Chapter 2

Richard Holmes, Esq. was sitting in his office, two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, with his nose within a few inches of a law-book which rested on his knees, when he was aroused by the opening of the door, and the entrance of a man. Holmes was so much out of the world, and out of the current of business, that he did what a practitioner at the bar of his age and standing rarely does; that is, he looked up without waiting till he was addressed.

'Ah, Harson?--it's you, is it?' said he, laying aside his book, but without rising.

Harry walked up, shook hands with him, and seated himself.

'We've been hard at work, and have made some progress,' said he, taking off his hat, and placing it on the table. 'We've got the woman.'

'What woman?'

'Blossom,' replied Harson; 'I've brought her here to answer for herself. She was in Rust's employ, and received the children from him. She's below.'

'What news of the boy?' inquired Holmes.

'Grosket is after him. He knows where he is. Would you like to see the woman?'

'It would be as well,' said Holmes, drumming on the table. 'We'll hear what she has to say. Does she communicate what she knows willingly or under compulsion?'

'She's not very talkative;' answered Harson, 'and seems terribly afraid of Rust.'

'I think we can squeeze the truth out of her,' replied Holmes. 'Bring her up.'

Harson went out, and in a few minutes reäppeared with Mrs. Blossom at his heels. The lawyer pointed to a chair, into which the lady sank, apparently in a state of great exhaustion and agitation; for she moaned and rocked to and fro, and wrung her hands.

'Your name's Blossom, I think,' said Holmes, evincing no sympathy whatever with her sufferings.

'Ah's me! ah's me! I'm very old! I'm very old!' exclaimed the lady, moaning from the very bottom of her lungs, but without making any reply to the question.

'Hark ye,' said Holmes, in a stern tone, 'I have not sent for you, to listen to your moaning, nor to be trifled with in any other way. You have come here to disclose the deeds of a scoundrel; and disclose them you _must_. You shall answer all my questions, truly, honestly, and without equivocation, or it will be the worse for you. I am aware of offences committed by you, which, if punished as they merit, would send you to prison. I tell you this, that you may know exactly how we stand with reference to each other. If you wish to serve yourself, you will find true and prompt replies to whatever I ask. What's your name?'

Mrs. Blossom oscillated in her chair, glanced at the wall, replied 'Blossom,' and buried her face in a rag of a shawl.

'Good! Where do you live?' demanded the lawyer. The woman answered, and Holmes wrote it down.

'Do you know a man by the name of Michael Rust?'

Mrs. Blossom's chair became very uneasy, and she was seized with a violent cough. The lawyer waited until her cough was better, and repeated the question, accompanying it by a look which produced an answer in the affirmative.

'What other name did you ever know him to bear?'

Mrs. Blossom suddenly found her voice, and replied boldly: 'No other;' and here she spoke the truth; for Rust had trusted her no farther than was absolutely necessary.

'How long have you known him?'

Mrs. Blossom again lost her voice, but found it instantly on meeting the eye of Holmes; and she answered bluntly, 'About four years.'

'What led to your acquaintance?'

The woman cast a shrewd suspicious glance at him, as if calculating how far she might trifle with impunity; but there was something in his manner that was not encouraging, and she replied, 'that she could not remember.'

Holmes laid down his pen, and pushing back his chair so that he faced her, said in a quiet but very decided manner:

'Mrs. Blossom, you have been brought here for the purpose of giving us such information as will enable us to do justice to a person who has been greatly injured by this man Rust. I mention this, not because I suppose the motive will have any great weight with you, but to let you see that the object of our investigation is nothing against yourself. Your answers are important to us; for at present we know no other than yourself, of whom we can obtain the information we require. I do not conceal this, nor will I conceal the fact that unless you _do_ answer me, you shall leave this room for a prison. I told you so before; I repeat it now; I will _not_ repeat it a third time. I already know enough of the matter on which I am interrogating you, to be able to detect falsehood in your answers.'

There was something either in the words of the lawyer or in the formation of her chair that caused Mrs. Blossom to move very uneasily; and at the same time to cast a glance behind her, as if there existed a strong connection between her thoughts and the door. She was however used to trying circumstances, and did not lose her presence of mind. She made no reply, but sat with every faculty, which long training had sharpened to a high degree of cunning, on the alert; but she was not a little taken by surprise when Holmes, after taking from the table a packet of papers, selected one, and having spent a few minutes in examining it, said to her:

'To convince you that we are perfectly acquainted with the nature of your dealings with Rust, I will enter into a few details, which may perhaps enable you to recollect something more. Four years since, on the sixteenth of December, a man by the name of Blossom, with whom you lived, and whose name you bear, although you are not his wife, proposed to you to take charge of two children, a boy and girl. At first you refused, but finally agreed to do it on receiving five hundred dollars, and the assurance that no inquiry would be made as to the treatment they received at your hands, and that whether they lived or died was a matter of indifference to the person who placed them in your charge, and would not be too closely investigated. The children came. They were quite young. You had them for a week, and were then informed that they must go, for a time, to the country. You asked no questions, but gave them up, and they were sent away, the money for their support being furnished by the same hand that threw them upon your mercy. In a year or so they were brought back, and were again entrusted to you, with instructions to break them down, and if possible to send them to their graves; but if their bodies were proof against cruelty, _then_ so to pollute their very souls, and familiarize them with crime, that they should forget what they had been; and that even those who should have loved them best would blush to see what they were. You began your work well, for you had a stern, savage master over you--Michael Rust. Thus much,' said he, 'I know; but I must know more. You must identify the children as the same first delivered to you by Rust. You must disclose the names of the persons with whom they lived in the country. You must also give me such information as will enable us to fasten this crime on Rust. Another person could have proved all this--the man Blossom; but you know he is dead.'

He paused, for Mrs. Blossom's face grew deadly pale as he spoke. It was momentary, however; and might have passed away entirely, had not a strange suspicion fastened itself on his mind. He added in a slow tone: 'What ailed him, _you_ know best.'

Mrs. Blossom's thin lips grew perfectly white; and moved as if she were attempting to speak.

'Will you give me the information I require? or will you accept the alternative?' said Holmes, still keeping his eye upon her.

'Go on; what do you want?' demanded she, in a quick husky voice.

'You are acquainted with Michael Rust?'

'I am,' replied she, in the same quick, nervous manner.

'How did you first become acquainted with him?'

'You know all that,' was the abrupt reply. 'Why should I go over it again? It's all true, as you said it.'

Holmes paused to make a note of it, and then asked:

'What is the name of the person, in the country, who took charge of the children?'

'I don't know,' replied the woman. 'Michael Rust sent a man for them, who took them off.'

'Who was this man?'

'I don't know; I never saw him. Mr. Blossom gave the children to him, and never told me his name.'

'Good,' said Holmes, in his short, abrupt manner: 'Where are these children now?'

'One's at _his_ house,' replied she, pointing to Harson. 'The other, by this time, is with a man named Grosket. He's been arter him, and I suppose has got him by this time.'

'Enoch Grosket?' inquired Holmes.

The woman nodded. 'I told him where he'd find him. He went straight off to fetch him.'

'Will you swear that they are the same children brought to you four years since?' said Holmes, pausing in his writing, and running his eye over the notes which he had made. 'Do you know them to be the same?'

'The man said so, who brought 'em back at the end of the year. That's all I know about it. They never left me arter that.'

'Who was that man?'

'Tim Craig,' replied the woman.

'And he's dead. The only person who could reveal their place of concealment during that year, and the name of those who had the care of them. The chain is broken, by which to identify them as the lost children of George Colton. Who can aid us in this?'

'I CAN!' said a voice.

All three started, for there, at their very elbow, stood Michael Rust; but Rust, fearfully altered, worn down, wan, haggard, with sunken cheeks, and features rigid and colorless, as if cut from wax, and with an eye of fire. But wrecked as he was, there was still that strange sneering smile on his lip, which seemed as if only parting to utter sarcasm and mockery. But now he was serious in his mood, for he repeated:

'I can, and without my aid the secret must be hid forever.'

Holmes rose, angrily, from his seat.

'What brought _you_ here?' demanded he.

'Be seated, I beg of you,' said Rust, bowing, and speaking in a low, mocking tone. 'What brought me here? _You_ called upon _me_, I think; it was but civil to return the visit. I have come to do so.'

'This is idle, Sir,' replied Holmes, coldly. 'You came for some purpose. Name it. The sooner this interview is over, the more agreeable I suppose it will be for both of us.'

'For me, certainly,' said Rust, in a manner so constrained and different from his usual one, that the lawyer was in doubt whether he was in jest or earnest. Then he added, in a bitter tone: 'You ask what brought me here. Destiny, folly, revenge perhaps against my own heart's blood. Call it what you will; here I am; and ready to assist in the very matter which now perplexes you. What more do you want?'

Holmes replied with a sarcastic smile: 'The assistance of Michael Rust is likely to be as great as his sincerity. We certainly should place great reliance on it.'

Rust, perfectly unmoved by the taunt, answered in a tone so bitter, so full of hatred to himself, so replete with the outpouring of a cankered heart, so despairing and reckless, that the lawyer felt that even in him there might be some truth:

'I care not whether you trust me or not; I care not whether you believe me or not. If Michael Rust could ever have been swayed by the opinions of others, it would have been before this; it's too late to begin now. I came here because I have failed in all I undertook; because I am beginning to hate the one for whom I have toiled, until I grew gray with the wearing away of mind and body; because the soul of life is gone. I do it out of revenge against that person. There is no remorse; no conscience; but it's revenge. Look at me; that person has blasted me. Do I not show it in every feature and limb? Now you understand me. My schemes are abandoned; and I shall soon be where neither man nor law can reach me. My secret can do me no good; why should I keep it? Perhaps the recollection of past days and of past favors from one whom I have wronged, may have had its weight; perhaps not. I've come to tell the truth. If you will hear it, well; if not, I go, and it goes with me.'

Holmes and Harson exchanged looks, and Harson nodded, as if in acquiescence to some proposition which he supposed the looks of the other to indicate.

'Well, Sir,' replied Holmes, 'we will hear what you have to say.'

'Stop,' said Rust; 'before uttering a word, I must have a promise.'

The lawyer looked at him, and then at Harson, as much as to say: 'I expected it. There's some trick in it.'

Rust observed it, and said: 'Spare your suspicions; I have come here to be frank and honest in word and deed; and Michael Rust can be so, when the fancy seizes him. The promise I require is this; whatever I may reveal, no matter what the penalty, you will not set the blood-hounds of the law on my track within forty-eight hours. I have yet one act to perform in the great farce of life. _That_ accomplished, you may do your worst.'

'This is all very strange,' said Holmes, eyeing the thin, excited features of his visitor, as if not altogether sure of his sanity; 'if you fear the punishment of your misdeeds, why reveal them? Why place yourself in our power, or run the risk of our interfering with your future movements?'

Rust replied bitterly: 'You shall hear. My whole life has been spent for one person, my own child. Every faculty of mind and body has been devoted to her, and every crime I have committed was for her. Scruples were disregarded; ties of blood set at defiance; every thing that binds man to man, that deters from wrong, were disregarded, if they stood in the way of that one grand aim of life. _She_ forgot all! She has broken me down, heart and spirit. Love and devotion were crushed with them, and revenge has sprung up from their ruins. Ay! revenge against my own child! Should any thing prevent my doing what I have yet to do, and should my brother die, and his children not be found, _she_ would be his heir. _I_ would have labored and _succeeded_, for one who has disgraced me, and made me what you see me!'

He stretched out his thin hands, displaying the large veins, coursing beneath the skin, and apparently full to bursting. 'How wasted they are!' He smiled as he looked at them, and then asked: 'Will you promise?'

The lawyer turned to Harson, and then said: 'I promise; do you, Harson?' Harry nodded.

'Good!' said Rust, abruptly. 'You know my name, and much of my history. All the facts which you detailed to me at my office a short time since are true--true almost to the very letter. Michael Rust and Henry Colton are one. The plodding, scheming, heartless, unprincipled Henry Colton, who could sell his brother's own flesh and blood for gold; who could forget all the kindnesses heaped upon him, and stab his benefactor, and this wreck of Michael Rust, are one!'

He struck his hand against his chest, and strode up and down the room, biting his lips. '_He_ was rich, and _I_ was poor: he gave me the means of living, but I wanted more. I had my eye on his entire wealth, and I wanted him to be in his grave. But he thwarted me in that. Feeble and sickly, so that a breath might have destroyed him, he lived on, and at last, as if to balk me farther, he married. Two children were born; two more obstacles between me and my aim. Two children!--two more of the same blood for me to love. Ho! ho! how Michael Rust loved those babes!' exclaimed he, clutching his fingers above his head, and gasping as he spoke. He turned, and fastening his glaring eye on the lawyer, griped his fingers together, with his teeth hard set and speaking through them, said in a sharp whisper: 'I could have strangled them!'

He paused; and then went on: 'At last came the thought of removing them. At first it was vague: it came like a shadow, and went off; then it came again, more distinct. Then it became stronger, and stronger, until it grew into a passion--a very madness. At last my mind was made up, and my plans formed. I trusted no one, but carried them off myself, and delivered them to the husband of that woman,' pointing to Mrs. Blossom. 'I told him nothing of their history: he was paid to take charge of them, and asked no questions. Then came the clamor of pursuit. I daily met and comforted my broken-hearted brother and his wife: I held out hopes which I knew were false; I offered rewards; I turned pursuit in every direction except the right one. They both thanked me, and looked upon me as their best friend; and so I was, for I kept up hope; and what is life without it? At last the search approached the neighborhood where the children really were, and they were sent to the country. A man by the name of Craig took them. The only person who was in the secret was Enoch Grosket; but he knew nothing respecting the history of the children, nor where they went.'

'Where was it?' inquired Holmes, anxiously, 'and to whom did you entrust them?'

'I have prepared it all,' said Rust; he drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to him. 'You'll find it there, and the names of the persons; they know nothing of the children; but they can identify them as those left with them four years ago; and they still have the clothes which they wore at the time; but the girl's resemblance to her mother will save all that trouble.'

He paused, with his dark eyes fastened on the floor, and his lips working with intense emotion.

'And is it possible that the love of gold can lead one to crimes like these!' said Holmes, in a subdued tone.

'Love of gold!' exclaimed Rust, fiercely; 'what cared I for gold? Ho! ho! Michael Rust values gold but as dross; but it is the world; the cringing, obsequious, miser-hearted world, that kisses the very feet of wealth, which set Michael Rust on; it was this that lashed him forward; but not for himself. I married a woman whom I loved,' said he, in a quick, stern tone; 'she abandoned me and became an outcast, and paid the penalty by an outcast's fate: she died in the streets. The love which I bore her I transferred to my child. I was poor, and I resolved that she should be rich. Can you understand my motive now? I loved my own flesh and blood better than my brother's. I have now relinquished my plans, and have told you why.'

