music' is quite
coincident with our own. No 'difficult execution' and 'intricate
passages' for him:

     'WHAT'S that? It's music. Well, that's artificial too; it's
     scientific, they say; it's done by rule. Jist look at that gal
     to the piany: first comes a little Garman thunder. Good airth
     and seas, what a crash! It seems as if she'd bang the instrument
     all to a thousand pieces. I guess she's vexed at some body
     and is a-peggn' it into the piany out of spite. Now comes the
     singin'; see what faces she makes; how she stretches her mouth
     open, like a barn-door, and turns up the white of her eyes, like
     a duck in a thunder-storm. She is in a musical ecstasy; she
     feels good all over; her soul is a-goin' out along with that
     'ere music. Oh, it's divine; and she is an angel, ain't she?
     Yes, I guess she is; and when I'm an angel, I will fall in love
     with her: but as I'm a man, at least what's left of me, I'd jist
     as soon fall in love with one that was a leetle more of a woman,
     and a leetle less of an angel. But hello! what onder the sun is
     she about! Why, her voice is goin' down her own throat, to gain
     strength, and here it comes out ag'in as deep-toned as a man's;
     while that dandy feller alongside of her is a-singin' what they
     call falsetter. They've actilly changed voices! The gal sings
     like a man, and that screamer like a woman! This is science:
     this is taste: this is fashion: but hang me if it's natur'. I'm
     tired to death of it; but one good thing is, you needn't listen
     without you like, for every body is talking as loud as ever.'

We are compelled to close our extracts with the subjoined capital
hit at the naked meeting-houses which 'obtain' in so many quarters
of our goodly land, and the still more naked 'doctrines' that
constitute the weekly attractions which many of them present to
church-goers:

     'THE meetin'-houses our side of the water, no matter where, but
     away up in the back country, how teetotally different they be
     from 'em this side! A great big handsome wooden house, chock
     full of winders, painted so white as to put your eyes out, and
     so full of light within that inside seems all out-doors, and
     no tree nor bush, nor nothin' near it but the road fence, with
     a man to preach in it that is so strict and straight-laced he
     will do _any thing_ of a week day, and _nothin'_ of a Sunday. *
     * * Preacher there don't preach morals, because that's churchy,
     and he don't like neither the church nor it's morals; but he
     preaches doctrine, which doctrine is, there's no Christians but
     themselves. Well, the fences outside of the meetin'-house, for
     a quarter of a mile or so, each side of the house, and each
     side of the road, ain't to be seen for hosses and wagons, and
     gigs hitched there; poor devils of hosses that have ploughed,
     or hauled, or harrowed, or logged, or snaked, or somethin' or
     nother all the week, and rest on a Sunday by alterin' their
     gait, as a man rests on a journey by alterin' of his stirrup a
     hole higher or a hole lower.'

This episode is concluded with some remarks upon the 'clerical
twang' which distinguishes some of the divines of our country: 'Good
men always speak through the nose. It's what comes out of the mouth
that defiles a man; but there is no mistake in the nose; it's the
porch of the temple!' We are pleased to learn that another volume
of 'The Attaché' will ere long be given to the public. We await its
publication with impatient interest.

       *       *       *       *       *

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--'What is the man driving
at' who sends us the following? Does he intend a satire upon the
peculiar style of Mr. WILLIS, who 'skims the superfices' of society
with more ease and grace than any magazine-writer of this era?
Or is our correspondent in love, and desirous of walking under
a cloud while he reveals his passion? Let him answer: 'The top
of the morning to you, my dear EDITOR; and as your sun goes up
the meridian, may your shadow be longer! I can wish you nothing
more improbable; but in wishes not to be granted, I will have
the satisfaction of wishing to the outside of my desire. Coming
home last evening, I called on a pretty woman, for a half-hour's
oblivion of matter-of-fact. A few weeks since she had seen WILLIS
and a very charming damsel at Saratoga Springs, and had noticed
them occasionally at a delightful spot in the neighborhood, which I
shall not indicate; a retreat such as a poet would choose in parting
with his best thoughts, and far holier than the parting of mere
lips would need; for I take it, this good-by, this farewell to the
pets of the heart; this sense of lost identity gone to the public;
the loosing of the dove that may no where find a spot to rest amid
the waters; the spring of the falcon that _will_ away; I say, Mr.
EDITOR, these things are sometimes very solemn and affecting. Well,
upon that spot was found a crumpled paper, scrawled over with the
goose-tracks of genius, and signed 'N. P. WILLIS, Junior.' The
product of WILLIS by his _match_ should be something brilliant,
to be sure; but the Junior is evidently still young in years. His
opening phrase, (more applicable in these times to a bank-note than
any other mistress,) and several other naïve spots, indicate the
come-over-ativeness and allowable tenderness of a first passion. It
is written in a kind of halting verse, that might easily be done
into _blank_, I should say. It is crowned with stars, signifying I
suppose that this world has nothing left worth looking at, and this
beautiful motto, from Keats:


'A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER.'

BY N. P. WILLIS, JUN.

     'DEAREST! I thank thee, bless thee, pray the highest God
     to bless thee evermore, thou charm of the world to me! And
     now how beautiful the world again! The glorious sunlight,
     the waving trees, and faces of familiar friends, before so
     common-place--all now how beautiful! for thou hast smiled on
     them! A rush of joy is at my heart again, as if my pulse at each
     throb ran kisses from thy lips. Ah' could I take thy breath in
     one long kiss, and give thee Heaven, which were happier?--thou
     with the stars above, or I with mine and thy dear heart forever?
     How fast the time goes on! The world that lagged but yesterday,
     and seemed about to stop for very dullness, seems an express,
     as though the stars were nearing us, and GOD were coming down,
     and we were hastening to the embrace of Heaven. How my spirits
     mount again! I look into the heavens, face to face, and angels
     bending down, are whispering that I may yet be happy. Poor,
     poor fool! Happy for another hour, perhaps another day, and
     then----Why, then the sun will rise again, and all the world
     be glad, but I shall not know it; and every tone that to the
     common world is sweetest music, and every look and smile that
     are unlike thee; the song not thine; the book not read by thee;
     and every beautiful and lovely thing, that hath not caught some
     parted grace of thine, shall be to me a half-formed thing,
     lacking the tint that's loveliest, the form that's dearest to
     my heart; a thing unfinished, as Heaven were interrupted in the
     making, or lost the trick, not having thee to copy! But now,
     the dashing of my heart is like the seas that clap their hands
     in gladness. My GOD, I thank Thee for that 'joy forever!' Those
     words have mingled with my spirit, quickening it to lightning;
     and if I get a home above, and have a power in Heaven, I'll
     build a world whose sky shall light it with those burning words!
     Ah, how the time goes on! I miss it not, for I am happy, and
     it brings no change. The sun has set, and night has come with
     countless stars, as glowing, beautiful, and bright, as each
     one were a separate joy of mine; a heaven all full, as is my
     brimming heart. Well; you will laugh at all this rhapsody, and
     chide me for a foolish boy. I only say, 'My HEART is talking to
     you, not my HEAD.' * * * But we must part; and then, if angels,
     strayed from home, may note that scene, touched by the love of
     one so beautiful, it will be written down in Heaven, that two
     souls made to match, have gone apart forever. Farewell! I only
     ask of you, that when a warm thought flutters at your heart,
     just fancy ('t will be true) that I have come to nestle there,
     and give it welcome. And when the night comes, and you rest
     alone with your own beauty and the sentinel stars, oh, clasp the
     little rascal to your heart, and----think of your dream in the
     morning!'