A pause of some moments ensued, and Rust said: 'Is there any thing more that you want? If so, tell me at once, for after to-day we shall never meet again.'

Holmes ran his eye over the papers, and selecting two letters, handed them to Rust, and said:

'How do you account for the difference of that hand-writing, if Michael Rust and Henry Colton are one?'

'Michael Rust wrote one hand, Henry Colton another,' said Rust; 'but _I_ wrote both.' He seized a pen, wrote a few words, signed the names Michael Rust and Henry Colton, and flung it on the table. 'The game had been well studied before it was played.'

'Your writing is well disguised indeed,' said the lawyer, comparing it with the letters; 'it solves that difficulty.'

'Any thing else?' demanded Rust, impatiently; 'my time is limited.'

Holmes shook his head; but Harson said: 'A few words about Jacob Rhoneland.'

'Well?'

'You accuse him of forgery; what does that mean?'

'He was a fool: I wanted to marry his daughter; I represented myself to him as very rich, to tempt his avarice; that failed. I added entreaties; _they_ failed. Then I tried the effect of fear. He was not deaf to that for a long time, but at last he overcame even that.'

'And the tale?'

'Was well fabricated, but false.'

'And Ned Somers?'

'I had to get rid of him: what could I do while he was dallying round the girl? I _did_ get rid of him: a few lies whispered to the old man sent him adrift. But I'm tired of this; I came to tell what I pleased, and nothing more, and I must be at work. You must respect your promise,' said he, turning to Holmes.

'I shall, and I hope your present errand at least is an honest one.'

'It is,' said Rust, with a strange smile; 'it is to punish a criminal.' He opened the door and went off without another word.

NIGHT AND MORNING.

'To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new!'

LYCIDAS.

Yes! I have been for many a changeful year, Studious or sensual, gay or wild, or sad, An earnest votary of Evening. She Had something wondrous winning to my eye, So soft she was, and quiet. Often too, Absorbed in books, which were perchance a bane, Perchance a blessing; or in glittering crowds, Gazing all rapt on woman's eloquent face, Nature's most witching and most treacherous page; Or high in mirth with those whose senseful wit Outflashed the rosy wines that warmed its flow, I've held my vigils till the brow of Night Grew pale and starless, and her solemn pomp, Out-glared by day, faded in hueless space. I do repent me of my worship. Night Was given for rest: who breaks this natural law Wrongs body and soul alike. One vigorous hour Of sober day-light thought is worth a night's Slow oscitations of a drowsy mind. 'Neath Eve's pale star the desolate heart reverts To those far moments, when the sky was blue, And earth was green, as earth and sky to eyes Once disenchanted, can appear no more.

We _all_ are mourners. Good men must deplore Lost hours, lost friends, lost pleasures; and the bad Are racked by throes of impotent remorse, Dark, fierce, and bitter; for _themselves_ are lost, And still neglecting what remains of life, They strive by backward reachings to redeem The irredeemable. _Why_ pass the hours, The fleeting hours, in profitless regrets, When each regret but lops _another_ bough, Full of green promise, from the tree of life? You, who in your bereavement truly feel This truth, expressed so sadly and so well: 'Joy's recollection is no longer joy, While Sorrow's memory is sorrow still;' I counsel to recant your vows, and come With me to worship at a better shrine, The shrine of Morning. Morning is the hour Of vigorous thought, unconquerable hope, And high endeavor. All our powers, in sleep Bathed, nurtured, clad, and strung with nerves of steel, Rise from their brief oblivion keen with health, And strong for struggling, and we feel that toil Is toil's own recompense. I deem that Man Is not a retrospective being; for his course Is on, still on; and never should his eyes Turn back, but to detect his errors past, And shun them in his future steps. Too long, Ah! much too long, O world! and oft I've gazed In awe and wonder on thy midnight sleep, While magic Memory, singly or in groups, Upon her faded tablets re-produced Fair and familiar forms of Love and Joy. Oh! _so_ familiar were they, and so fair, Though dim, those blessed faces, that my eyes Grew tremulous with the dew of unshed tears. The gaze hath hurt me. It hath taken their rest And natural joy from body and spirit, and worn Too fast the wheel-work of this frail machine. And now, oh! sleeping Nature! while the stars Smile on thy face, and I in fancy hear The low pulsations of thy dormant life, And feel thy mighty bosom heave and fall With regular breathings; through _my_ little world I feel Disease advancing on his sure And stealthy mission. Well I know his step, The wily traitor! when I mark my short, Quick respirations; and his call I know, As, in the hush of night, my ear alarmed By the heart's death-march notes, repeats its strange And audible beatings. Down! grim spectre, down! Flap not thy wings across my face, nor let Thy ghastly visage, horrible shadow! freeze My staring eye-balls! Let me fly, O Death! Thy chilling presence, and implore thy soft And merciful brother,[2] dewy Sleep, to drip Papaverous balsam on my eyes, and lull My throbbing temples on his lap to rest!

* * * * *

The day-spring reddens: the first few, faint streaks, Mingling and brightening o'er the eastern skies, Announce the upward chariot of the Sun. Light leaps from Darkness! In the grave of Night Day lays aside his burial-robes, and dons His regal crown, and Nature smiles to see His resurrection, shouting, 'Hail! oh, hail! Eve's younger[3] brother! and again, all hail! Thou bright-eyed Morning! fairest among all Of God's fair creatures! Rise, bright prince, and shine O'er this green earth, from brooding Darkness won, From wild, waste Chaos, and the womb of Night!'

[2] [Greek: Entha de Nuktos paides eremnês oiki echousin, Hypnos kai Thanatos, k. t. l.] HES. THEOG. 1. 758, etc.

[3] Observe the order of collocation in Genesis I: 5. 'And the EVENING and the MORNING were the first day.'

Let _me_ too burst the leaden bands of Sleep, And while the blinking stars, all faint and pale With their long watch, recall their courier-rays To their far orbits; and our earthly stars, The stars of Fashion, sick and wan as they, Are wheeling homeward to their feverous rest, Let _me_ walk forth among the silent groves, Or through the cool vales snuff the morning air. How fresh! how breathing! Every draught I take Seems filled with healthiest life, and sends the blood Rushing and tingling through my quickened veins, Like inspiration! How the fluent air, Fanned into motion by thy breezy wings, O, fragrant Morning! blows from off the earth The congregated vapors, dank and foul, By yesterday coagulate and mixed! Miasmas steaming up from sunless fens; The effluvia of vegetable death; Disease exhaled from pestilential beds, And Lust's rank pantings and the fumes of wine; All these, condensed in one pernicious gas By Noon's hot efflux and the reeking Night, Thy filtering breezes make as fresh and sweet As infant slumbers; pure as the virgin's breath Whispering her first love in the eager ear Of her heart's chosen. On this climbing hill, While, lost in ecstacy, I stand and gaze On the fresh beauties of a world disrobed, How does thy searching breath, oh, infant Day! Inspire the languid frame with new-born life, And all its sinking powers rejuvenate, Freshening the murky hollows of the soul! Good Heaven! How glorious this morning hour, Nature's new birth-time! All her mighty frame, In lowly vale, on lofty mountain-top, And wide savannah, stirs, with sprightful life, Life irrepressible, whose eager thrill Shoots to her very finger-tips, and makes Each little flower through all her delicate threads Each fibrous plant, each blade of corn or grass, And each tall tree, through all its limbs and leaves, Quiver and tremble. The increasing light Reveals the outlines of the shadowy hills, And, charm by charm, the landscape all comes forth, Wood, stream, and valley; while above that green And waving ocean swells an endless vault Of blue serenity, and round its verge Kindles and flashes with rubescent gleams The far horizon; till the whole appears A sapphire dome, which, edged with golden rim, Spans the green surges of an emerald sea. The Sun is still unseen; yet far before His chariot-wheels a train of glory marks His kindling track, and all the air is now A luminous ocean. Whence these floods of light, Rich with all hues? Say! have the spheréd stars, Powdered in shining atoms, fallen and filled The ambient air with their invisible dews? Or have the fugitive particles of light, The Sun's lost emanations, which all night Lay hid in hollows of the earth, or slept In vegetable cells, come forth to greet Their monarch's coming? Are they pioneers Sent to prepare his way, and raise his bright Victorious banner, that their sovereign's eye From his serene pavilion may behold No lingering shadow from the gloomy host Of hateful Darkness, who hast westward borne His routed army and his fading flag? Alas! proud Science, Fancy's sneering foe, Says they are but the Sun's refracted rays, And scintillations from his burning wheels.

EARTH'S bride-groom rises. Round his glittering head He shakes his streamy locks, and fast and far Sheds showers of splendor; and his blushing bride, Recumbent on her grassy couch, scarce opes Her bashful eyes to meet his ardent gaze. While at the advent of her lord, the Earth, Marking his shining footsteps, with a smile Remembers the espousals of her youth, When morning stars rang out the nuptial song[4] In jubilant chorus; on her milky breast, All the green nurslings of his favor raise Their dewy heads, and welcome his approach With thankful greetings; and each gentle flower Turns her fair face to the munificent god Of her idolatry, and well repays His warm caresses with her perfumed breath.

[4] 'When the morning stars sang together,' etc. JOB: XXXVIII., 7. In the same chapter observe the astonishing boldness of scripture personification, and the unequalled pomp of oriental imagery.

But while inanimate nature takes the shows Of life, and joy, and deep and passionate sense, The animal kingdom sleeps not; all its tribes Swell the glad anthem. Birds, that all night long Slept and dreamed sweetly 'neath their folded wings, At nature's summons are awakening now; Nor unmelodiously; for from their throats, In many a warbling trill, or mingled gush, Comes music of such sweet and innocent strength, As might force tears from the black murderer's eyes, And make the sighing captive, while he weeps His own hard wrongs, lift his chained hands, and pray For his oppressor more than for himself.

Thou, too, my soul, if wearing years have left Aught of high feeling in thy wasted powers, Of gratitude for mercies undeserved, Or hope of future favors, here and now, Upon this breezy hill-top, in the eye Of the bright day-god rising from his sleep, Perform thine orisons: 'Father and King, While here thy quickening breezes round me play, And yonder comes thy visible delegate With his bright scutcheon, to diffuse again All day the rays of thy beneficence Over this lovely earth, thy six days' work; To Thee, ALMIGHTY ONE! thy child would raise A loud thanksgiving. And if this, my strain Of joy and thanks, and supplication, be Or cold, or weak, or insincere in aught, (As our poor hearts deceive themselves so oft,) Thou! O OMNIPOTENT! canst make it warm,-- Warm as thy love, strong as thy Son's strong tears, And pure as thine own essence. Formed by Thee, Saved by thy mercy from thy wrath, we all Are guilty ingrates, and the best of men Hath sins perchance which might outweigh the worth Of all the angels. _I_, at least, have sinned, Sinned long and deeply; and if still my heart, Warped by its own bad passions, or allured By the world's glitter and the arts of him, Thy foe and our destroyer, should forget Its source and destiny, and breathe its vows Again to idols, yet reject Thou not This present offering. Let thy Grace surround My steps as with a muniment of rocks, And guide me in the uneven paths of life, A pilgrim shielded by thy hollow hand. And as the grateful earth sends up all day Her exhalations through the bibulous air To the sun, her monarch; and receives them back Rich, soft, and fertile, in the still small shower, That falls invisible from the morning's womb: So may my fervent heart exhale to Thee Daily, the breathings of its thankful prayer. And praise spontaneous; which thy heavenly grace Shall render back in a perpetual dew Of benedictions, making all the waste Green with cool verdure. Oh! the time hath been, When thy benighted children lost the creed Of thy true worship, and to brutes bowed down, And senseless stones, and, kneeling in sincere But vain devotion, to the creature gave The adoration due to Thee alone, The mighty Maker. Others strove to turn Thine anger from them, by the streaming blood Of human victims; and the reverend priest Stood up, and in the name of people and king, Prayed Thee, or some vain substitute, to bless The holy murder. Even thy chosen, thine own Peculiar nation, did forget that Thou Lov'st the oblation of a grateful heart, A holocaust self-sacrificed to God,[5] And trusted to the blood of bulls and goats, And whole burned offerings. And _still_ mankind Kneel in blind worship. Every heart sets up Its separate Dagon. Fierce Ambition breathes His burning vow, and, to secure his prayer, Makes the dear children of his heart, his own Sweet home's affections and delights, pass through The fire of Moloch: Avarice at the shrine Of greedy Mammon, gluts his eyes with gold: Some to Renown bend low the obsequious knee, Praying to be eternized by a blast From her shrill trumpet: in the glittering halls Of sensual Pleasure some sing songs, and bind Their fair young brows with chaplets steeped in wine; Though soon the chaplets turn to chains, the wines To gall and wormwood, and the festal song To howls and hootings. High above these shrines The great arch-demon and parental Jove Of all the Pantheon, a god unknown But every where adored, omnipotent And omnipresent to the tribes of men, SELF, rears his temple. But the day shall come, When far and wide o'er the regenerate world, From each green vale and ancient hill, thy sons Duly to Thee shall bring their evening thanks And morning homage. Round each cheerful hearth, Or kneeling in the spreading door-tree's shade, Each human heart, brim-full of love and hope, And holy gratitude, shall send aloft A pure oblation, and the throbbing earth Be one great censer, breathing praise to Thee.'

[5] This line is from one of GRIMKE'S polished and most scholar-like orations.

THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.[6]

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH BOOK.

[6] See 'Editor's Table' of the present number.

When in the year of Redemption 701, WITIZIA was elected to the Gothic throne, his reign gave promise of happy days to Spain. He redressed grievances, moderated the tributes of his subjects, and conducted himself with mingled mildness and energy in the administration of the laws. In a little while, however, he threw off the mask and showed himself in his true nature, cruel and luxurious. Considering himself secure upon the throne, he gave the reins to his licentious passions, and soon by his tyranny and sensuality acquired the appellation of WITIZIA the Wicked. How rare is it to learn wisdom from the misfortunes of others! With the fate of WITIZIA full before his eyes, DON RODERICK was no sooner established as his successor, than he began to indulge in the same pernicious errors, and was doomed in like manner to prepare the way for his own perdition.

As yet the heart of Roderick, occupied by the struggles of his early life, by warlike enterprises, and by the inquietudes of newly-gotten power, had been insensible to the charms of women; but in the first voluptuous calm the amorous propensities of his nature assumed their sway. There are divers accounts of the youthful beauty who first found favor in his eyes, and was elevated by him to the throne. We follow, in our legend, the details of an Arabian chronicler, authenticated by a Spanish poet. Let those who dispute our facts produce better authority for their contradiction.

Among the few fortified places that had not been dismantled by Don Roderick was the ancient city of Denia, situated on the Mediterranean coast, and defended on a rock-built castle that overlooked the sea.

The Alcayde of the castle, with many of the people of Denia, was one day on his knees in the chapel, imploring the Virgin to allay a tempest which was strewing the coast with wrecks, when a sentinel brought word that a Moorish cruiser was standing for the land. The Alcayde gave orders to ring the alarm bells, light signal-fires on the hill tops, and rouse the country; for the coast was subject to cruel maraudings from the Barbary cruisers.

In a little while the horsemen of the neighborhood were seen pricking along the beach, armed with such weapons as they could find; and the Alcayde and his scanty garrison descended from the hill. In the meantime the Moorish bark came rolling and pitching toward the land. As it drew near, the rich carving and gilding with which it was decorated, its silken bandaroles, and banks of crimson oars, showed it to be no warlike vessel, but a sumptuous galleot, destined for state and ceremony. It bore the marks of the tempest: the masts were broken, the oars shattered, and fragments of snowy sails and silken awnings were fluttering in the blast.

As the galleot grounded upon the sand, the impatient rabble rushed into the surf to capture and make spoil; but were awed into admiration and respect by the appearance of the illustrious company on board. There were Moors of both sexes sumptuously arrayed, and adorned with precious jewels, bearing the demeanor of persons of lofty rank. Among them shone conspicuous a youthful beauty, magnificently attired, to whom all seemed to pay reverence.

Several of the Moors surrounded her with drawn swords, threatening death to any that approached; others sprang from the bark, and, throwing themselves on their knees before the Alcayde, implored him, by his honor and courtesy as a knight, to protect a royal virgin from injury and insult.

'You behold before you,' said they, 'the only daughter of the King of Algiers, the betrothed bride of the son of the King of Tunis. We were conducting her to the court of her expecting bridegroom, when a tempest drove us from our course, and compelled us to take refuge on your coast. Be not more cruel than the tempest, but deal nobly with that which even sea and storm have spared.'

The Alcayde listened to their prayers. He conducted the princess and her train to the castle, where every honor due to her rank was paid her. Some of her ancient attendants interceded for her liberation, promising countless sums to be paid by her father for her ransom; but the Alcayde turned a deaf ear to all their golden offers. 'She is a royal captive,' said he; 'it belongs to my sovereign alone to dispose of her.' After she had reposed, therefore, for some days at the castle, and recovered from the fatigue and terror of the seas, he caused her to be conducted, with all her train, in magnificent state to the court of Don Roderick.

The beautiful Elyata entered Toledo more like a triumphant sovereign than a captive. A chosen band of Christian horsemen, splendidly armed, appeared to wait upon her as a mere guard of honor. She was surrounded by the Moorish damsels of her train, and followed by her own Moslem guards, all attired with the magnificence that had been intended to grace her arrival at the court of Tunis. The princess was arrayed in bridal robes, woven in the most costly looms of the orient; her diadem sparkled with diamonds, and was decorated with the rarest plumes of the bird of paradise; and even the silken trappings of her palfrey, which swept the ground, were covered with pearls and precious stones. As this brilliant cavalcade crossed the bridge of the Tagus, all Toledo poured forth to behold it; and nothing was heard throughout the city but praises of the wonderful beauty of the princess of Algiers. King Roderick came forth attended by the chivalry of his court, to receive the royal captive. His recent voluptuous life had disposed him for tender and amorous affections, and, at the first sight of the beautiful Elyata, he was enraptured with her charms. Seeing her face clouded with sorrow and anxiety, he soothed her with gentle and courteous words, and, conducting her to a royal palace, 'Behold,' said he, 'thy habitation where no one shall molest thee; consider thyself at home in the mansion of thy father, and dispose of any thing according to thy will.'

Here the princess passed her time, with the female attendants who had accompanied her from Algiers; and no one but the king was permitted to visit her, who daily became more and more enamoured of his lovely captive, and sought, by tender assiduity, to gain her affections. The distress of the princess at her captivity was soothed by this gentle treatment. She was of an age when sorrow cannot long hold sway over the heart. Accompanied by her youthful attendants, she ranged the spacious apartments of the palace, and sported among the groves and alleys of its garden. Every day the remembrance of the paternal home grew less and less painful, and the king became more and more amiable in her eyes; and when, at length, he offered to share his heart and throne with her, she listened with downcast looks and kindling blushes, but with an air of resignation.

One obstacle remained to the complete fruition of the monarch's wishes, and this was the religion of the princess. Roderick forthwith employed the Archbishop of Toledo to instruct the beautiful Elyata in the mysteries of the Christian faith. The female intellect is quick in perceiving the merits of new doctrines: the archbishop, therefore, soon succeeded in converting, not merely the princess, but most of her attendants; and a day was appointed for their public baptism. The ceremony was performed with great pomp and solemnity, in the presence of all the nobility and chivalry of the court. The princess and her damsels, clad in white, walked on foot to the cathedral, while numerous beautiful children, arrayed as angels, strewed the path with flowers; and the archbishop, meeting them at the portal, received them, as it were, into the bosom of the church. The princess abandoned her Moorish appellation of Elyata, and was baptised by the name of Exilona, by which she was thenceforth called, and has generally been known in history.

The nuptials of Roderick and the beautiful convert took place shortly afterward, and were celebrated with great magnificence. There were jousts, and tourneys, and banquets, and other rejoicings, which lasted twenty days, and were attended by the principle nobles from all parts of Spain. After these were over, such of the attendants of the princess as refused to embrace Christianity, and desired to return to Africa, were dismissed with munificent presents; and an embassy was sent to the King of Algiers, to inform him of the nuptials of his daughter, and to proffer him the friendship of King Roderick.

For a time Don Roderick lived happily with his young and beautiful queen, and Toledo was the seat of festivity and splendor. The principal nobles throughout the kingdom repaired to his court to pay him homage, and to receive his commands; and none were more devoted in their reverence than those who were obnoxious to suspicion, from their connection with the late king.

Among the foremost of these was Count Julian, a man destined to be infamously renowned in the dark story of his country's woes. He was of one of the proudest Gothic families, lord of Consuegra and Algeziras, and connected by marriage with Witizia and the Bishop Oppas; his wife, the Countess Frandina, being their sister. In consequence of this connection, and of his own merits, he had enjoyed the highest dignities and commands: being one of the Espatorios, or royal sword-bearers; an office of the greatest confidence about the person of the sovereign. He had, moreover, been intrusted with the military government of the Spanish possessions on the African coast of the strait, which at that time were threatened by the Arabs of the East, the followers of Mahomet, who were advancing their victorious standard to the extremity of Western Africa. Count Julian established his seat of government at Ceuta, the frontier bulwark, and one of the far-famed gates of the Mediterranean Sea. Here he boldly faced, and held in check, the torrent of Moslem invasion.

Don Julian was a man of an active, but irregular genius, and a grasping ambition; he had a love for power and grandeur, in which he was joined by his haughty countess; and they could ill brook the downfall of their house as threatened by the fate of Witizia. They had hastened, therefore, to pay their court to the newly elevated monarch, and to assure him of their fidelity to his interests.

Roderick was readily persuaded of the sincerity of Count Julian; he was aware of his merits as a soldier and a governor, and continued him in his important command; honoring him with many other marks of implicit confidence. Count Julian sought to confirm this confidence by every proof of devotion. It was a custom among the Goths to rear many of the children of the most illustrious families in the royal household. They served as pages to the king, and handmaids and ladies of honor to the queen, and were instructed in all manner of accomplishments befitting their gentle blood. When about to depart for Ceuta, to resume his command, Don Julian brought his daughter Florinda to present her to the sovereigns. She was a beautiful virgin, that had not as yet attained to womanhood. 'I confide her to your protection,' said he to the king, 'to be unto her as a father; and to have her trained in the paths of virtue. I can leave with you no dearer pledge of my loyalty.'

King Roderick received the timid and blushing maiden into his paternal care; promising to watch over her happiness with a parent's eye, and that she should be enrolled among the most cherished attendants of the queen. With this assurance of the welfare of his child, Count Julian departed, well pleased, for his government at Ceuta.

The beautiful daughter of Count Julian was received with great favor by the queen Exilona, and admitted among the noble damsels that attended upon her person. Here she lived in honor and apparent security, and surrounded by innocent delights. To gratify his queen, Don Roderick had built for her rural recreation, a palace without the walls of Toledo, on the banks of the Tagus. It stood in the midst of a garden, adorned after the luxurious style of the east. The air was perfumed by fragrant shrubs and flowers; the groves resounded with the song of the nightingale; while the gush of fountains and waterfalls, and the distant murmur of the Tagus, made it a delightful retreat during the sultry days of summer. The charm of perfect privacy also reigned throughout the place; for the garden walls were high, and numerous guards kept watch without to protect it from all intrusion.

In this delicious abode, more befitting an oriental voluptuary than a Gothic king, Don Roderick was accustomed to while away much of that time which should have been devoted to the toilsome cares of government. The very security and peace which he had produced throughout his dominions, by his precautions to abolish the means and habitudes of war, had effected a disastrous change in his character. The hardy and heroic qualities which had conducted him to the throne, were softened in the lap of indulgence. Surrounded by the pleasures of an idle and effeminate court, and beguiled by the example of his degenerate nobles, he gave way to a fatal sensuality that had lain dormant in his nature during the virtuous days of his adversity. The mere love of female beauty had first enamoured him of Exilona; and the same passion, fostered by voluptuous idleness, now betrayed him into the commission of an act fatal to himself and Spain. The following is the story of his error, as gathered from an old chronicle and legend.

In a remote part of the palace was an apartment devoted to the queen. It was like an eastern harem, shut up from the foot of man, and where the king himself but rarely entered. It had its own courts, and gardens, and fountains, where the queen was wont to recreate herself with her damsels, as she had been accustomed to do in the jealous privacy of her father's palace.

One sultry day, the king, instead of taking his siesta, or mid-day slumber, repaired to this apartment to seek the society of the queen. In passing through a small oratory, he was drawn by the sound of female voices to a casement overhung with myrtles and jessamines. It looked into an interior garden, or court, set out with orange trees, in the midst of which was a marble fountain, surrounded by a grassy bank, enamelled with flowers.

It was the high noontide of a summer day, when, in sultry Spain, the landscape trembles to the eye, and all nature seeks repose, except the grasshopper, that pipes his lulling note to the herdsman as he sleeps beneath the shade.

Around the fountain were several of the damsels of the queen, who, confident of the sacred privacy of the place, were yielding in that cool retreat to the indulgence prompted by the season and the hour. Some lay asleep on the flowery bank; others sat on the margin of the fountain, talking and laughing, as they bathed their feet in its limpid waters, and King Roderick beheld delicate limbs shining through the wave, that might rival the marble in whiteness.

Among the damsels was one who had come from the Barbary coast with the queen. Her complexion had the dark tinge of Mauritania, but it was clear and transparent, and the deep rich rose blushed through the lovely brown. Her eyes were black and full of fire, and flashed from under long silken eye-lashes.

A sportive contest arose among the maidens, as to the comparative beauty of the Spanish and Moorish forms; but the Mauritanian damsel revealed limbs of voluptuous symmetry that seemed to defy all rivalry.

The Spanish beauties were on the point of giving up the contest, when they bethought themselves of the young Florinda, the daughter of Count Julian, who lay on the grassy bank, abandoned to a summer slumber. The soft glow of youth and health mantled on her cheek; her fringed eyelashes scarcely covered their sleeping orbs; her moist and ruby lips were lightly parted, just revealing a gleam of her ivory teeth; while her innocent bosom rose and fell beneath her bodice, like the gentle swelling and sinking of a tranquil sea. There was a breathing tenderness and beauty in the sleeping virgin, that seemed to send forth sweetness like the flowers around her.

'Behold,' cried her companions exultingly, 'the champion of Spanish beauty!'

In their playful eagerness they half disrobed the innocent Florinda before she was aware. She awoke in time, however, to escape from their busy hands; but enough of her charms had been revealed to convince the monarch that they were not to be rivalled by the rarest beauties of Mauritania.

From this day the heart of Roderick was inflamed with a fatal passion. He gazed on the beautiful Florinda with fervid desire, and sought to read in her looks whether there was levity or wantonness in her bosom; but the eye of the damsel ever sunk beneath his gaze, and remained bent on the earth in virgin modesty.

It was in vain he called to mind the sacred trust reposed in him by Count Julian, and the promise he had given to watch over his daughter with paternal care; his heart was vitiated by sensual indulgence, and the consciousness of power had rendered him selfish in his gratifications.

Being one evening in the garden where the queen was diverting herself with her damsels, and coming to the fountain where he had beheld the innocent maidens at their sport, he could no longer restrain the passion that raged within his breast. Seating himself beside the fountain, he called Florinda to him to draw forth a thorn which had pierced his hand. The maiden knelt at his feet to examine his hand, and the touch of her slender fingers thrilled through his veins. As she knelt, too, her amber locks fell in rich ringlets about her beautiful head, her innocent bosom palpitated beneath the crimson boddice, and her timid blushes increased the effulgence of her charms.

Having examined the monarch's hand in vain, she looked up in his face with artless perplexity.

'Senior,' said she, 'I can find no thorn, nor any sign of wound.'

Don Roderick grasped her hand and pressed it to his heart. 'It is here, lovely Florinda!' said he, 'It is here! and thou alone canst pluck it forth!'

'My lord!' exclaimed the blushing and astonished maiden.

'Florinda!' said Don Roderick, 'dost thou love me?'

'Senior,' said she, 'my father taught me to love and reverence you. He confided me to your care as one who would be as a parent to me, when he should be far distant, serving your majesty with life and loyalty. May God incline your majesty ever to protect me as a father.' So saying, the maiden dropped her eyes to the ground, and continued kneeling; but her countenance had become deadly pale, and as she knelt she trembled.

'Florinda,' said the king, 'either thou dost not or thou wilt not understand me. I would have thee love me, not as a father, nor as a monarch, but as one who adores thee. Why dost thou start? No one shall know our loves; and, moreover, the love of a monarch inflicts no degradation like the love of a common man; riches and honors attend upon it. I will advance thee to rank and dignity, and place thee above the proudest females of my court. Thy father, too, shall be more exalted and endowed than any noble in my realm.'

The soft eye of Florinda kindled at these words. 'Senior,' said she, 'the line I spring from can receive no dignity by means so vile; and my father would rather die than purchase rank and power by the dishonor of his child. But I see,' continued she, 'that your majesty speaks in this manner only to try me. You may have thought me light and simple and unworthy to attend upon the queen. I pray your majesty to pardon me, that I have taken your pleasantry in such serious part.'

In this way the agitated maiden sought to evade the addresses of the monarch; but still her cheek was blanched, and her lip quivered as she spake.

The king pressed her hand to his lips with fervor. 'May ruin seize me,' cried he, 'if I speak to prove thee! My heart, my kingdom, are at thy command. Only be mine, and thou shalt rule absolute mistress of myself and my domains.'