Our impression is--'we may be wrong, but that is our opinion'--that
the young gentleman who penned the foregoing rhapsody is hankering
after some young woman. Ah! well; though his style is not
over-pellucid, there is much truth in his sentences. There is a
communion between the heart of Nature and the hearts of lovers;
and with gentle affections and pure thoughts, her face is always
beautiful. With the same mail which brought us the 'Thing of
Beauty' aforesaid, came the following, copied in the neatest of
all crow-quill chirography, bearing the Saratoga post-mark, and a
French-gray seal, with two loving doves. It struck us, on a first
perusal, that possibly it might proceed from some young lady in love
with some young gentleman! 'It has that look:'


'WHAT IS LOVE?'

                'IT is to dwell within
    A world of the young heart's creation, bright
    And brilliant as 'tis false and fleeting, where
    All seems a beauteous fairy-land; to mark
    No varied season and no flight of time,
    Save in the weary absence of the loved one;
    To live but in the atmosphere he breathes.
    To gaze upon his eyes as on the light
    That beacons us to bliss, the only sun
    Of our unreal world; in the sad hours
    Of absence to be filled with thousand thoughts
    Of tenderness, that to repeat we deem
    Will make the hours of meeting more delicious;
    Yet when that time is come, to feel they are
    Unutterable; then to count the moments,
    And watch his coming as the early dawn
    Of an untried existence; (is not love
    A new existence?) yet when he is come,
    To feel that deep, oppressive sense of bliss
    Weighing upon the heart, that we could wish
    To find our joy less perfect. This is love!'

No sneers, if you please, gentlemen bachelors of the incorrigible
class; no 'pshaws!' ye 'paired but not matched' people, at
encountering here these tender tributes of the heart; for the lover,
where is he not? 'Wherever parents look round upon their children,
there he has been; wherever children are at play together, there
he soon will be; wherever there are roofs under which men dwell,
wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human voices,
there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on. True
love continues and will continue to send up its homage amidst the
meditations of every eventide, and the busy hum of noon, and 'the
song of the morning stars.' . . . If the unhappy young man who has
recently filled the journals of the metropolis with the details
of his folly and crime could, before yielding to temptation,
have looked in upon the state-prisoners at Sing-Sing, as we did
the other day, surely he would have shrunk back from the vortex
before him. Poor wretches, in their best estate! How narrow their
cells; how ceaseless their toil; what a negation of comfort their
whole condition! It was a sweltering August day, breathless and
oppressive; but there was no rest for the eight hundred unhappy
convicts who plied their never-ending tasks within those walls.
Stealthy glances from half-raised eyes; pale countenances, stamped
with meek submission, or gleaming with powerless hate or impotent
malignity; and 'hard labor' in the fullest sense, were the main
features of the still-life scene, as we passed through the several
work-shops. But what a picture was presented as their occupants came
swarming into the open court-yard at sound of the bell, to proceed
to their cells with their dinner! From the thick atmosphere of the
carpet and rug-shops, leaving the clack of shuttles, the dull thump
of the 'weaver's beam,' and the long, confused perspective of cords,
and pullies, and patterns, and multitudinous 'harness,' they poured
forth; from murky smithys, streamed the imps of VULCAN, grim as the
dark recesses from which they emerged; from doors which open upon
interminable rows of close-set benches burst forth the knights of
the awl and hammer; the rub-a-dub of the cooper's mallet, the creak
of his shaving-knife, were still; the stone-hammer was silent; and
the court-yard was full of that striped crew! God of compassion!
what a sight it was, to see that motley multitude take up, in gangs,
their humiliating march! Huge negroes, weltering in the heat, were
interspersed among 'the lines;' hands crimson with murder rested
upon the shoulders of beings young alike in years and crime; the
victim of bestiality pressed against the heart-broken tool of the
scathless villain; and _all_ were blended in one revolting mass of
trained soldiers of guilt; their thousand legs moving as the leg
of one man: all in silence, save the peculiar sound of the sliding
tread, grating not less upon the ear than the ground. One by one,
they took their wooden pails of dingy and amphibious-looking 'grub,'
and passed on, winding up the stairs of the different stories, and
streaming along the narrow corridors to their solitary cells. It was
too much for the tender heart of poor E., this long procession of
the gangs. As they passed on in slow succession, her lip began to
quiver; and one after another drops of pity rolled down her cheek.
'All these,' said she to the keeper, 'had a mother, who looked
upon their childhood, and blessed their innocence! Ah! how many
infant feet, softer than velvet to the touch, have been pressed
to maternal lips, that now shuffle along these prison-isles!'
There spoke 'the mother;' and with her 'gentle words of pity' we
take our leave of the State's-prison and its unhappy inmates. *
* * THE love of literature is a beneficial and noble propensity
of soul. 'It cannot be doubted,' writes the accomplished MARY
CLAVERS, 'that every accession of intellectual light carries with
it an increase of happiness; happiness which depends not in any
great degree upon the course of public events, and not, beyond a
certain limited extent, upon the smiles of fortune. Those debasing
and embittering prejudices which must ever wait upon ignorance,
melt away in the rays of mental illumination, and every departed
prejudice leaves open a new inlet for happiness. I may be considered
an enthusiast, but it is my deliberate conviction that next to
religion--heart-felt, operative religion--a true love of reading is
the best softener of the asperities of life, the best consoler under
its inevitable ills.' HOOD, writing recently 'from his bed' to the
Secretary of a provincial Athenæum, of which he had been elected a
'patron,' deposes to the comfort and 'blessing that literature can
prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow; how generous mental food
can atone for a meagre diet; 'rich fare on paper, for short commons
on the cloth.' Although ill, and condemned to lenten fare, animal
food being strictly interdicted, yet the 'feast of reason and the
flow of soul' were still his. 'Denied beef, I had _Bul_-wer and
_Cow_-per; forbidden mutton, there was _Lamb_; and in lieu of pork,
_Bacon_ or _Hogg_.' Eschewing wine, he had still his _Butler_; and
in the absence of liquor, all the _choice spirits_, from TOM BROWN
to TOM MOORE. Confined physically to water, he had yet not only
the best of 'home-made' but the champaigne of MOLIERE, the hock of
SCHILLER, and the sherry of CERVANTES:

     'DEPRESSED bodily by the fluid that damps every thing, I got
     intellectually elevated with MILTON, a little merry with SWIFT,
     or rather jolly with RABELAIS, whose Pantagruel, by the way,
     is quite equal to the best gruel with rum in it. So far can
     literature palliate or compensate for gastronomical privations.
     But there are other evils, great and small, in this world,
     which try the stomach less than the head, and the temper, and
     ill winds that blow with the pertinacity of monsoon. Of these,
     Providence has allotted me a full share; but still, paradoxical
     as it may sound, my burthen has been greatly lightened by a load
     of books. Many, many a dreary, weary hour have I got over; many
     a mental or bodily annoyance forgotten, by help of the tragedies
     and comedies of our dramatists and novelists! Many a trouble has
     been soothed by the still small voice of the moral philosopher;
     many a dragon-like care charmed to sleep by the sweet song of
     the poet! For all which I cry incessantly, not aloud, but in my
     heart. 'Thanks and honor to the glorious masters of the pen, and
     the great inventors of the press!'