The damsel rose from the earth where she had hitherto knelt, and her whole countenance glowed with virtuous indignation. 'My Lord,' said she, 'I am your subject, and in your power; take my life if it be your pleasure; but nothing shall tempt me to commit a crime which would be treason to the queen, disgrace to my father, agony to my mother, and perdition to myself.' With these words she left the garden, and the king, for the moment, was too much awed by her indignant virtue to oppose her departure.

We shall pass briefly over the succeeding events of the story of Florinda, about which so much has been said and sung by chronicler and bard: for the sober page of history should be carefully chastened from all scenes that might inflame a wanton imagination; leaving them to poems and romances, and such-like highly seasoned works of fantasy and recreation.

Let it suffice to say, that Don Roderick pursued his suit to the beautiful Florinda, his passion being more and more inflamed by the resistance of the virtuous damsel. At length, forgetting what was due to helpless beauty, to his own honor as a knight, and his word as a sovereign, he triumphed over her weakness by base and unmanly violence.

There are not wanting those who affirm that the hapless Florinda lent a yielding ear to the solicitations of the monarch, and her name has been treated with opprobrium in several of the ancient chronicles and legendary ballads that have transmitted, from generation to generation, the story of the woes of Spain. In very truth, however, she appears to have been a guiltless victim, resisting, as far as helpless female could resist, the arts and intrigues of a powerful monarch, who had nought to check the indulgence of his will, and bewailing her disgrace with a poignancy that shows how dearly she had prized her honor.

In the first paroxysm of her grief she wrote a letter to her father, blotted with her tears, and almost incoherent from her agitation. 'Would to God, my father,' said she, 'that the earth had opened and swallowed me ere I had been reduced to write these lines! I blush to tell thee, what it is not proper to conceal. Alas! my father; thou hast entrusted thy lamb to the guardianship of the lion. Thy daughter has been dishonored, the royal cradle of the Goths polluted, and our lineage insulted and disgraced. Hasten, my father, to rescue your child from the power of the spoiler, and to vindicate the honor of your house!'

When Florinda had written these lines, she summoned a youthful esquire, who had been a page in the service of her father. 'Saddle thy steed,' said she, 'and if thou dost aspire to knightly honor, or hope for lady's grace--if thou hast fealty for thy lord, or devotion to his daughter--speed swiftly upon my errand. Rest not, halt not, spare not the spur; but hie thee day and night until thou reach the sea; take the first bark, and haste with sail and oar to Ceuta, nor pause until thou give this letter to the count my father.'

The youth put the letter in his bosom. 'Trust me, lady,' said he, 'I will neither halt nor turn aside, nor cast a look behind, until I reach Count Julian.' He mounted his fleet steed, sped his way across the bridge, and soon left behind him the verdant valley of the Tagus.

* * * * *

The heart of Don Roderick was not so depraved by sensuality, but that the wrong he had been guilty of toward the innocent Florinda, and the disgrace he had inflicted on her house, weighed heavy on his spirits, and a cloud began to gather on his once clear and unwrinkled brow.

Heaven, at this time, say the old Spanish chronicles, permitted a marvellous intimation of the wrath with which it intended to visit the monarch and his people, in punishment of their sins; nor are we, say the same orthodox writers, to startle, and withhold our faith, when we meet in the page of discreet and sober history with these signs and portents, which transcend the probabilities of ordinary life; for the revolutions of empires and the downfall of mighty kings are awful events, that shake the physical as well as the moral world, and are often announced by forerunning marvels and prodigious omens. With such-like cautious preliminaries do the wary but credulous historiographers of yore usher in a marvellous event of prophecy and enchantment, linked in ancient story with the fortunes of Don Roderick, but which modern doubters would fain hold up as an apocryphal tradition of Arabian origin.

Now, so it happened, according to the legend, that about this time, as King Roderick was seated one day on his throne, surrounded by his nobles, in the ancient city of Toledo, two men of venerable appearance entered the hall of audience. Their snowy beards descended to their breasts, and their gray hairs were bound with ivy. They were arrayed in white garments of foreign or antiquated fashion, which swept the ground, and were cinctured with girdles, wrought with the signs of the zodiac, from which were suspended enormous bunches of keys of every variety of form. Having approached the throne and made obeisance: 'Know, O King,' said one of the old men, 'that in days of yore, when Hercules of Libya, surnamed the strong, had set up his pillars at the ocean strait, he erected a tower near to this ancient city of Toledo. He built it of prodigious strength, and finished it with magic art, shutting up within it a fearful secret, never to be penetrated without peril and disaster. To protect this terrible mystery he closed the entrance to the edifice with a ponderous door of iron, secured by a great lock of steel; and he left a command that every king who should succeed him should add another lock to the portal; denouncing wo and destruction on him who should eventually unfold the secret of the tower.

'The guardianship of the portal was given to our ancestors, and has continued in our family, from generation to generation, since the days of Hercules. Several kings, from time to time, have caused the gate to be thrown open, and have attempted to enter, but have paid dearly for their temerity. Some have perished within the threshold, others have been overwhelmed with horror at tremendous sounds, which shook the foundations of the earth, and have hastened to re-close the door, and secure it with its thousand locks. Thus, since the days of Hercules, the inmost recesses of the pile have never been penetrated by mortal man, and a profound mystery continues to prevail over this great enchantment. This, O King, is all we have to relate; and our errand is to entreat thee to repair to the tower and affix thy lock to the portal, as has been done by all thy predecessors.' Having thus said, the ancient men made a profound reverence and departed from the presence chamber.

Don Roderick remained for some time lost in thought after the departure of the men: he then dismissed all his court, excepting the venerable Urbino, at that time archbishop of Toledo. The long white beard of this prelate bespoke his advanced age, and his overhanging eye-brows showed him a man full of wary counsel.

'Father,' said the king, 'I have an earnest desire to penetrate the mystery of this tower.' The worthy prelate shook his hoary head: 'Beware, my son,' said he; 'there are secrets hidden from man for his good. Your predecessors for many generations have respected this mystery, and have increased in might and empire. A knowledge of it, therefore, is not material to the welfare of your kingdom. Seek not then to indulge a rash and unprofitable curiosity, which is interdicted under such awful menaces.'

'Of what importance,' cried the king, 'are the menaces of Hercules, the Lybian? Was he not a pagan? and can his enchantments have aught avail against a believer in our holy faith? Doubtless, in this tower are locked up treasures of gold and jewels, amassed in days of old, the spoils of mighty kings, the riches of the pagan world. My coffers are exhausted; I have need of supply; and surely it would be an acceptable act in the eyes of Heaven, to draw forth this wealth which lies buried under profane and necromantic spells, and consecrate it to religious purposes.'

The venerable archbishop still continued to remonstrate, but Don Roderick heeded not his counsel, for he was led on by his malignant star. 'Father,' said he, 'it is in vain you attempt to dissuade me. My resolution is fixed. To-morrow I will explore the hidden mystery, or rather the hidden treasures of this tower.'

The morning sun shone brightly upon the cliff-built towers of Toledo, when King Roderick issued out of the gate of the city, at the head of a numerous train of courtiers and cavaliers, and crossed the bridge that bestrides the deep rocky bed of the Tagus. The shining cavalcade wound up the road that leads among the mountains, and soon came in sight of the necromantic tower.

Of this renowned edifice marvels are related by the ancient Arabian and Spanish chroniclers; 'and I doubt much,' adds the venerable Agpaida, 'whether many readers will not consider the whole as a cunningly devised fable, sprung from an oriental imagination; but it is not for me to reject a fact which is recorded by all those writers who are the fathers of our national history: a fact, too, which is as well attested as most of the remarkable events in the story of Don Roderick. None but light and inconsiderate minds,' continues the good friar, 'do hastily reject the marvellous. To the thinking mind the whole world is enveloped in mystery, and every thing is full of type and portent. To such a mind the necromantic tower of Toledo will appear as one of those wondrous monuments of the olden time; one of those Egyptian and Chaldaic piles, storied with hidden wisdom and mystic prophecy, which have been devised in past ages, when man yet enjoyed an intercourse with high and spiritual natures, and when human foresight partook of divination.'

This singular tower was round, and of great height and grandeur; erected upon a lofty rock, and surrounded by crags and precipices. The foundation was supported by four brazen lions, each taller than a cavalier on horseback. The walls were built of small pieces of jasper, and various colored marbles, not larger than a man's hand; so subtilely joined, however, that but for their different hues they might be taken for one entire stone. They were arranged with marvellous cunning, so as to represent battles and warlike deeds of times and heroes long since passed away; and the whole surface was so admirably polished that the stones were as lustrous as glass, and reflected the rays of the sun with such resplendent brightness as to dazzle all beholders.[7]

[7] From the minute account of the good friar, drawn from the ancient chronicles, it would appear that the walls of the tower were pictured in mosaic work.

King Roderick and his courtiers arrived wondering and amazed, at the foot of the rock. Here there was a narrow arched way cut through the living stone; the only entrance to the tower. It was closed by a massive iron gate, covered with rusty locks of divers workmanship, and in the fashion of different centuries, which had been affixed by the predecessors of Don Roderick. On either side of the portal stood the two ancient guardians of the tower, laden with the keys appertaining to the locks.

The king alighted, and, approaching the portals, ordered the guardians to unlock the gate. The hoary-headed men drew back with terror. 'Alas!' cried they, 'what is it your majesty requires of us? Would you have the mischiefs of this tower unbound, and let loose to shake the earth to its foundations?'

The venerable archbishop Urbino likewise implored him not to disturb a mystery which had been held sacred from generation to generation, within the memory of man; and which even Cæsar himself, when sovereign of Spain, had not ventured to invade. The youthful cavaliers, however, were eager to pursue the adventure, and encouraged him in his rash curiosity.

'Come what come may,' exclaimed Don Roderick, 'I am resolved to penetrate the mystery of this tower.' So saying, he again commanded the guardians to unlock the portal. The ancient men obeyed with fear and trembling, but their hands shook with age, and when they applied the keys, the locks were so rusted by time, or of such strange workmanship, that they resisted their feeble efforts; whereupon the young cavaliers pressed forward and lent their aid. Still the locks were so numerous and difficult, that with all their eagerness and strength a great part of the day was exhausted before the whole of them could be mastered.

When the last bolt had yielded to the key, the guardians and the reverend archbishop again entreated the king to pause and reflect. 'Whatever is within this tower,' said they, 'is as yet harmless, and lies bound under a mighty spell: venture not then to open a door which may let forth a flood of evil upon the land.' But the anger of the king was roused, and he ordered that the portal should be instantly thrown open. In vain, however, did one after another exert his strength; and equally in vain did the cavaliers unite their forces, and apply their shoulders to the gate: though there was neither bar nor bolt remaining, it was perfectly immoveable.

The patience of the king was now exhausted, and he advanced to apply his hand; scarcely, however, did he touch the iron gate, when it swung slowly open, uttering, as it were, a dismal groan, as it turned reluctantly upon its hinges. A cold, damp wind issued forth, accompanied by a tempestuous sound. The hearts of the ancient guardians quaked within them, and their knees smote together; but several of the youthful cavaliers rushed in, eager to gratify their curiosity, or to signalise themselves in this redoubtable enterprise. They had scarcely advanced a few paces, however, when they recoiled, overcome by the baleful air, or by some fearful vision. Upon this, the king ordered that fires should be kindled to dispel the darkness, and to correct the noxious and long imprisoned air: he then led the way into the interior; but, though stout of heart, he advanced with awe and hesitation.

After proceeding a short distance, he entered a hall, or antechamber, on the opposite side of which was a door; and before it, on a pedestal, stood a gigantic figure, of the color of bronze, and of a terrible aspect. It held a huge mace, which it whirled incessantly, giving such cruel and resounding blows upon the earth as to prevent all further entrance.

The king paused at sight of this appalling figure; for whether it were a living being, or a statue of magic artifice, he could not tell. On its breast was a scroll, whereon was inscribed in large letters, 'I do my duty.' After a little while Roderick plucked up heart, and addressed it with great solemnity: 'Whatever thou be,' said he, 'know that I come not to violate this sanctuary, but to inquire into the mystery it contains; I conjure thee, therefore, to let me pass in safety.'

Upon this the figure paused with uplifted mace, and the king and his train passed unmolested through the door.

They now entered a vast chamber, of a rare and sumptuous architecture, difficult to be described. The walls were incrusted with the most precious gems, so joined together as to form one smooth and perfect surface. The lofty dome appeared to be self-supported, and was studded with gems, lustrous as the stars of the firmament. There was neither wood, nor any other common or base material to be seen throughout the edifice. There were no windows or rather openings to admit the day, yet a radiant light was spread throughout the place, which seemed to shine from the walls, and to render every object distinctly visible.

In the centre of this hall stood a table of alabaster, of the rarest workmanship, on which was inscribed in Greek characters, that Hercules Alcides, the Theban Greek, had founded this tower in the year of the world three thousand and six. Upon the table stood a golden casket, richly set round with precious stones, and closed with a lock of mother-of-pearl; and on the lid were inscribed the following words:

'In this coffer is contained the mystery of the tower. The hand of none but a king can open it; but let him beware! for marvellous events will be revealed to him, which are to take place before his death.'

King Roderick boldly seized upon the casket. The venerable archbishop laid his hand upon his arm, and made a last remonstrance. 'Forbear, my son!' said he; 'desist while there is yet time. Look not into the mysterious decrees of Providence. God has hidden them in mercy from our sight, and it is impious to rend the veil by which they are concealed.'

'What have I to dread from a knowledge of the future?' replied Roderick, with an air of haughty presumption. 'If good be destined me, I shall enjoy it by anticipation: if evil, I shall arm myself to meet it.' So saying, he rashly broke the lock.

Within the coffer he found nothing but a linen cloth, folded between two tablets of copper. On unfolding it, he beheld painted on it figures of men on horseback, of fierce demeanor, clad in turbans and robes of various colors, after the fashion of the Arabs, with scimetars hanging from their necks, and cross-bows at their saddle backs, and they carried banners and pennons with divers devices. Above them was inscribed in Greek characters, 'Rash monarch! behold the men who are to hurl thee from thy throne, and subdue thy kingdom!'