ISN'T _Law_ a very curious thing, take it altogether? An adept in it
must needs know all the precedents, all the legal discussions and
litigations; must read innumerable volumes, filled with innumerable
subtleties and cohesions, and written in an unintelligible jargon;
must study rules by which a certain class of future events shall
be judged, when those events can only be partially and imperfectly
foreseen; a rule which never varies, while the cases never agree;
a law which is general while the cases are individual; a law where
the penalty is uniform, while the justice or injustice of the case
is continually different. Who 'in view of these things' can wonder
that the worse is often made to appear the better reason? Does not a
lawyer triumph most, and acquire most fame, when he can gain a cause
in the very teeth of the law he professes to support and revere?
Who is the greatest lawyer? Not he who can most enlighten, but he
who can most perplex and confound the understanding and embroil
and mislead the intellect of judge and jury. We have before us a
striking illustration of these remarks, in an unsettled case in the
Court of Errors, on an appeal from a decree of the chancellor. A
wife and mother, well stricken in years, leaves the bed and board
of her husband, in consequence of long-continued ill treatment, and
by 'her next friend' sues for alimony. Her husband, it appears in
evidence, is an 'unclean beast' personally; moreover, he throws his
tea-cup at her at the table; will not permit her to have a fire in
the room in which she is ill, though it is in the depth of winter,
but opens doors and windows to freeze her out; orders all the beds
taken down, that she may not sleep; goes himself about the house at
times _in puris naturalibus_; threatens to throw his wife into the
well; when she is seated on a chair, pushes her out of it, and when
she takes another, pushes her out of that also, and so forth. Now
reader, it would amuse you to look over the 'Points on the part of
the Apellant' in this case. By _his_ 'next friend,' the attorney,
he complains that vice-chancellors are exceeding their credentials
in assuming to be 'Chesterfieldian censors of the lesser morals.'
He admits indeed that the husband was '_uncourteous_, in rudely
throwing his tea-cup instead of handing it respectfully to the
lady-in-waiting,' meaning the wife aforesaid; that he was guilty of
'_impoliteness_, in capriciously commanding a change of chairs;'
that he certainly did use 'an _inconsiderate expression_ concerning
the well;' but that in driving his wife out of her sick room, by
opening all the doors and windows on a cold winter-day, he was
only 'enforcing wholesome exercise as a substitute for prejudicial
inaction!' All these examples, let us add, are of the _lesser_
abuses and grievances which the unhappy woman suffered, year after
year; yet the 'deeds without a name' are softened or defended with
equal plausibility and ingenuity. The counsel for the appellant
objects to the interference of the law-officers with such matters.
'Courts of chancery,' says he, with true Johnsonian grandiloquence,
'cannot, like ecclesiastical tribunals or inquisitions, regulate, by
means of auricular confession and domiciliary visitation, connubial
rights and duties! The chancellor's doctrine would perpetuate wordy
wars and family feuds, and impart to conjugal caterwauling more than
feline vitality!' But hold; we are 'interfering between man and
wife,' an injudicious act, as 'tis said. * * * 'D. G.'s '_Height
of Impudence_' (it is _not_ 'new') reminds us of an incident which
occurred in the hearing of a friend at one of our cheap metropolitan
eating-houses last winter. A tall, raw boned Hibernian called for
a dish of pork-and-beans. 'Let it be 'most all pork, and plenty of
beans,' said he; and a liberal supply was placed smoking before
him. Before he had gorged his fill, he called for more bread; it
was given him, and soon disappeared, with the remainder of his
dish. He then called for another slice, and was piling the butter
in pyramids upon small pieces of the same, when the waiter, who had
been eyeing him closely, and who thought the repast 'rather too
much for a shilling,' addressed him with: 'Mister, that butter cost
two shillings and sixpence a pound.' The huge feeder said nothing,
but proceeded to pile about a quarter of a pound of it on a small
crust of bread, placed it in his mouth, rolled it for a time 'as a
sweet morsel under his tongue,' and then remarked: 'Well, I should
say 'twas _well wor-r-th it_!' His main anxiety appeared to be, to
convince the waiter that his principal had not been 'taken in' by
the vender. * * * WE promised that our readers should renew their
acquaintance with '_Hugh Trevor_;' accordingly we condense a scene
or two from that remarkable work. Going down St. James'-street,
London, one evening, with a person who has treated him with much
civility, our hero is run violently against by an accomplice of his
companion, knocked down, and robbed of all his money. His 'civil'
friend leaves him in the lurch, and he seeks his lodgings, there
being no remedy for his loss. To divert his mind, he repairs to the
theatre, and takes his stand among the crowd which surround the
entrance. He observes that the people about him seem watchful of
each other; and presently the cry of 'Take care of your pockets!'
renews his fears; and putting his hand to his fob, he misses his
watch! Looking eagerly around, he fixes his eyes upon his quondam
friend, who had aided in robbing him:

     'THE blood mantled in my face. 'You have stolen my watch,'
     said I. He could not immediately escape, and made no reply,
     but turned pale, looked at me as if entreating silence and
     commiseration, and put a watch into my hand. I felt a momentary
     compassion, and he presently made his retreat. His retiring did
     but increase the press of the crowd, so that it was impossible
     for me so much as to lift up my arm: I therefore continued, as
     the safest way, to hold the watch in my hand. Soon afterward
     the door opened, and I hurried it into my waistcoat pocket:
     for I was obliged to make the best use of all my limbs, that
     I might not be thrown down and trodden underfoot. At length,
     after very uncommon struggles, I made my way to the money door,
     paid, and entered the pit. After taking breath and gazing around
     me, I sat down and inquired of my neighbors how soon the play
     would begin? I was told in an hour. This new delay occasioned
     me to put my hand in my pocket and take out my watch, which as
     I supposed had been returned by the thief. But, good Heavens!
     what was my surprise when in lieu of my own plain watch, in a
     green chagrin-case, the one I was now possessed of was set round
     with diamonds! And, instead of ordinary steel and brass, its
     appendages were a weighty gold chain and seals! My astonishment
     was great beyond expression! I opened it to examine the
     work, and found it was capped. I pressed upon the nut and it
     immediately struck the hour. It was a repeater!'