At sight of these things the king was troubled in spirit, and dismay fell upon his attendants. While they were yet regarding the paintings, it seemed as if the figures began to move, and a faint sound of warlike tumult arose from the cloth, with the clash of cymbal and bray of trumpet, the neigh of steed and shout of army; but all was heard indistinctly, as if afar off, or in a reverie or dream. The more they gazed, the plainer became the motion, and the louder the noise; and the linen cloth rolled forth, and amplified and spread out, as it were, a mighty banner, and filled the hall, and mingled with the air, until its texture was no longer visible, or appeared as a transparent cloud: and the shadowy figures become all in motion, and the din and uproar became fiercer and fiercer; and whether the whole were an animated picture, or a vision, or an array of embodied spirits, conjured up by supernatural power, no one present could tell. They beheld before them a great field of battle, where Christians and Moslems were engaged in deadly conflict. They heard the rush and tramp of steeds, the blast of trump and clarion, the clash of cymbal, and the stormy din of a thousand drums. There was the clash of swords, and maces, and battle-axes, with the whistling of arrows, and the hurling of darts and lances. The Christians quailed before the foe; the infidels pressed upon them and put them to utter rout; the standard of the cross was cast down, the banner of Spain was trodden under foot, the air resounded with shouts of triumph, with yells of fury, and with the groans of dying men. Amidst the flying squadrons, King Roderick beheld a crowned warrior, whose back was turned toward him, but whose armor and device were his own, and who was mounted on a white steed that resembled his own war horse Orelia. In the confusion of the flight, the warrior was dismounted, and was no longer to be seen, and Orelia galloped wildly through the field of battle without a rider.

Roderick stayed to see no more, but rushed from the fatal hall, followed by his terrified attendants. They fled through the outer chamber, where the gigantic figure with the whirling mace had disappeared from his pedestal; and on issuing into the open air, they found the two ancient guardians of the tower lying dead at the portal, as though they had been crushed by some mighty blow. All nature, which had been clear and serene, was now in wild uproar. The heavens were darkened by heavy clouds; loud bursts of thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged with rain and rattling hail.

The king ordered that the iron portal should be closed; but the door was immoveable, and the cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous turmoil, and the mingled shouts and groans that continued to prevail within. The king and his train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted by the tempest. The mountains shook and echoed with the thunder, trees were uprooted and blown down, and the Tagus raged and roared and flowed above its banks. It seemed to the affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of the tower had issued forth and mingled with the storm; for amidst the claps of thunder and the howling of the wind, they fancied they heard the sound of the drums and trumpets, the shouts of armies and the rush of steeds. Thus beaten by tempest, and overwhelmed with horror, the king and his courtiers arrived at Toledo, clattering across the bridge of the Tagus, and entering the gate in headlong confusion, as though they had been pursued by an enemy.

In the morning the heavens were again serene, and all nature was restored to tranquillity. The king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers and took the road to the tower, followed by a great multitude, for he was anxious once more to close the iron door, and shut up those evils that threatened to overwhelm the land. But lo! on coming in sight of the tower, a new wonder met their eyes. An eagle appeared high in the air, seeming to descend from heaven. He bore in his beak a burning brand, and lighting on the summit of the tower, fanned the fire with his wings. In a little while the edifice burst forth into a blaze as though it had been built of rosin, and the flames mounted into the air with a brilliancy more dazzling than the sun; nor did they cease until every stone was consumed and the whole was reduced to a heap of ashes. Then there came a vast flight of birds, small of size and sable of hue, darkening the sky like a cloud; and they descended and wheeled in circles round the ashes, causing so great a wind with their wings that the whole was borne up into the air and scattered throughout all Spain, and wherever a particle of those ashes fell it was as a stain of blood. It is furthermore recorded by ancient men and writers of former days, that all those on whom this dust fell were afterwards slain in battle, when the country was conquered by the Arabs, and that the destruction of this necromantic tower was a sign and token of the approaching perdition of Spain.

'Let all those,' concludes the cautious friar, 'who question the verity of this most marvellous occurrence, consult those admirable sources of our history, the chronicle of the Moor Rasis, and the work entitled 'The Fall of Spain,' written by the Moor, Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique. Let them consult, moreover, the venerable historian Bleda, and the cloud of other Catholic Spanish writers, who have treated of this event, and they will find I have related nothing that has not been printed and published under the inspection and sanction of our holy mother church. God alone knoweth the truth of these things; I speak nothing but what has been handed down to me from times of old.'

ANACREONTIC.

[Greek: To de cheilos, ouk et oida Tini moi tropô poiêseis.]

Maiden! first did Nature seek Lilies for thy spotless cheek; When with roses came she next Half delighted, yet more vex'd, For the lilies there, to see Blushing at their purity! Since her labor now was lost, Roses to the wind she tost. One, a bud of smiling June, Falling on thy lips, as soon Left its color, and in death Willed its fragrance to thy breath! Then two drops of crystalled dew From the hyacinth's deep hue, Brought she for thine eyes of blue; And lest they should miss the sun, Bade thy soul to shine thereon. Lilies, Nature gave thy face-- Say, thy _heart_ do lilies grace?

_St. Paul's College._ G. H. H.

LITERARY NOTICES.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL, IN PROSE: Being a Ghost-Story of Christmas. By CHARLES DICKENS. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

If in every alternate work that Mr. DICKENS were to send to the London press he should find occasion to indulge in ridicule against alleged American peculiarities, or broad caricatures of our actual vanities, or other follies, we could with the utmost cheerfulness pass them by unnoted and uncondemned, if he would only now and then present us with an intellectual creation so touching and beautiful as the one before us. Indeed, we can with truth say, that in our deliberate judgment, the 'Christmas Carol' is the most striking, the most picturesque, the most truthful, of all the limnings which have proceeded from its author's pen. There is much mirth in the book, says a competent English critic, but more wisdom; wisdom of that kind which men possess who have gazed thoughtfully but kindly on human life, and have pierced deeper than their fellows into all the sunny nooks and dark recesses of the human breast. The barbarous notion has long been exploded, that comic writers were only to be esteemed for their jests, and useful for provoking laughter. CERVANTES, first among the moderns, sent it out of fashion, and blessed that union of wit, sense, and pathos, which so many renowned writers have since confirmed; until it has come to be acknowledged, that rich genuine humor is rarely an inmate of the mind, if there be not a corresponding depth of earnestness and feeling in the heart. Many of DICKENS' writings, it is justly claimed, exhibit this fine, healthy, benevolent spirit. 'His sympathy for human suffering is strong and pure, and he reserves it not for imaginary and fictitious distress, but for the real grinding sorrows of life.' And this sympathy is more finely displayed in the work under notice, than in any of his previous productions. The design is very fanciful, and there is crowded into it, brief as it is, a world of character and observation. It is truly a reflection of life in miniature. Before proceeding to a few illustrative extracts, we shall avail ourselves in part of a clear synopsis of the inception and progress of the story, from the pen of a London contemporary.

SCROOGE is a very rich citizen; a 'squeezing, grinding, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner.' He has lost all recollection of what he once was, and what he once felt; is dead to all kindly impulses, and proof against the most moving tale. He is almost as keen and gruff as old RALPH NICKELBY, to whom he bears a strong family resemblance, and uses his poor clerk, BOB CRATCHIT, just as badly, and has as little feeling for his merry-hearted nephew, who has married for love. The 'carol' begins on Christmas-eve. SCROOGE calls his nephew a lunatic for wishing him 'A merry Christmas!' and sends him home, sad as harsh words can make him. He keeps his poor shivering clerk in a small tank-like ground-room till the last minute of his stipulated time, and then dismisses him with an angry growl. He goes to his usual melancholy tavern to eat his melancholy dinner, amuses himself in the evening with his banker's book, and then retires to his dreary chambers. He had once a partner, a counterpart of himself, who has been dead for many a year; and while sitting in his lonely room, over a low fire, the ghost of the deceased partner enters, although the door is double-locked. He wears a heavy chain, forged of keys and safes; and, like Hamlet's ghost, tells of the heavy penance he is doomed to suffer in spirit for sins committed in the flesh. He has come to warn his partner, and to give him a chance of amendment. He tells him he will be visited by three Spirits, on the three following nights, and bids him mark well what they shall disclose. SCROOGE instantly falls asleep, and does not wake till the appointed hour. The three spirits are of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas to Come. The ghost of Christmas Past stands by SCROOGE'S bedside, of an uncertain form, though the belt round its body is wondrous light, and a flame shoots up from its head. Yet the figure fluctuates in distinctness, now one part being visible and now another. The spirit seizes the hand of SCROOGE, and they float through the air together. The old man is taken to the haunts of his childhood, and he is conscious of 'a thousand odors floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten.' Each circumstance of the time past is restored. The village school; a boy left deserted in the school-room, whom SCROOGE recognises as his former self reading 'Robinson Crusoe;' till at last a lovely girl, who throws her arms round the boy's neck, and bids him come home to a 'merry, merry Christmas.' Then the scene changes, and SCROOGE is once more in the house of the kind-hearted master of his youth, who loved to keep Christmas as it was kept in the olden time, and he recognises himself the most joyous of the joyous group. Then comes the scene of his manhood, when he deserted his betrothed for a wealthier bride; and last, he views the girl he had deserted, the mother of a happy blooming family. This picture is delightfully sketched; it is enough to make a bachelor in love with wedlock. The scene is too affecting for the changed and worldly miser; he implores to be removed from the familiar place; he wrestles with the spirit, and awakened by the struggle, finds himself once more in his own room, and in darkness.

Again he has a long sleep. Christmas Present comes in the shape of a giant, with a holly-green robe. SCROOGE perceives him seated in his room, with his noble head crowned with holly wreath studded with icicles, reaching to the ceiling. His throne is a wine-cask and his foot-stool a twelfth-cake. In his hand he bears a blazing torch, from which he sprinkles down gladness upon every threshhold he enters. An immense fire glows and crackles in the grate, the walls and ceiling are hung with living green, and all around are heaped up the choice provisions collected to make Christmas glad. The giant leads SCROOGE forth. They pass through streets and lanes, with every house bearing token of rejoicing by its roaring fire or its sprig of holly, till they come to the dwelling of poor BOB CRATCHIT, old SCROOGE'S clerk. And here ensues a picture worthy of WILKIE in his best days:

'Perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off his power, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshhold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinkling of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen 'Bob' a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house!

'Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribands, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribands; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage-and-onions, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked proudly at the sauce-pan lid to be let out and peeled.

''What has ever got your precious father, then?' said Mrs. Cratchit. 'And your brother, Tiny Tim; and Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half-an-hour!'

''Here's Martha, mother!' said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

''Here's Martha, mother!' cried the two young Cratchits. 'Hurrah! There's _such_ a goose, Martha!'

''Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!' said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her, with officious zeal.

''We'd a deal of work to finish up last night,' replied the girl, 'and had to clear away this morning, mother!'

''Well! Never mind so long as you are come,' said Mrs. Cratchit. 'Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!'

''No, no! There's father coming,' cried the two young Cratchits, who were every where at once. 'Hide, Martha, hide!'

'So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his thread-bare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame!

''Why, where's our Martha?' cried Bob Cratchit looking round.

''Not coming,' said Mrs. Cratchit.

''Not coming!' said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. 'Not coming upon Christmas Day!'

'Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

''And how did little Tim behave?' asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

''As good as gold,' said Bob, 'and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.'

'Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

'His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs, as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made less shabby, compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to simmer; Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.

'Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course: and, in truth, it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before-hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for every body, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!

'There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish,) they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in.

'Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose: a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

'Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house, and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that? That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered: flushed, but smiling proudly: with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

''Oh, a wonderful pudding!' Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confide she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

'At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass; two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

'These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done: and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and crackled noisily. Then Bob proposed:

''A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!'

'Which all the family re-echoed.

''God bless us every one!' said Tiny Tim, last of all.

'He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.'

Could any thing be more life-like, more beautiful, more touching, than this description? But let us skip the journeyings of Christmas Present for a moment, that we may accompany Christmas to Come to the dwelling of poor BOB CRATCHIT:

'The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchit's house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found the mother and the children seated round the fire.

'Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet!

''And He took a child, and set him in the midst of them.'

'Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had not dreamed them. The boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the threshhold. Why did he not go on?

'The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face.

''The color hurts my eyes,' she said.

'The color? Ah, poor Tiny Tim!

''They're better now again,' said Cratchit's wife. 'It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time.'

''Past it, rather,' Peter answered, shutting up his book. 'But I think he's walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother.'

'They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:

''I have known him walk with--I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast, indeed.'

''And so have I,' cried Peter. 'Often.'

''And so have I!' exclaimed another. So had all.

''But he was very light to carry,' she resumed, intent upon her work, 'and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble--no trouble. And there is your father at the door!'

'She hurried out to meet him; and Bob in his comforter--he had need of it, poor fellow--came in. His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a little cheek, against his face, as if they said, 'Don't mind it, father. Don't be grieved!'

'Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said.

''Sunday! You went to-day then, Robert?' said his wife.

''Yes, my dear,' returned Bob. 'I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child!' cried Bob. 'My little child!'

'He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been further apart, perhaps, than they were.

'He left the room, and went up stairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas. There was a chair set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one having been there lately. Poor Bob sat down in it, and when he had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face. He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite happy.'

'Let not that man be trusted' who can read this affecting picture of parental love for a poor little cripple-boy, without feeling the tear-drops swelling to his eyes. But let us return and take one more excursion with the former Spirit. Observe the faithfulness and the range of the writer's imagination:

'And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place of giants; and water spread itself wheresoever it listed--or would have done so, but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing-grew but moss and furze, and coarse, rank grass. Down in the west the setting sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and frowning lower, lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night.

''What place is this?' asked Scrooge.

''A place where Miners live, who labor in the bowels of the earth,' returned the Spirit. 'But they know me. See!'

'A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced toward it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. An old, old man and woman, with their children and their children's children, and another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a Christmas song; it had been a very old song when he was a boy; and from time to time they all joined in the chorus. So surely as they raised their voices, the old man got quite blithe and loud; and so surely as they stopped, his vigor sank again.

'The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge hold his robe, and passing on above the moor, sped whither? Not to sea? To sea. To Scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened by the thundering of water, as it rolled, and roared, and raged among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine the earth.

'Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from the shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Great heaps of seaweed clung to its base, and storm-birds--born of the wind one might suppose, as sea-weed of the water--rose and fell about it, like the waves they skimmed.

'But even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire, that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of brightness on the awful sea. Joining their horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, they wished each other a Merry Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them--the elder, too, with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the figurehead of an old ship might be--struck up a sturdy song that was like a Gale in itself.

'Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on, on--until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations: but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities: and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him.'

The second of these spirits accompanies SCROOGE to a scene that is well worth seeing, and the like of which many of our readers have doubtless often encountered--a regular Christmas frolic; in the present instance at the residence of his nephew, who has a sister, a lovely, plump damsel, with a lace tucker: she was pretty, exceedingly pretty. 'With a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed, as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head. Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory, too. Oh, perfectly satisfactory!' Is not the following a most glowing sketch of a well known pastime?