It will not greatly puzzle the reader, we may presume, to conjecture
what this adroit movement on the part of the pick-pocket ultimately
led to; nor will he fail to recognize in the following limning a
portrait of more than one character of these times. Mr. GLIBLY is
entertaining Mr. TREVOR with a running commentary upon some of the
prominent personages who enter the theatre:

     'THERE,' said he pointing, is a Mr. MIGRATE; a famous clerical
     character, and as strange an original as any this metropolis
     affords. He is not entitled to make a figure in the world either
     by his riches, rank, or understanding; but with an effrontery
     peculiar to himself he will knock at any man's door, though
     a perfect stranger, ask him questions, give him advice, and
     tell him he will call again to give him more on the first
     opportunity. By this means he is acquainted with every body,
     but knows nobody; is always talking, yet never says any thing;
     is perpetually putting some absurd interrogation, but before
     it is possible he should understand the answer, puts another.
     His desire to be informed torments himself and every man of his
     acquaintance, which is almost every man he meets: yet, though he
     lives inquiring, he will die consummately ignorant. His brain
     is a kind of rag shop, receiving and returning nothing but
     rubbish. It is as difficult to affront as to get rid of him: and
     though you fairly bid him begone to-day, he will knock at your
     door, march into your house, and if possible keep you answering
     his unconnected, fifty times answered queries to-morrow. He is
     the friend and the enemy of all theories and of all parties:
     and tortures you to decide for him which he ought to choose.
     As far as he can be said to have opinions, they are crude and
     contradictory in the extreme; so that in the same breath he
     will defend and oppose the same system. With all this confusion
     of intellect, there is no man so wise but he will prescribe to
     him how he ought to act. He has been a great traveller, and
     continually abuses his own countrymen for not adopting the
     manners and policy of other nations. He pretends to be the
     universal friend of man, a philanthropist on the largest scale,
     yet is so selfish that he would willingly see the world perish,
     if he could but secure paradise to himself. This is the only
     consistent trait in his character. In the same sentence, he
     frequently joins the most fulsome flattery and some insidious
     question, that asks the person whom he addresses if he do not
     confess himself to be both knave and fool. Delicacy of sentiment
     is one of his pretensions, though his tongue is licentious,
     his language coarse, and he is occasionally seized with fits
     of the most vulgar abuse. He declaims against dissimulation,
     yet will smilingly accost the man whom----'Ha! MIGRATE! How do
     you do? Give me leave to introduce you to Mr. TREVOR, a friend
     of mine, a gentleman and a scholar; just come from Oxford.
     Your range of knowledge and universal intimacy with men and
     things, may be useful to him; and his erudite acquisitions, and
     philosophical research, will be highly gratifying to an inquirer
     like you. An intercourse between you must be mutually pleasing
     and beneficial, and I am happy to bring you acquainted.' This,
     addressed to the man whom he had been satirizing so unsparingly,
     was inconceivable! The unabashed facility with which he veered
     from calumny to compliment, and that too after he had accused
     the man whom he accosted of dissimulation, struck me dumb. I
     had perhaps seen something like it before, but nothing half so
     perfect in its kind. It doubly increased my stock of knowledge;
     it afforded a new instance of what the world is, and a new
     incitement to ask how it became so?'

A single passage more, which will have especial interest for the
correspondent to whom we are indebted for the capital sketch of
'_Love-Making in Boarding-Houses_,' must close our excerpts. A
maiden of an uncertain age is making a 'dead set' at our hero:

     'SHE was sure I must find myself a great favorite; I was a
     favorite with every body; and, for her part, she did not wonder
     at it. 'Not but it is a great pity,' added she, aside, 'that you
     are such a rake, Mr. TREVOR.' This repeated charge very justly
     alarmed my morality, and I very seriously began a refutation.
     But in vain. 'I might say what I would; she could see very
     plainly I was a prodigious rake, and nothing could convince her
     to the contrary. Though she had heard that your greatest rakes
     make the best husbands. Perhaps it might be true, but she did
     not think she could be persuaded to make the venture. She did
     not know what might happen, to be sure; though she really did
     not think she could. She could not conceive how it was, but
     some how or another she always found something agreeable about
     rakes. It was a great pity they should be rakes, but she verily
     believed the women loved them, and encouraged them in their
     seducing arts. For her part, she would keep her fingers out of
     the fire as long as she could: but, if it were her destiny to
     love a rake, what could she do? Nobody could help being in love,
     and it would be very hard indeed to call what one cannot help, a
     crime.'

WE must commend the cogent arguments in favor of national theft,
contained in the article on '_International Copy-right_' in
preceding pages, to the attention of the reader. It strikes us
as one of the most tenable positions yet taken by the opponents
of an exceedingly 'impolitic' literary measure. By the by; a new
'_American Copy-right Club_' has been recently established, with
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT and GULIAN C. VERPLANCK, Esquires, for its
president and vice-president; and for its secretaries and executive
committee, several of the most prominent advocates of the proposed
law to be found in our midst; including, we are glad to perceive,
Mr. PUFFER HOPKINS MATHEWS, who has labored more abundantly than
they all in the good cause, but with little success hitherto, we
regret to be obliged to add. His metropolitan lecture last winter
could scarcely have realized his own expectations; though it was not
difficult to meet those of the public. A friend of ours who repaired
early to the Tabernacle, with a ticket bearing a number above twelve
hundred, found not three-score auditors in that capacious edifice.
It is equally certain, that the following 'unkindest cut of all' at
Mr. MATHEWS'S international copy-right _essays_, which reaches us
in the last number of the '_Dublin University Magazine_,' embodies
the opinion generally entertained of those efforts on this side the
Atlantic: 'While on the subject of America, we would wish to add
a line of a certain CORNELIUS MATHEWS, who writes pamphlets and
delivers lectures in New-York, on the subject of an international
copy-right law. Such is the complex involution of his style; such
the headlong impetuosity with which tropes, figures, and metaphors
run down, jostle, and overturn each other, that we have puzzled
ourselves in vain to detect his meaning or the gist of his argument.
Giants, elephants, '_tiger-mothers_,' and curricles; angels,
frigates, baronial castles, and fish-ponds, 'dance through his
writings in all the mazes of metaphorical confusion;' and however
desirous we may feel that a law of copy-right might protect British
authors from American piracy, yet as one of the craft we boldly
say: '_Non defensoribus istis! non tali auxilio!_' Let the question
be put forward manfully and intelligibly; let it not be a piece of
Indian jugglery, performed by CORNELIUS MATHEWS, but the plain and
simple acknowledgement that literary property is property, and as
such has its rights, sacred and inviolable.' We have quoted this
passage for the purpose of showing that our own opinion of Mr.
MATHEWS'S rambling thoughts and disjointed style finds abundant
confirmation wherever his 'writings' are forced into temporary
notice. * * * 'SERVED you right!' Carelessness like your's deserved
just such a result. You'll not be guilty of a similar act of folly
very soon, ''tan't likely:'

    I AM down in the mouth, I am out at the pockets!
      Ah, me! I've no pockets at all;
    And all I have left, is a braid and a locket;
                                        That's all!