'But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After a while they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself. Stop! There was first a game at blindman's buff. Of course there was. And I no more believe Topper was really blind than I believe he had eyes in his boots. My opinion is, that it was a done thing between him and Scrooge's nephew; and that the Ghost of Christmas Present knew it. The way he went after that plump sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the credulity of human nature. Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping up against the piano, smothering himself among the curtains, wherever she went, there went he. He always knew where the plump sister was. He wouldn't catch any body else. If you had fallen up against him, as some of them did, and stood there; he would have made a feint endeavoring to seize you, which would have been an affront to your understanding: and would instantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. She often cried out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not. But when, at last, he caught her; when, in spite of all her silken rustlings, and her rapid flutterings past him, he got her into a corner whence there was no escape; then his conduct was the most execrable. For his pretending not to know her; his pretending that it was necessary to touch her head-dress, and farther to assure himself of her identity by pressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a certain chain about her neck; was vile, monstrous! No doubt she told him her opinion of it, when, another blindman being in office, they were so very confidential together, behind the curtains.'

The Ghost of Christmas to Come is the third spirit. It is a stately figure, surrounded in black and impenetrable drapery. It leads SCROOGE into the heart of the city, and he hears his acquaintance talking jestingly of one departed; into the Exchange, and he sees another standing against his peculiar pillar; into a haunt of infamy, where wretches are dividing the spoils and hoardings of the dead; into a wretched room, where a corpse lies shrouded, whose face Scrooge dares not uncover; into dwellings made miserable by the grasping avarice of those who had wealth they could not use; into his nephew's house, shorn of its comforts, where the inmates, care-worn and weary, are wringing their hands with distress; into poor BOB CRATCHIT'S abode, made cheerless by death; and lastly, into a sad churchyard, where, on the stone of a neglected grave, is inscribed his own name! He implores the spirit to say whether these shadows may not be changed by an altered life. Its trembling hand seems to give consent. He pleads earnestly for a more decisive sign, and while he does so, the phantom dwindles down into a bed-post, and SCROOGE sits upright in his bed. Who cannot imagine the conclusion? It is broad day. He looks out of the window: the bells are ringing; the people are going to church; all proclaim it as Christmas Day. The future is yet before him, and he is resolved to make the most of it. The prize turkey is got in haste from the neighboring poulterer's, and sent by a cab to BOB CRATCHIT'S; and SCROOGE hastens off to his nephew's to dinner, where he finds the vision of the spirit realized. SCROOGE from that hour is another and a better man. We have in conclusion but three words to say to every reader of the KNICKERBOCKER who may peruse our notice of this production: READ THE WORK.

WANDERINGS OF A JOURNEYMAN TAILOR THROUGH EUROPE AND THE EAST. Between the years 1824 and 1840. By P. D. HOLTHAUS, Journeyman Tailor, from Werdohl, in Westphalia. Translated from the third German edition, by WILLIAM HOWITT. J. WINCHESTER: 'New World' Press.

An air of great simplicity and truth pervades this wander-book of the German schneider. Mr. HOWITT tells us, that when in the autumn of 1840 he returned to his native village, a great reputation preceded him, and all came, eager to see the brave traveller, and to listen to the relation of his adventures. He never sought purposely to turn conversation upon the subject of his travels, nor to impress an idea of his own importance; but when he was drawn into discourse, it was speedily found that he had noted and deeply impressed on his mind every thing with a truly admirable interest, and an acute spirit of observation, for one of his rank and education; that he had not merely passed through the countries, but had gleaned valuable matter on his journey; various things which he had brought with him testified this interest, such as different kinds of coin, engravings, plans of cities, etc. We have found, on an examination necessarily cursory, the commendatory remarks of the Berlin _Gesellschafter_ upon this work to be well deserved: 'We see in the individual expressions almost every where the evidence of its being the production of immediate observation. There prevails through the whole a noble simplicity and singleness of purpose, a genuinely German sound mode of thinking; here and there is not wanting a humorous and pithy remark. The author sees in every place nature and men without spectacles, and thence it arises that we acquire from his book a more living and actual view of foreign countries, especially of Egypt, Palestine, and Turkey, than was the case from the travelled labors of many a learned and celebrated man. Frequently, nay almost always, it is a fact, that the learned are destitute of the opportunity of acquiring a knowledge of the real life of the people, while it is exactly here that the greatest peculiarity of the manners and customs of foreigners is to be found. Our honest hand-worker lived among the people, and therefore possessed the best means to describe them in graphic characters.' There is something very forcible and comprehensive in the subjoined passage from the author's preface. It is indeed a sort of compendium of the most interesting portion of the writer's journeyings:

'From my youth up, it was my most living desire to see the world. When I heard or read of foreign lands, I became sad at heart, and thought: 'Wert thou but of years that thou couldst travel!' Now are all the wishes of my youth fulfilled. I have made the attempt by land and water, and that in three quarters of the world. I have wandered several times through GERMANY, POLAND, HUNGARY, and WALLACHIA; I was a long time in BUDAPEST and CONSTANTINOPLE; and undertook, with the money which I had saved there, a pilgrimage through EGYPT to the HOLY LAND. I kneeled at the BIRTH-PLACE and the SEPULCHRE of the SAVIOUR; stood in adoration on the holy MOUNT ZION, on TABOR, GOLGOTHA, and the MOUNT OF OLIVES; bathed in JORDAN; washed myself in the LAKE OF GENNESARETH; looked in vain around me on the DEAD SEA for living objects; was in the workshop of ST. JOSEPH; and in many other holy places of which the sacred Scriptures make mention. Thence I returned to Constantinople, and betook myself through Athens, where I worked nearly a year, and thence through Italy, France, and Belgium, homeward to my Fatherland.'

The first German edition of fifteen hundred copies of the work was at once exhausted; a second speedily followed; a third was soon announced; and the fourth is doubtless ere this before a wide class of German readers. We cheerfully commend the book to the public acceptance.

BENTHAMIANA: OR SELECT EXTRACTS FROM THE WORKS OF JEREMY BENTHAM. With an Outline Opinion on the Principal Subjects discussed in his Works. In one volume, pp. 446. Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

This work contains a copious selection of those passages in the works of JEREMY BENTHAM which appear to be chiefly distinguished for merit of a simply rhetorical character; which, appearing often in the midst of long and arduous processes of reasoning, or in the course of elaborate descriptions of minute practical arrangements, demanding from an active mind severe thought and unflagging attention, have scarcely had their due weight with the general reader, nor secured their just meed of admiration. He was singularly careless, writes his editor, in distributing his pleasing illustrations of playfulness, or pathos, or epigrammatic expression. His 'mission' he considered to be that of an instructor and improver; and the flowers which, equally with more substantial things, were the produce of his vigorous intellect, he looked upon as scarcely worthy of passing attention, and deserving of no more notice than to be permitted to grow wherever the more valued objects of his labors left them a little room. The volume comprehends a vast variety of sound opinion, and able though brief argument upon themes which relate to the social, moral and religious well-being of mankind. Touching the style of the writer, as evinced in these selections, we should say that it was formed mainly upon a due avoidance of prolixity, (an observance not always characteristic of BENTHAM'S writings,) concerning which he himself very justly remarks: 'Prolixity may be where redundancy is not. Prolixity may arise not only from the multifarious insertion of unnecessary articles, but from the conservation of too many necessary ones in a sentence; as a workman may be overladen not only with rubbish, which is of no use for him to carry, but with materials the most useful and necessary, when heaped up in loads too heavy for him at once.' A useful hint this, to unpractised writers.

THE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN BURNS AND CLARINDA. With a Memoir of Mrs. M'LEHOSE, (CLARINDA.) Arranged and edited by her Grandson, W. C. M'LEHOSE. In one volume, pp. 293. New-York: R. P. BIXBY AND COMPANY.

We have no doubt that the contents of this well-executed little volume are altogether authentic; full particulars relative to the custody and authenticity of the correspondence and the state of preservation of the original manuscripts being given in the preface. But we are very sorry to say so much against the book as this fact implies. It would be far better for the reputation of the immortal Bard of Scotland, if some hereditary friend, chary of his undying fame, were to come before the public with a pamphlet disproving entirely the agency of BURNS in this correspondence. To those who are acquainted with previous records in the private history of the world-renowned poet, it is painful to convict him, out of his own mouth, of duplicity in matters of the heart; of insincerity in the profession of simultaneous passion for various lovers; and of other acts which are alike indefensible and disreputable. We must needs marvel too that the 'CLARINDA' of the correspondence should have been doomed by a near descendant to the exposure inseparable from the revelations of this volume. That the treatment which she received at the hands of one whose duty it was to 'love, cherish, and protect' her, was equally undeserved and inexcusable, we can well believe; but that the 'platonic attachment,' which sprung up in a night, like the gourd of JONAH, and gradually waxed to 'passion at fever-heat,' was justified by these facts, or sanctioned by propriety, or that its history in detail is calculated to elevate the character of woman, or exercise a healthful moral influence, we have just as little reason to doubt. There is a sprinkling of verse in an appendix, which BURNS was good enough to praise. It is of that kind 'which neither gods nor men permit;' and is conclusive, not of BURNS'S judgment, but of his 'tender' sycophancy.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

SOME 'SENTIMENTS' ON SONNETS, WITH SUNDRY SPECIMENS.--Thanks to our ever-welcome correspondent, 'T. W. P.' for his pleasant, pertinent and improving sentiments on sonnets. Arriving at too late an hour for a place among our guests at the _table d' hôte_, perhaps he will not object to sit at our humble side-table, and converse familiarly with the reader; since, as honest SANCHO remarked of the Duke, 'Wherever _he_ sits, there will be the _first place_.' Our friend has a fruitful theme. How many borrowed prose-passages have we seen, with their original brightness dimmed or deflected in a sorry sonnet! Nine in ten of our modern examples in this kind, when one comes to analyze them, will be found to consist of stolen ideas, combined with what SOUTHEY would call 'bubble, and bladder, and tympany.' But perpend the subjoined: 'Ever since the fatal days of PETRARCH AND GUIDO CAVALIANTI, mankind have suffered more or less from the chronic infliction of Sonnets. With them indeed the complaint was constitutional, and came in the natural way; under so mild and gentle a form withal, that little danger was to be apprehended for Italian temperaments, except a degree of languor, general debility, and a disagreeable singing in the ears. It was only when it worked its way into English blood, that the virus assumed its most baneful character. SHAKSPEARE, among other illustrious victims, was afflicted by it in his youth, but seems to have recovered during his residence in the metropolis. Possibly the favor of the royal hand might have proved more beneficial than that of the Earl of Southampton. Perhaps he was _touched_ for it by ELIZABETH, as JOHNSON was by Queen ANNE for the scrofula. However that may be, we know very well that the disorder is now rooted among us, and that every week produces decided cases of Sonnets, sometimes so severe as to be intolerable. In this condition of the mental health of our country, since the evil cannot be cured, it were a work at once philanthropical and patriotic, so to modify it and regulate its attacks, that it may settle down into a moderate degree of annoyance, like the lighter afflictions of mild measles and mumps. We can always calculate upon the duration of each 'fytte,' as none ever exceeds the fourteenth spasm. When the just dozen-and-two convulsions are past, the danger is over, and the offensive matter may be removed by a newspaper, or discharged into some appropriate magazine. There is good reason for designating the complaint as a _periodical_ one.

We intend, one of these days, provided our remarks attract sufficient attention, to publish a volume upon this subject. We have the materiel by us and about us; and as soon as we can make arrangements with Mr. POH for a puff in the 'North-American Review,' or the 'Southern Literary Messenger,' we shall broach the affair to Mr. FIELDS, the enterprising publisher. We have moreover desired Mr. WHIPPLE to write to his friend Mr. MACAULAY in England, who will doubtless be proud to foster American letters by a hoist in the 'Edinburgh.' There is only one other thing absolutely requisite for the success of the book, and that is the appearance of this article in the KNICKERBOCKER. Befriend me then with your fine taste, renowned HERR DIEDRICH! and give me room. I shall not dive deeply into the matter now; but for the good of my young countrymen, the labor of whose brains is incompatible with a fruitful development of whiskers, I wish to put forth a page of advice that may save them a world of fatigue. It is common with those who are far gone in this tuneful disorder to set up late o' nights and tipple coffee. Under my new system, I will engage that they may retire to bed on mulled-punch nightly, at eleven, and yet effect all that they now perform with the greatest injury to their eyes and complexions. But _pocas pallabras_--enough of this preface: will not the thing speak for itself? There needs no farther introduction for these brief extracts from the aforesaid work:

THE EASIEST WAY OF DISCHARGING A SONNET.

A SONNET (as before stated) consists of fourteen and no more spasms. They are calm, deliberate twinges, however, and upon a homoeopathical principle, the great object should be to get over each one in the calmest possible manner; _idem cum eodem_. The thing cannot be treated too coolly, for its very essence is dull deliberation. The name sonnet is probably derived, through the Italian _sonno_, from the Latin word for sleep, in allusion to its lethargic quality. The best mode of encouraging the efflux of the peccant humor is for the patient to have a cigar in his mouth. The narcotic fumes of tobacco are highly favorable to its ejection. The first step then is the selection of rhymes. Fourteen of these in their proper order should be written perpendicularly on the right hand of a smooth sheet of white paper. When this is done, it is necessary to read them over, up and down, several times, until some general idea of a subject or a title suggests itself. Great care must be taken, in the selection of rhymes, to get as original ones as possible, and such as shall strike the eye. Still greater should be the precaution not to choose such incongruous rhymes as may not easily be welded together or amalgamated into one whole by the mercury of fancy. For instance, it would be well to avoid coupling such words as moon and spoon, breeze and cheese and sneeze; Jove and stove; hope and soap; all which it might be difficult to bring together harmoniously. Here the artist, the man of true science, will discover himself. SHELLEY affords a good choice of rhymes; chasm and spasm; rift and drift; ravine and savin, are useful conjunctions. If you have a ravine, it will be very easy to stick in a savin, but you must avoid a _spavin_, or your verse may halt for it. This we call being artistical. _Benissimo!_ then. Having fixed upon your subject, all you have to do is to fill up the lines to match the ends, and this, in one evening's practice, will become as easy, the same thing in fact, as the filling up of the blank form of an ordinary receipt.

But the most expeditious and surest way of procuring a good Sonnet is the Division of Labor System. This has often been unconsciously practised by modern poets, but it has never been explicitly set forth till now. Every body knows that even in the fabrication of so small a thing as a needle, the process is facilitated by dividing it among a number of hands; as to one the eye, to another the point, to one the grinding, to another the polishing. In the same way, to render a sonnet pointed and sharp, to polish it and insure it against cutting the thread of its argument, the work should be performed by two or more. Every sonnet, in short, ought to be a translation. I do not say a translation from the German or any other jargon, but a translation from English--from one man's into another man's English. It is absurd for one workman to do both rhyming and thinking. In this go-ahead age and country, that were a palpable waste of time. Take any 'matter-ful' author, cut out a juicy slice of his thought, and make that your material. Trim it, compress it, turn it and twist it upside down and inside out, vary it any way but the author's own, and you will be likely to effect a speedy and wholesome operation. What a saving of time is here! Who will be silly enough to manufacture his own thinkings into verse when the world is so full of excellent stuff as yet unwrought in the great mine of letters? Let us not burn up our own native forests while we can fetch coals from Newcastle. What a pleasant prospect for readers too! A man may be sure _then_, that a sonnet shall contain a thought. He will not be gulled into experiments upon decent-looking, respectable dross and plausible inanity. He shall not dig hungrily for an idea, and be filled with volumes of wind. With the fourteenth pang his anxiety shall be over, and he shall drop asleep satisfied; _tandem dormitum dimittitur_.

Not to anticipate farther our forthcoming book, nor to forestall the critics in any more extracts, we shall lay before the reader two or three samples of work done according to this system. CARLYLE has furnished our raw material. His pages are so full of poetry that little time need be expended in selecting a fit piece for working up. See now if these be not sonnets which BOWLES might have been proud to claim. Each one is warranted to contain a thought; an hour or so would suffice for the completion of half a dozen such. Observe too, that little deviation is necessary from the original, the words falling naturally into both rhythm and rhyme. We commence with a few translations from Carlyle. The initial specimen is taken from Herr TEUFELSDRÖCKH'S remarks on BONAPARTE. This is the passage:

'The man (NAPOLEON) was a Divine Missionary, though unconscious of it, and preached through the cannon's throat this great doctrine: _La carrière ouverte aux talens_; 'The Tools to him that can handle them.' · · · Madly enough he preached, it is true, as Enthusiasts and first Missionaries are wont, with imperfect utterance, amid much frothy rant, yet as articulately perhaps as the case admitted. Or call him, if you will, an American Backwoodsman, who had to fell unpenetrated forests, and battle with innumerable wolves, and did not entirely forbear strong liquor, rioting, and even theft; whom notwithstanding the peaceful Sower will follow, and as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless.'

SARTOR RESARTUS: BOOK II., CHAP. VIII.

SONNET I.--NAPOLEON.

Napoleon was a Missionary merely, Who through the cannon's throat this truth expressed, Unconsciously, divinely and sincerely, _The Tools to him that handles 'em the best._ Madly enough, indeed, the man did preach, Amid much rant, as all Enthusiasts do, And yet with as articulate a speech As the strange case, perhaps, allowed him to. Or call him a Backwoodsman, if you will; Who, forced to fell unpenetrated woods, And doomed innumerable wolves to kill, Got drunk sometimes, and stole his neighbor's goods; Whom will the Sower follow ne'ertheless, And as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless.

Or let us try the following description of the Hotel de Ville in the French Revolution:

'O evening sun of July! how at this hour thy beams fall slant on reapers amid peaceful woody fields; on old women spinning in cottages; on ships far out on the silent main; on Balls at the Orangerie of Versailles, where high-rouged dames of the palace are even now dancing with double-jacketted Hussar officers; and also on this roaring Hell-porch of a Hotel de Ville. Babel-tower, with the confusion of tongues, were not Bedlam added with the conflagration of thoughts, was no type of it. One forest of distracted steel bristles endless in front of an Electoral Committee.'

FRENCH REVOLUTION: BOOK V., CHAP. VII.

SONNET II.--THE HOTEL DE VILLE.

O evening sun of most serene July! How at this hour thy slant refulgence pours On reapers working in the open sky, And women spinning at their cottage doors, On ships far out upon the silent main, On gay Versailles, where through the light quadrille Hussars are leading forth a high-rouged train, And on the hell-porch-like Hotel de Ville. Not Babel's tower with all its million tongues, Save Bedlam too therewith had added been, To mingle burning brains with roaring lungs, Could feebly imitate that dreadful din; One endless forest of distracted steel Bristling around that mad Hotel de Ville!

Or to return to Professor TEUFELDRÖCKH'S vast chaos of ideas. Let us try another passage therefrom:

'It struck me much as I sat beside the Kuhbach, one silent noontide, and watched it flowing, gurgling, to think how this same streamlet had flowed and gurgled through all changes of weather and of fortune, from beyond the earliest date of history. Yes, probably on the morning when JOSHUA forded Jordan; even as at the midday when CÆSAR, doubtless with difficulty, swam the Nile, yet kept his Commentaries dry; this little Kuhbach, assiduous as Tiber, Eurotas or Siloa, was murmuring on across the wilderness, unnamed, unseen.'

SARTOR RESARTUS: BOOK II., CHAP. III.

SONNET III.--ETERNITY OF NATURE.

One silent noonday, as I sat beside The gurgling flow of Kuhbach's little river, Methought how, even as I saw it glide, That stream had flowed and gurgled on forever. Yes, on the day when JOSHUA passed the flood Of ancient Jordan; when across the Nile CÆSAR swam (hardly, doubtless, through the mud,) Yet kept his Commentaries dry the while, This little Kuhbach, like Siloa's rill, Or Tiber's Tide, assiduous and serene, Ev'n then, the same as now, was murmuring still Across the wilderness, unnamed, unseen. Art's but a mushroom--only Nature's old; In yon grey crag six thousand years behold!

From the same chapter of the same book we venture one more extract. It is where the Professor is full of grief and reminiscences; where, reflecting on his first experience of wo in the death of Father ANDREAS, he becomes once more spirit-clad in quite inexpressible melancholy, and says, 'I have now pitched my tent under a cypress-tree,' etc.:

SONNET IV.--BLISS IN GRIEF.

Under a cypress-tree I pitch my tent: The tomb shall be my fortress; at its gate I sit and watch each hostile armament, And all the pains and penalties of Fate. And oh ye loved ones! that already sleep, Hushed in the noiseless bed of endless rest, For whom, while living, I could only weep, But never help in all your sore distress, And ye who still your lonely burthen bear, Spilling your blood beneath life's bitter thrall, A little while and we shall all meet _there_, And one kind Mother's bosom screen us all; Oppression's harness will no longer tire Or gall us there, nor Sorrow's whip of fire.

But we are borrowing too much from our embryo volume. Patience, dear Public! until we can find a publisher. In the mean time, examine the specimens we have presented to you. Can any one tell us where to look for sonnets, more satisfactory than these? We congratulate our country on the prospect of our soon having an American literature. Let our industrious young aspirants try a work in which they may succeed in producing something of sterling value. A year or two will suffice to turn half the plodding prose writers of Britain into original poets. Every brilliant article that appears in the Quarterly might here renascent spring forth like Arethusa, in a new and more melodious voice; bubbling up in a pretty epic or stormy lyric. See, for example, how easily SIDNEY SMITH might be done into rhyme:

SONNET V.

I never meet at any public dinner A Pennsylvanian, but my fingers itch To pluck his borrowed plumage from the sinner, And with the spoil the company enrich. His pocket-handkerchief I would bestow On the poor orphan; and his worsted socks Should to the widow in requital go For having sunk her all in Yankee stocks; To John the footman I would give his hat, Which only cost six shillings in Broadway: As for his diamond ring--I'd speak for that; His gold watch too my losses might repay: Himself might home in the next steamer hie, For who would take him--or his word? Not I.

'LEGENDS OF THE CONQUEST OF SPAIN.'--Some eighteen years ago, a work in a single volume, entitled as above, and written by the author of the 'Sketch-Book,' was issued from the press of MURRAY, the celebrated London book-seller. It would seem to have been put forth as a kind of _avant-courier_ of 'The Chronicles of the Conquest of Granada;' but unlike that elaborate work, was never republished in this country, and has never been included in any of the complete editions of Mr. IRVING'S writings. We are indebted to the kind courtesy of a gentleman who has been spending some months with our distinguished countryman and correspondent at Madrid, for a copy of the book, which he obtained at that capital. We have good reason to believe that it has been encountered by few if any readers on this side the Atlantic. A very stirring extract from its pages will be found elsewhere in this Magazine. Mr. IRVING introduces the legends to his readers with a few prefatory sentences, in which he states that he has ventured to dip more deeply into the enchanted fountains of old Spanish chronicle than has usually been done by those who have treated of the eventful period of which he writes; but in so doing, he only more fully illustrates the character of the people and the times. He has thrown the records into the form of legends, not claiming for them the authenticity of sober history, yet giving nothing that had not a historical foundation. 'All the facts herein contained,' says the writer, 'however extravagant some of them may be deemed, will be found in the works of sage and reverend chroniclers of yore, growing side by side with long acknowledged truths, and might be supported by learned and imposing references in the margin.' To discard every thing wild and marvellous in this portion of Spanish history is to discard some of its most beautiful, instructive, and national features; it is to judge of Spain by the standard of probability suited to tamer and more prosaic countries. Spain is virtually a land of poetry and romance, where every-day life partakes of adventure, and where the least agitation or excitement carries every thing up into extravagant enterprise and daring exploit. The Spaniards in all ages have been of swelling and braggart spirit, soaring in thought, and valiant though vainglorious in deed. When the nation had recovered in some degree from the storm of Moslem invasion, and sage men sought to inquire and write the particulars of the tremendous reverses which it produced, it was too late to ascertain them in their exact verity. The gloom and melancholy that had overshadowed the land had given birth to a thousand superstitious fancies; the woes and terrors of the past were clothed with supernatural miracles and portents, and the actors in the fearful drama had already assumed the dubious characteristics of romance. Or if a writer from among the conquerors undertook to touch upon the theme, it was embellished with all the wild extravagances of an oriental imagination, which afterward stole into the graver works of the monkish historians. Hence the chronicles are apt to be tinctured with those saintly miracles which savor of the pious labors of the cloister, or those fanciful fictions that betray their Arabian Authors. Scarce one of their historical facts but has been connected in the original with some romantic fiction, and even in its divorced state, bears traces of its former alliance. The records in preceding pages are 'illuminated' by these prefatory remarks of our author, if their _truth_ be not altogether established! How the Count JULIAN receives the account of the dishonor of his child, and his conduct thereupon; and how DON RODERICK hastens, through various tribulation, to his final overthrow; will be matter for another number. Meanwhile the reader will not fail to note the great beauty of the descriptions, which in the hands of our great master of the power and beauty of 'the grand old English tongue,' assume form and color, and stand out like living pictures to the eye.

AMERICAN PTYALISM: 'QUID RIDES?'--A pleasant correspondent, whom our readers have long known, and as long admired and esteemed, in a familiar gossip, (by favor of 'Uncle SAMUEL'S mail-bag,) with the Editor, gives us the following 'running account' of his ruminations over an early-morning quid of that 'flavorous weed' so well beloved of our friend Colonel STONE. It is in some sort a defence of American ptyalism, and in the tendency of its inculcations, reminds us of the arguments in favor of the cultivation of a refined style of _murder_, which should constitute it one of the fine arts, to which we gave a place many months back: 'After having in my broken dreams perambulated every part and parcel of the universe, and then tossed about for hours on an ocean of bodily discomforts, each a dagger to repose, and mental disquietudes, of which any one was enough to wither all the poppies of Somnus, I rose about four o' my watch, and commenced chewing the narcotic weed of Virginia. For you must know that in childhood almost, through a precocious mannishness and a desire of experimental knowledge, I commenced the habit of tobacco-chewing, and the vice born of a freak, has 'grown with my growth,' till now it holds me as in a 'vice' screwed up and secured by a giant. (Please observe that there's a pun in that last sentence.) Where the conventionalities of society compel me to attidunize my appearance and customs into the stiffness of gentility, I puff the Havana; but when the privacy of my own room or the solitude of the roads and fields permit me to vulgarize to my liking, I thrust a ball of 'Mrs. MILLER'S fine-cut,' or a fragment of the 'natural James' River sweet,' between the sub-maxillary bone and its carnal casement, and then masticate and expectorate 'à la Yankee.' or 'more Americano.' Pah! oh! fie! for shame! and all other interjections indicative of horror, or expressive of disgust. '_Quousque tandem?_' Beg your pardon, Mrs. TROLLOPE. '_Quamdiu etiam?_' I implore your commiseration, Captain BASIL. '_Oh, tempora! oh, mores!_' Have mercy, illustrious and praise-bespattered, and almost Sir-Waltered BOZ. Do not, under the uneasy weight of glory, and in the intoxicating consciousness of a right to the oligarchic exclusiveness of the goose-quill 'haute volèe,' strike right and left among your sturdy democratic adorers, because they choose to convert their mandibles into quid-grinders, and their [Greek: chasmat' odontôn] into ceaseless jet d'eaux of saliva. Reflect that the 'quid' assists in a philosophic investigation of the 'quiddities' of things, and that from this habit alone perhaps we have made such advances in casuistry as to have discovered equity in repudiation, freedom in mobocracy, and the sword of justice in the bowie-knife. Chewing is eminently democratic, since all chewers are 'pro hâc _vice_' on a perfect equality, and a 'millionaire;' or, for that matter, a 'billionaire,' if we had him, would not hesitate to take out of his mouth a moiety of his last 'chew' and give it to an itinerant Lazarus. What can be more admirable than this 'de bon air' plebeianism, and universal right-hand of fellowship? Does not he who extends among the people the use of this democratizing weed, emphatically give them a '_quid_ pro quo?' Are not slovenliness and filth the virtues of republics, while neatness and elegance are vices of court-growth, and expand into their most ramified and minute perfectness of polish only in the palaces of kings? Furthermore, oh laurelled and triumphant PICKWICK! if expectoration be filthy, it must be because the 'thing expectorated' is unclean; and if so, is it not more decent to become rid of the 'unclean thing' by the readiest process, than to retain it, making the stomach a receptacle of abominations? And are you, Sir Baronet of the realm imaginary, subject to no gross corporeal needs and operations? And if, as you will say, you perform those foul rites in a state of retiracy, are you not adding the sin of hypocrisy to your preëxistent guilt? If it has succeeded to you, as to few penny-a-liners, to have emerged by the sale of your Attic-salt from the attics of Grub-street into the 'swept and garnished chambers' of the Regent, and if after quaffing the ale of Bow-street, procured by caricatures of Old Baily reports, you have sipped your hockheimer, while standing, scarce yet unbewildered, in the gas-light splendor reflected from the 'vis-á-vis' mirrors of Almack's, yet do not exalt yourself above all that is fleshly. Reflect that you, so lately unrivalled, can now see a EUGENE SUE whose brow is umbraged by laurels of a more luxuriant and lovely green. Cease your expectorations of bile upon a great people; admit that mastication of the 'odorous vegeble' is a Spartan virtue; and we will again vote you an Anak in the kingdom of pen and paper. Then again shall we be led to believe that your praises and your vituperations are equally unpurchasable. Then once more shall we think you would swallow no golden pill, nor suffer your throat to be ulcerated by a silver quinsy.'