    It was rather solemn; quite touching, alas!
      As she got on a stool to be higher,
    I acted, no doubt, the entire jack-ass--
                                        Yes, entire!

    Arms and lips came together, and staid, as I reckon,
      With as much as you please of a linger,
    Till a finger was seen at the window to beckon,
                                        A finger!

    We'd forgotten the shutters!--the world was forgot,
      Till we saw that sign, from her father,
    Which was rather a poser, just then, was it not?
                                        'Twas, rather!

    He knew I was ruined--all gone to smash!
      And he was a man of that stamp,
    Would call you a scamp if you hadn't the cash--
                                        Ay, a scamp!

    His bonds and investments--not in such brains
      As a poet makes up into verses;
    His remarks--upon never so beautiful strains,
                                        Were curses!

    I called the next day, but the stool was removed,
      And the delicate foot, with a twirl,
    Walked off somewhere with the girl that I loved--
                                        The girl!

    Hang her! hang him! hang the whole planet!
      The stars!--they do hang--well, hang every body,
    And hang me, if I ain't a noddy --d ----n it!
                                        A noddy!

'THE blank-verse _halts_ for it' in the lines entitled '_Mournful
Memories_.' Beside, the tendency of the sentiment is not, we think,
a useful one. Were all the dangers or ills of life to present
themselves to the imagination in a body, drawn up in battle array,
the prospect would indeed be dreadful; but coming individually,
they are far less formidable, and successively as they occur
are conquered. Foreboded, their aspect is terrific; but seen in
retrospect, they frequently excite present satisfaction and future
fortitude. 'It is with human life as with the phases of nature,
whose regular course is calm and orderly; tempests and troubles
being but lapses from the accustomed sobriety with which Providence
works out the destined end of all things.' * * * MUCH is said of
the 'freedom' or 'licentiousness' of our public press; but we are
far behind the press of London in this regard. Look for example
at the comments in some of the London journals upon the recent
marriage of the Hereditary Duke of Mecklenburg, a 'royal pensioner,'
with the Princess AUGUSTA of Cambridge. The produce of his dukedom
is described by the '_Charivari_' as consisting of 'nothing in
particular; its revenue purely nominal.' The wedding is turned
into the broadest ridicule. The Duke had an audience of himself in
the morning in the glass of his dressing-case; his 'master of the
wardrobe, who was also comptroller of the leather portmanteau and
groom of the hat-box,' being the only person in attendance. 'He wore
the _white seam_ of the German order of princes, and was looking
remarkably well--as all the annuitants of England contrive generally
to look.' The ceremony was performed in the usual style of royalty.
And when the prelate who performed the office came to the words
'With all my worldly goods I thee endow,' the Duke of Cambridge,
who always thinks out loud, kept up a running accompaniment: 'Well,
that's capital! worldly goods, indeed! I should like to see some
of 'em!' and other pleasant observations; all which were taken to
be a gush of fervent ejaculations from the father of the bride,
invoking the happiness of the newly-married couple. The happy pair
set out for Kew, to which place the Duke's Lord of the Luggage had
already conveyed his carpet-bag! The _trousseau_ of the Princess
had been laid out at Cambridge House for the inspection of the
bride's friends; 'but the illustrious bridegroom, with more modesty,
laid out _his_ trousseau on the bed in his private apartment,
previous to packing.' Various articles are enumerated; among the
rest, 'a splendid uniform for state occasions, consisting of the
superb coat of an officer of the Blues, with Grenadier trowsers
and a Lifeguards-man's helmet;' 'twelve false collars; nine pairs
of cotton socks; two stocks, with long ends,' etc., etc. Such an
invasion of aristocratic privacy may be termed 'licentiousness of
the press' with as much truth, we conceive, as any of the gossipry
of the American newspapers. * * * IN looking lately over the
'_Souvenirs Historiques_' of NAPOLEON and MARIA LOUISA, by the Baron
MENEVAL, his 'ancient secretary,' we were forcibly impressed with a
passage which depicts the love of the Great Captain for his infant
son. The child was brought every morning to his apartment:

     'YES: that cabinet, which saw the origin of so many mighty
     plans, so many vast and generous schemes of administration,
     was also witness to the effusions of a father's tenderness.
     How often have I seen the emperor keeping his son by him as if
     he were impatient to teach him the art of governing! Whether,
     seated by the chimney on his favorite sofa, he was engaged in
     reading an important document, or whether he went to his bureau
     to sign a despatch, every word of which required to be weighed,
     his son, seated on his knees, or pressed to his breast, was
     never a moment away from him. Sometimes, throwing aside the
     thoughts which occupied his mind, he would lie down on floor
     beside his beloved boy, playing with him like another child,
     attentive to every thing that could please or amuse him. The
     emperor had a sort of apparatus for trying military manoeuvres:
     it consisted of plates of wood fashioned to represent
     battalions, regiments, and divisions. When he wanted to try
     some new combinations of troops, or some new evolution, he used
     to arrange these pieces on the carpet. While he was seriously
     occupied with the disposition of these pieces, working out some
     skilful manoeuvre which might ensure the success of a battle,
     the child, lying at his side, would often overthrow his troops,
     and put into confusion his order of battle, perhaps at the most
     critical moment. But the emperor would recommence arranging his
     men with the utmost good humor.'

How different the scene with these mimic troops, from that presented
by his human legions! No long columns of smoke streamed up from
_their_ line of march, indicating burning villages and fields
trampled in the dust; no explosions of artillery; no thundering of
cavalry; no steel clanging with steel in the desperate conflict of
life for life; no smoke, nor darkness, nor infernal din; no groans
of the dying; no piercing shouts, revealing the last fierce efforts
of human nature, wrought up to the infuriated recklessness of
revenge and despair. None of these! Not greater was the difference
between that infant and his sire! Yet it _is_ a pleasant feature
in the character of NAPOLEON, his love of children. 'He entered,'
says Miss BALCOMBE, who knew him so intimately at St. Helena, 'into
all the feelings of young people, and when with them was a mere
child, and a most amusing one. I think his love of children, and
the delight he felt in their society; and that too at the most
calamitous period of his life, when a cold and unattachable nature
would have been abandoned to the indulgence of selfish misery; in
itself speaks volumes for his goodness of heart.' * * * AH! yes;
we understand your insinuation, dear Sir, and 'possibly _may_ wish
that we had let you alone.' And yet, here is your letter before
us, _requesting_ 'an opinion of the merits of your piece, in the
entertaining gossip of the Editor's Table!' How does _that_ read?
Our correspondent, if his ability were equal to his inclination,
would doubtless make us feel the truth of this scrap of advice
from one who was a judge of human nature: 'Let no man despise the
opinion of _blockheads_. In every society they form the majority,
and are generally the most powerful and influential. Laugh not at
their laborious disquisitions on the weather, and their wonderful
discoveries of things which every one knows. If you offend a
fool, you turn the whole muddy port of his composition into
rancid vinegar, and not all the efforts you can make will abate
its sourness.' One word here to correspondents generally. We have
no pleasure in rejecting a communication, privately or publicly.
Often have we sat, with a 'dubious' paper in hand, hesitating
for an hour whether to 'print or burn;' thinking of the fervent
wishes of the writer, and the labor that he had bestowed upon his
production. Every part, every period, had perhaps been considered
and re-considered, with unremitting anxiety. He had revised,
corrected, expunged, again produced and again erased, with endless
iteration. Points and commas themselves perhaps had been settled
with repeated and jealous solicitude. All this may be, and yet one's
article be indifferent, or unsuited to our pages. Give us credit for
candor, gentlemen, as well as for plain-speaking * * * HERE are two
clever epigrams; the first from a contributor to whom the reader
has heretofore been indebted for several caustic _tersities_ in its
kind; the second from a friend who does not 'confess the cape' of
authorship:

    'WHY is a belle, attired for public gaze,
    Like to a ship? She 'goes about' in stays.'

We can enlighten the ignorance of our Port-Chester friend. Ladies in
this meridian eschew 'stays,' as he calls them. They are _passée_,
out of date, 'things that were.' 'Hence we view the gr-e-ät
necessity there is' of being _au fait_ to the latest fashion. The
ensuing purports to have been written on a '_Yankee Belle_.' 'Guess
_not_,' though; 'tisn't the way of Yankee belles:

    'SHE'S dressed so neatly for the ball,
    In truth, she's scarcely dressed at all;
    A fact to Yankees quite distressing,
    It leaves so little room for guessing!'

'Oh! go 'long, you p'ison critter, you! What d'you mean?' * * *
WE should have published the lines entitled '_What is our Life?_'
but for some _forty lines_, the thoughts of which are 'conveyed'
entire from CARLYLE. Looking down upon the wilderness of London,
the thoughtful TEUFELSDRÖCKH exclaims: 'There in that old city
was a live ember of culinary fire put down, say only two thousand
years ago; and there, burning more or less triumphantly, with such
fuel as the region yielded, it has burnt, and still burns, and
thou thyself seest the very smoke thereof. _Ah! and the far more
mysterious live ember of Vital Fire was then also put down there,
and still miraculously burns and spreads._' * * * THE DRAMA is once
more in the ascendant. The PARK THEATRE, our 'Old Drury,' is a
personification of 'The Deformed Transformed.' Externally, it has
assumed the aspect of a fine granite temple, in the Doric style of
architecture, with a noble statue of SHAKSPEARE lording it over
the pile; while internally, from pit to ceiling; boxes, walls,
proscenium, stage; _every thing_, in short, is new and beautiful.
Mr. BARRY deserves the highest praise for the good taste, the
liberality, and the untiring industry which he has brought to bear
upon our favorite place of theatrical resort. The house opened with
WALLACK; WALLACK, that 'love of a man,' who can never grow old,
and who has lost no whit of his power to delight his auditors. He
opened in his inimitable 'Rolla' and 'Dashall,' to a house crowded
from proscenium to dome with the élite of the metropolis; and he
has since gone through his round of characters, including that
most touching of modern plays, '_The Rent-Day_,' with undiminished
popularity. _Apropos_ of this latter play: a good story is told
of its first production in London. The celebrated FARREN declined
a part in it; remarking, that if the piece ran beyond a single
night, he would eat an old hat for every time it was played. The
play rose to immediate and almost unprecedented popularity. On
arriving at the theatre one evening, Mr. FARREN was informed by
the call-boy that Mr. WALLACK had left something on a side-table
for him, covered with a large white sheet. 'Hum!' grunted FARREN,
'what is it?' The boy lifted the covering; and behold, ranged in
the most exact order, were thirty-six of the dirtiest, shabbiest,
'shocking bad hats' in London! FARREN started, and turned angrily
to the lad. 'Please, Sir,' said the boy, 'Mr. WALLACK says as how
you said, when you refused the part of _Crumbs_ in 'The Rent-Day,'
that if the piece ran beyond a single night, you would eat an old
hat; so as it has now been played thirty-seven times, he thinks it
right to give you something to eat, afore the meal becomes too large
for your digestion!' FARREN said it 'was all right--and left.' *
* * WELL pleased are we to remark the opening of Messrs. COUDERT
AND PORTER's English and Classical Lyceum, at Number ninety-five
Eighth-street, near Tompkins's-Square. The principals have no
superiors; their assistants are of their careful selection, and have
their approval. On _these_ points, therefore, 'enough said.' The
situation is delightful, and the terms consistent with the times.
Let these gentlemen be _patronized_. Ah! that is not the term; but
we have no good synonyme for it. We have always detested the word;
and especially since we encountered Dr. JOHNSON's comment upon it,
in a letter to Lord CHESTERFIELD, soon after finishing his immortal
Dictionary: 'I entertain, Sir, a very strong prejudice against
relying on patrons. Seven years, my Lord, have now passed since I
waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during
which time I have been pushing on my work, through difficulties of
which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to
the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word
of encouragement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not
expect, for I never had a patron before.' * * * OUR friend who
writes us from Florence (his excellent article is filed for our
next) is quite right in his ideas of '_Letters of Introduction_.'
There is much and exaggerated abuse of this courtesy, emanating
from this country. His own case, we can assure him, is by no means
a solitary one. We like the frank reply given by a distinguished
American to a young, conceited whipster, who sought, through the
claims of his father's friendship, to obtain letters to persons of
distinction abroad: 'I want,' said he, 'to get letters to SCOTT, to
MOORE, to SOUTHEY, and to JEFFREY. Father would like to have me see
them.' 'So should _I_,' replied the expected donor, 'but I don't
wish _them_ to see _you_. If _that_ objection could be removed,
perhaps your wish might be gratified.' It 'was stated at the time'
that our young gentleman 'left the presence.' * * * WE are struck
with this remark of Count ROSTOPTCHIN, in his sententious memoirs,
in preceding pages: 'I had an involuntary veneration for the sun,
and his setting always made me sad.' How often, with kindred
emotion, have we stood and gazed at sunset-clouds, with one who now
sleeps in his early grave! Saying little, but thinking much, and
feeling more; and as the day-god sank below the horizon, reflecting
upon the period when all the living world that saw him then, should
roll in unconscious dust around him. Oh! the mystery of nature!--the
mystery of life!... '_The Puritans_ vs. _The Quakers_' is _at_
hand and _on_ hand, and _will be_ for some time, we cal'late.
Couldn't 'approve' the sentiments of our Plymouth correspondent,
'any way 'at he can fix it.' We segregate a joke, however, which
is worth pickling. 'Why are the Quakers always well-to-do in the
world?' asks a Friend of one of the 'world's people.' 'They are
chargeable to no man, and yet are always thrifty.' ''Zactly!' was
the rejoinder; 'and I'll tell you _why_. The Quakers _are_ rich,
that's sartain; and the way of it at first was this: When our
SAVIOUR was took up onto the top of an exceeding high mounting,
the OLD GENTLEMAN offered him all the riches of the world, if
he'd fall down and worship him. 'Twouldn't do: the SAVIOUR said
'No;' but a Quaker who was standing by, took the OLD KNICK up:
'Friend BEELZEBUB,' says he, 'I'll take thy offer!' He did so;
and there's been no scursity of money among your folks sence that
time!' * * * 'HONORS are easy' with sundry of our correspondents.
We perceive that, among others, the '_Mail-Robber_' was elected a
member of the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Cambridge University, at
the late 'commencement' of that institution. 'Served him right;'
he _deserved_ it. We have 'known things of him' that would have
brought this visitation upon him before, had we chosen to mention
them. 'Justice, though slow, always overtakes,' etc. The proverb is
something musty. * * * WE must be permitted to doubt whether
'_bally-ragging_,' as poor POWER used to term scolding, is the
'eftest way' for our New-Haven friend, to whose favor we recently
alluded. 'Many men of many minds.' A spoonful of molasses will catch
more flies than a quart of vinegar; and 'an inch of laugh is worth
an ell of moan, in any state of the market.' 'The vices of the
times, the vices of society, the vices of literature, require rigid
scrutiny and fearless censors.' Very likely; therefore 'Pay away
at them!' say we; but excuse us from monopolizing our pages with
gloom, groutiness, and grumbling. * * * WE have omitted to notice
the superb annual engraving for the subscribers of the '_Apollo
Association_,' recently put forth by that popular institution. The
subject is VANDERLYN's celebrated picture of 'CAIUS MARIUS on the
ruins of Carthage.' The engraving is in line, by S. A. SCHOFF, a
native artist, and forms one of the finest specimens of art in
its kind ever produced in this country. * * * Mr. PRENTICE, the
well-known Louisville Journalist, is 'down upon' a 'gentleman of
some smartness who rejoices in the euphonious name of POE,' (a
correspondent of ours spells it 'Poh!') for terming CARLYLE, in
one of his thousand-and-one MAC-GRAWLER critiques, 'an ass.' The
Kentucky poet and politician thus rejoins: 'We have no more doubt
that Mr. EDGAR A. POE is a very good judge of an ass, than we have
that he is a very poor judge of such a man as THOMAS CARLYLE. He has
no sympathies with the great and wonderful operations of CARLYLE's
mind, and is therefore unable to appreciate him. A blind man can
describe a rainbow as accurately as Mr. POE can CARLYLE's mind.
What Mr. POE lacks in Carlyleism he makes up in jackassism.
It is very likely that Mr. CARLYLE's disciples are as poor judges
of an ass as Mr. POE is of CARLYLE. Let them not abuse each other,
or strive to overcome obstacles which are utterly irremovable.
That Mr. POE has all the native tendencies necessary to qualify
him to be a judge of asses, he has given repeated evidences to the
public.' 'Nervous, but inelegant!' as Mr. ASPEN remarks in 'The
Nervous Man.' * * * CAN any native citizen of '_The Empire State_'
peruse the forceful paper under this title, in preceding pages,
without a feeling of natural and just pride? For ourselves, born,
bred, and educated upon the soil of New-York, we cannot read it
without a thrill of gratification, that our 'lines have been cast
in pleasant places,' and that we have so 'goodly an heritage.' * *
* WE do not know when we have been more 'horrified' than on reading
the following in a London journal: 'Two natives of the cannibal
islands of Marquesas have been carried to France. The story runs,
that on the voyage one of their fellow-passengers asked them which
they liked best, the French or the English? 'The English!' answered
the man, smacking his lips; 'they are the _fattest_.' 'And a great
deal more _tender_,' chimed in the woman, with a grin that exhibited
two rows of pointed teeth as sharp as a crocodile's!' * * * '_The
Exile's Song_,' with the note which accompanied it, came too late
for insertion in the present number. It will appear in our next. *
* * THE story of '_The Tobacco-Quid_' is as old as the seven hills.
What a silly thing it is, to give new names and a new _locale_ to
an 'ancient MILLER,' and at the same time vouch for its entire
authenticity and originality! 'O git eöut!' * * * READER, did you
ever see a small puppy bark at an elephant in a menagerie, whereat
the dignified beast didn't even deign to flap his leather-apron
ears? Did you ever see a stump-tailed ape sporting a Roman toga? And
have you seen the 'Annihilation of DANIEL WEBSTER' by CRAZY NEAL, in
a recent newspaper piece of his? Mr. NEAL thinks the great orator
and statesman a _humbug_! He is a judge of the article. * * * IF the
'_Stanzas to Mary_' are a 'little after the style of WORDSWORTH,' we
can only say that the WORDSWORTH school is not a grammar-school:

          ----'Upon my brow
    Glooms gathers fast and thick,'

is not unlike 'Cats eats mice,' or 'Shads is come!' * * * SEVERAL
communications, among them 'Chronicles of the Past,' Number Two;
'Evening Hymn;' 'The Deity,' etc., will receive attention in our
next.

       *       *       *       *       *

THOMSON'S ABRIDGEMENT OF DAY'S ALGEBRA FOR THE USE OF
SCHOOLS.--DAY's Algebra has sustained a high reputation during
a period of fourteen years; a fact sufficiently evinced by the
sale of more than forty large editions. In appropriateness of
arrangement, perspicuity of expression, and adaptation to the
purposes of instruction, whether public or private, it stands, we
believe, unrivalled. The highest praise which can be bestowed on a
school-book is, that 'it is its own teacher.' By commencing with
points so simple that any child of ordinary ability can comprehend
them, and advancing step by step, removing every obstacle when it
first presents itself, and conducting the student gradually into the
more intricate parts of the science, the author makes him master
of the subject while he is yet scarcely aware of its difficulties.
The exactness of definition and clearness of illustration which
characterize Mr. THOMSON's 'Abridgement' together with the exclusion
of the answers to the problems, (a course indispensable to an
independent scholar,) are especially commendable. The method also
of completing the square by multiplying the equation by four times
the coëfficient of the higher power of the unknown quantity, and
adding to both members the square of the coëfficient of the lower
power, avoids the introduction of fractional terms, and strikes
us as an improvement. The most weighty objection to DAY's Algebra
has been its paucity of examples. This defect is remedied in the
'Abridgement,' the number of examples being nearly twice as great as
in the original work.




LITERARY RECORD.


'PRAYERS FOR THE USE OF FAMILIES.'--Here is a volume of some three
hundred pages, containing upward of seventy prayers, designed to
meet all conditions of mankind, and all the wants of humanity. The
author, Rev. WILLIAM JAY, of England, has aimed to be very plain
and simple in his diction, since prayer admits of no brilliance,
and rejects studied ornament. He has not substituted finery for
elegance, nor the affectation of art for the eloquence of feeling;
but has wisely avoided a strained, inflated style, unintelligible to
the ignorant, lamented by the pious, and contemned by the wise. This
is as it should be. It is remarkable that in the Bible no prayer
is recorded, in which the figure employed is not as familiar as
the literal expression. An appendix is added, containing a number
of select and original prayers for particular occasions; short
addresses, applicable to certain events and circumstances, and which
the reader may insert in their proper place in the main prayer, or
use at the end of it. A work like this, from a competent pen, may
supply with many families an important desideratum. The volume is
published by Mr. M. W. DODD, Brick Church Chapel, opposite the Park.


'THE WYANDOTTE, OR THE HUTTED KNOLL,' is the title of Mr. COOPER's
last work, recently published by Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD,
Philadelphia, in two well-executed volumes in the pamphlet-form.
It embodies legends of the sufferings of isolated families during
the troubled scenes of colonial warfare, which are distinctive in
many of their leading facts, if not rigidly true in the details.
We gather from the prefatory remarks of the author, that in these
volumes he has 'aimed at sketching several distinct varieties
of the human race, as true to the governing impulses of their
educations, habits, modes of thinking, and natures.' How this aim
has been accomplished, we are quite unable to say. We trust however
that the friend who transported the work from our table into the
country, will at least repay us for the gratification of which he
has deprived us, by returning it when he is through with it, that we
may be ourselves enlightened, and enabled to enlighten our readers,
concerning the character of the work.


THOMPSON'S HISTORY OF LONG-ISLAND.--A second edition--revised and
greatly enlarged, and included in two handsome volumes--has just
appeared, of Mr. B. F. THOMPSON's history of Long-Island, from its
discovery and settlement to the present time. The work embodies
many interesting and important matters, connected with the first
settlement of our country and its colonial and revolutionary
history; and includes notices of numerous individuals and families,
and a particular account of different churches and ministers.
In short, the indefatigable author has availed himself of every
source of authentic and valuable information which could add to
the interest or usefulness of his work; which we should not omit
to mention embraces two large and well-executed maps, and is
illustrated by numerous lithographic engravings of edifices and
other objects of interest on the island; and including the author's
'counterfeit presentment.' Messrs. GOULD, BANKS AND COMPANY are the
publishers.


'THE KAREN APOSTLE.'--Messrs. GOULD, KENDALL, AND LINCOLN, Boston,
have issued in a handsome little volume, 'The Karen Apostle, or
Memoir of KO-THAH-BYU, the first Karen convert; with Notices
concerning his Nation. By Rev. FRANCIS MASON, Missionary to the
Karens.' The first American edition is revised by Prof. H. J.
RIPLEY, of Newton (Mass.) Theological Seminary. The work is 'sent
forth in the hope that the interest which has been felt in behalf
of the Karens may be deepened, and that the cause of missions to
the heathen in general may be promoted by the striking proof of the
power of the gospel exhibited in its pages.' The work is illustrated
by maps, in part from manuscript, and by one or two well-executed
engravings on wood. The specimens of Karen literature appended to
the volume do not afford a very exalted idea of the writings of
that sect; nevertheless, they possess a certain interest in the
connection which they sustain in the volume.


NEW MUSIC.--We have before us, from the extensive and popular
establishment of Messrs. JAMES L. HEWITT AND COMPANY, Broadway,
'Woodside Waltz,' by Miss MARION S. MCGREGOR; 'Grand Austerlitz
March and Quickstep, arranged as a Duet, for the Piano-forte,' by
GEORGE W. HEWITT; 'The Alpine Horn, a Tyrollean,' by JOHN H. HEWITT;
and 'Robin Buff, a Ballad,' the music by Mr. HENRY RUSSELL.


'WHEN THOU WERT TRUE.'--This is a very charming Song; the words
by F. W. THOMAS, Esq., the music by JOHN H. HEWITT, inscribed
to Mrs. ROBERT TYLER, and just published by JAMES L. HEWITT AND
COMPANY, Broadway. If the noble-looking portrait upon the title-page
represents Mrs. TYLER, she is justly entitled to the praises with
which the journals have teemed, touching the grace and beauty of her
person. The following are the words:

I.

    When thou wert true, when thou wert true,
      My heart did thy impression take,
    As do the depths where skies are blue,
      Of some wood-girt and quiet lake,
    The image of the moon that gives
    The calmness in whose light she lives.

II.

    But when doubts came, my troubled breast
      Was like that lake when winds do blow;
    Her image there, though still impressed,
      Beams brokenly in ebb and flow:
    Until the storm obscures her sight,
    And reigns the ebon-visaged Night.

III.

    Again that changing moon shall shine,
      When storms are o'er within the lake.
    Which, like that wayward heart of thine,
      Can any other image take:
    Mine, graven like memorial-stone,
    Is now a memory alone.


'ALHALLA, OR THE LORD OF TALADEGA: A TALE OF THE CREEK WAR.'--Thus
is entitled a narrative poem by HENRY ROWE COLCRAFT, better known as
HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT, Esq., an old correspondent of this Magazine.
The story turns upon the contests of the Muscogees, their exertions,
their discomfitures, and their final fall. It opens at a distant
northern point, within a short period after the close of the Creek
war, and occupies two days and nights in its action. Its style
is a union of the dramatic with the narrative and descriptive; a
conjunction well adapted to the character of the story and the
nature of its personages. There are appended to the main poem a few
selected miscellanies, among which we recognize three or four clever
effusions, originally given to the public in these pages. Messrs.
WILEY AND PUTNAM are the publishers.


'THE NEW PURCHASE.'--Our task for these departments of the
KNICKERBOCKER was completed, when we received from Messrs. APPLETON
AND COMPANY, a native novel, in two volumes, entitled 'The New
Purchase; or Seven and a half Years in the Far West.' By ROBERT
CARLTON, Esq. We have not found leisure to read one of its pages;
but if we may judge of its merits from the encomiums of two or three
of our contemporaries of the daily press, it should prove a work of
the most sterling attraction. To say that 'MARY CLAVERS' must 'look
to her laurels,' there being an equally gifted laborer in a kindred
field, strikes us as very high praise. We hope, but doubt, to find
_that_ precaution in any degree necessary.


'USURY: THE EVIL AND THE REMEDY.'--The pages of this department of
the KNICKERBOCKER were mainly in the hands of the printers, when
we received the newspaper folio entitled as above. We are left but
space therefore barely to state, that this essay on usury differs
entirely from the usual mode of treating that subject, in that it
does not rely on the _penalties_ for the repression of the evil, but
proposes to root out its existence by a practical, beneficent mode
of removing the temptations to, and occasions for, usury. It is for
sale at BURGESS AND STRINGER'S, corner of Ann-street and Broadway.'


NEW WORKS FROM THE AMERICAN PRESS.--We have before us several
excellent publications, which came too late for _notice_ in the
present number. Among them, we may mention three entertaining
volumes from the press of Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD, Philadelphia,
'_The Court of England_,' from 1688 to GEORGE the THIRD; '_Nature
and Revelation_,' or the Second Advent; the beautiful '_Illustrated
Prayer-Book_' serials of Mr. HEWET; and PEABODY'S _Dartmouth College
Address_. These publications, with others which we lack space even
to mention, will be adverted to in our November number.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's note:

Minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed.

The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the
transcriber and is placed in the public domain.