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--If any of our readers are desirous of looking into the _rationale_ of irrationality, to employ a highly 'unitive' phrase, let them take up, if they can command it, the '_Annual Report of the Managers of the New York State Lunatic Asylum_,' one of the clearest and most comprehensive documents in its kind that we have ever perused. It proceeds from the capable pen of A. BRIGHAM, M. D. the superintendent and physician of the institution, and is full upon the definition, causes and classification of insanity; the size and shape of the heads of the patients; the pulse; description of the building; daily routine of business, diet, labor, amusements, religious worship, visitors, suggestions to those who have friends whom they expect to commit to the care of the asylum, etc., etc. The cause of insanity in _fifty_ out of two hundred and seventy-six patients is attributed to religious anxiety, produced by long attendance on protracted religious meetings, etc. Want of sleep is decidedly the most frequent and immediate cause of insanity, and one the most important to guard against. 'So rarely (says the superintendent) do you see a recent case of insanity that is not preceded by want of sleep, that we regard it as almost the sure precursor of mental derangement.' As evidences of the difficulty of arranging the insane in classes, founded on symptoms, Dr. BRIGHAM gives us the following synopsis of individual peculiarities noticed among certain of the inmates of the Asylum:

'In addition to emperors, queens, prophets and priests, we have one that says he is nobody, a nonentity. One that was never born, and one that was born of her grandmother, and another dropped by the devil flying over the world. One has had the throat cut out and put in wrong, so that what is swallowed passes into the head, and another has his head cut off and replaced every night. One thinks himself a child, and talks and acts like a child. Many appear as if constantly intoxicated. One has the gift of tongues, another deals in magic, several in animal magnetism. One thinks he is a white polar bear. A number have hallucinations of sight, others of hearing. One repeats whatever is said to him, another repeats constantly words of the same sound, as door, floor. One is pursued by the sheriff, many by the devil. One has invented the perpetual motion and is soon to be rich; others have already acquired vast fortunes: scraps of paper, buttons and chips are to them, large amounts of money. Many pilfer continually and without any apparent motive, while others secrete every thing they can find, their own articles as well as those of others. A majority are disposed to hoard up trifling and useless articles, as scraps of tin, leather, strings, nails, buttons, etc., and are much grieved to part with them. One will not eat unless alone, some never wish to eat, while others are always starving. One with a few sticks and straws fills his room with officers and soldiers, ships and sailors, carriages and horses, the management of which occupies all his time and thoughts. Some have good memory as regards most things, and singularly defective as to others. One does not recollect the names of his associates, which he hears every hour, yet his memory is good in other respects. One says he is THOMAS PAINE, author of the 'Age of Reason,' a work he has never read; another calls himself General WASHINGTON; and one old lady of diminutive size calls herself General SCOTT, and is never so good-natured as when thus addressed. One is always in court attending a trial, and wondering and asking when the court is to rise. Another has to eat up the building, drink dry the canal, and swallow the Little Falls village, and is continually telling of the difficulty of the task.'

The superintendent prefers a classification founded upon the faculties of the mind that appear to be disordered; and he thinks he could place all his patients in one of the three following classes: _Intellectual Insanity_, or disorder of the intellect without noticeable disturbance of the feelings and propensities; _Moral Insanity_ or derangement of the feelings, affections, and passions, without any remarkable disorder of the intellect; and _General Insanity_, in which both the intellectual faculties and the feelings and affections are disordered. The State Asylum is a fine imposing edifice, delightfully situated near the pleasant village of Utica, in Oneida county, and is becoming greatly distinguished for success in the treatment and cure of insanity. · · · WE heard a little anecdote at a _bal costumé_ the other evening, (whether from the dignified and stately HELEN MACGREGOR or the beautiful MEDORA, we 'cannot well make out,') which is worth repeating. A retired green-grocer, rejoicing in the euphonious name of TIBBS, living at Hackney, near London, sorely against his will, and after warm remonstrance, finally yielded to his wife's entreaty that he would go in character to a masquerade-ball, given to the 'middling interest' by one of his old neighbors. He went accoutred as a knight, wearing his visor down. What was his surprise on entering the room, to find first one and then another member of the motley company slapping him familiarly on the back, with: 'Halloa! TIBBS! who thought to see _you_ here! What's the news at Hackney?' In dismay that his ridiculous secret was out, he hurried from the scene, and hastened home in a state of great excitement from the mortification to which he had been subjected. 'I _told_ you I should be known,' said he to his wife; 'I _knew_ I should!' 'No wonder!' she replied; 'you've got your name and residence on your steel cap: 'Mr. TIBBS, Hackney!'' He had forgotten to remove the address which the London costumer had affixed to it as a direction! · · · HOW many thousand times, in thinking of the onward career of our glorious and thrice-blessed country, have we felt the emotions to which our esteemed friend and contributor, POLYGON, gives forceful expression in the closing lines of a beautiful poem of his, which we have encountered to-day for the first time:

'Oh! long through coming ages, born When _we_ shall slumber cold and still, The sultry summer will adorn The verdant vale and hazy hill; And Autumn walking even and morn Through bearded wheat and rustling corn, See Plenty from her streaming horn His largest wishes fill.

'Europe's rich realms will then admire And emulate our matchless fame, And Asia burn with fierce desire To burst her galling bonds of shame! Greece will resume th' Aonian lyre, And Rome again to heaven aspire, And vestal Freedom's quenchless fire From the pyramids shall flame!'

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There is a sort of pathetic humor in the following parody by PUNCH upon the prize exhibitions of cattle in England. A more forcible exposition of the different condition of the human and brute animal in that country could not well be conceived. It must be premised that a large hall is fitted up with pens on either side, and over the head of the occupant paste-board tickets are appended by the Poor Law Commissioners, detailing their names, weights, ages, the regimen to which they have been subjected, and other particulars; as thus: 'PETER SMALL. Aged forty. Weight at period of admission twelve stone. Confined three months. Present weight nine stone. Fed principally on water-gruel. Has been separated from his wife and children in the work-house, and occasionally placed in solitary confinement for complaining of hunger. Employment, breaking stones.' 'JANE WELLS. Aged seventy. Weight five stone; lost two stone since her admission, one month ago. Gruel diet; tea without sugar; potatoes and salt. Has been set to picking opium.' 'JOHN TOMPKINS. Aged eighty-five. Has seen better days. On admission, weighed eleven stone, which has been reduced to eight and three-quarters. Diet, weak soup, with turnips and carrots; dry bread and cheese-parings; a few ounces of meat occasionally, when faint. Came to the work-house with his wife, who is five years younger than himself. Has not been allowed to see her for a month; during which period has lost in weight two ounces on an average per day. Employed in carrying coals.' Faithful portraits, no doubt, of thousands who crowd the thick-clustering pauper-houses of England, who have

'No blessed leisure for love nor hope, But only time for grief!'

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Our umqwhile New-Haven friend, who commented upon our 'light gossip' a few months since, will pardon us for quoting, in corroboration of the exculpatory 'position' which we assumed in alluding to his animadversions, the following remarks by the author of the 'Charcoal Sketches,' JOSEPH C. NEAL, Esq.: 'Gossip, goodly gossip, though sometimes sneered at, is after all the best of our entertainments. We must fall back upon the light web of conversation, upon chit-chat, as our main-stay, our chief reliance; as that _corps de reserve_ on which our scattered and wearied forces are to rally. What is there which will bear comparison as a recreating means, with the free and unstudied interchange of thought, of knowledge, of impression about men and things, and all that varied medley of fact, criticism and conclusion so continually fermenting in the active brain? Be fearful of those who love it not, and banish such as would imbibe its delights yet bring no contribution to the common stock. There are men who seek the reputation of wisdom by dint of never affording a glimpse of their capabilities, and impose upon the world by silent gravity; negative philosophers, who never commit themselves beyond the utterance of a self-evident proposition, or hazard their position by a feat of greater boldness than is to be found in the avowal of the safe truth which has been granted for a thousand years. There is a deception here, which should never be submitted to. Sagacity may be manifest in the nod of Burleigh's head; but it does not follow that all who nod are Burleighs. He who habitually says nothing, must be content if he be regarded as having nothing to say, and it is only a lack of grace on his part which precludes the confession. In this broad 'Vienna' of human effort, the mere 'looker-on' cannot be tolerated. It is part of our duty to be nonsensical and ridiculous at times, for the entertainment of the rest of the world. If we are never to open our mouths until the unsealing of the aperture is to give evidence of a present Solomon, and to add something to the Book of Proverbs, we must for the most part, stand like the statue of Harpocrates, with 'Still your finger on your lips, I pray.' If we do speak, under such restrictions, it cannot well be, as the world is constituted, more than once or twice in the course of an existence, the rest of the sojourn upon earth being devoted to a sublimation of our thought. But always wise, sensible, sagacious, rational; always in wig and spectacles; always algebraic and mathematical; doctrinal and didactic; ever to sit like FRANKLIN'S portrait, with the index fixed upon 'causality;' one might as well be a petrified 'professor,' or a WILLIAM PENN bronzed upon a pedestal. There is nothing so good, either in itself or in its effects, as good nonsense.' Upon reading the foregoing, we laid Mr. YELLOWPLUSH'S 'flattering function' to our soul, that after all, we need not greatly distrust the reception of our monthly salmagundi, since one good producer and critic may be held as in some sort an epitome of the public; and especially, since any one subsection of our hurried Gossip, should it chance to be dull, or void of interest, may be soon exhausted, or easily skipped. · · · WE observed lately, in the pages of a monthly contemporary, an elaborate notice of the poems of ALFRED TENNYSON, who has written many somewhat affected and several very heartful and exquisite verses; and were not a little surprised to find no reference to two of the most beautiful poems in his collection; namely, the 'New-Year's Eve,' and its 'Conclusion.' The first embodies the reflections of a young maiden, sinking gradually under that fell destroyer, CONSUMPTION. It is new-year's eve, and she implores her mother to 'call her early,' that she may see the sun rise upon the glad new year, the last that she shall ever see. How touchingly the associations of nature are depicted in these stanzas:

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the black thorn, the leaf upon the tree.

There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again: I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high; I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook will caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow will come back again with summer o'er the wave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun will shine; Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers shall come again, mother, beneath the waning light, You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night: When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool, On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me, where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away.

Good-night, good-night! when I have said good-night for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor: Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.

The poor girl's prayer to 'live to see the snow-drop,' in the spring-time, is answered. The violets have come forth, and in the fields around she hears the bleating of the young lambs. She is now ready to die, and knows that the time of her departure is at hand, for she has had a 'warning from heaven.' The reader should have sat by the bed-side of one slowly fading away by consumption, and have heard the wild March wind wail amidst the boughs of leafless trees without, rightly to appreciate the faithfulness of these lines:

'I did not hear the dog howl, mother, nor hear the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me--I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, 'It's not for them: it's mine.' And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.'

'This blessed music,' she says, 'went that way my soul will have to go.' She is reconciled to her inevitable fate; yet still she casts a 'longing, lingering look behind,' to the beautiful world she is leaving forever. Her reflections are imbued with a deep pathos; the second line of the first stanza, especially, 'teems with sensation:'

'O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know: And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine, Wild flowers are in the valley for other hands than mine!

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun; For ever and for ever with those just souls and true: And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home, And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come; To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast, Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

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We are indebted to a friend and correspondent at the Phillippine Islands, for two very instructive and amusing volumes, of which we intend the reader shall know more hereafter. The first is entitled '_Portfolio Chinensis_,' or a collection of authentic Chinese State Papers, in the native language, illustrative of the history of the late important events in China, with a translation by J. LEWIS SHUCK; the second, a '_Narrative of the late Proceedings and Events in China_,' by JOHN SLADE, editor of the 'Canton Register.' In looking over these publications, we are struck with the vigor and pertinacity with which, when once their minds were made up, the Chinese authorities pursued their object of abolishing opium forever from the celestial empire. Edicts against the 'red-bristled foreigners' from England, and the people of the American or 'flower-flag nation,' who should hoard up the smoking earth or vaporous drug, were enforced by others addressed to the natives, intended to lessen or annihilate the demand. The remonstrances with the opium-smokers themselves are exceedingly pungent. The 'Great Emperor, quaking with wrath,' having examined the whole matter, and 'united the circumstances,' saturates the High Commissioner LIN with his own bright 'effulgence of reason,' who thereupon promulges: 'Although the opium exists among the outside barbarians, there is not a man of them who is willing to smoke it himself; but the natives of the flowery land are on the contrary with willing hearts led astray by them; and they exhaust their property and brave the prohibitions, by purchasing a commodity which inflicts injury upon their own vitals. Is not this supremely ridiculous! And that you part with your money to poison your own selves, is it not deeply lamentable! How is it that you allow men to befool you? Thus the fish covets the bait and forgets the hook; the miller-fly covets the candle-light, but forgets the fire. Ye bring misfortunes upon yourselves! Habits which are thus disastrous are unchangeable, being like the successive rolling of the waves of the sea. Is not your conduct egregiously strange? We the governor and Fooyuen have three times and five times again and again remonstrated with and exhorted you, giving you lucid warning. Surely, you are indeed dreaming, and _snoring_ in your dreams!' These multiplied edicts, and the offers of _rewards_, to 'encourage repentant and fear-stricken hearts,' seem to have led to a little trickery on the part of certain cunning mandarins, if we interpret aright this clause in an ensuing 'lucid warning:' 'The opium-pipes which are delivered up must be distinguished clearly as to whether they are real or false. Those having on the outside of them the marks of use, and within the oily residue of the smoke, are the genuine ones; and those which are made of new bamboo, and merely moistened with the smoky oil, are the false ones.' A 'spec.' had evidently been made by means of false 'smoking-implements.' But the most amusing portions of these volumes are the vermillion edicts against the 'outside barbarians,' who had irritated the sacred wrath to the cutting off of their trade. The estimates of the Fooyuen, it will be seen, are of that vague kind usually designated among us as 'upward of considerable.' Alluding to the 'blithesome profits' which had accrued from an intercourse with China, he says: 'I find that during the last several tens of years the money out of which you have duped our people, by means of your destructive drug, amounts I know not to how many tens of thousands of myriads. Your ships, which in former years amounted annually to no more than several tens, now exceed a hundred and several tens, which arrive here every year. I would like to ask you if in the wide earth under heaven you can find such another profit-yielding market as this is? Our great Chinese Emperor views all mankind with equal benevolence, and therefore it is that he has thus graciously permitted you to trade, and become as it were steeped to the lips in gain. If this port of Canton, however, were to be shut against you, how could you scheme to reap profit more? Moreover, our tea and rhubarb are articles which ye foreigners from afar cannot preserve your lives without; yet year by year we allow you to export both beyond seas, without the slightest feeling of grudge on our part. Never was imperial goodness greater than this! Formerly, the prohibitions of our empire might still be considered indulgent, and therefore it was that from all our ports the sycee leaked out as the opium rushed in: now, however, the Great Emperor, on hearing of it, actually quivers with indignation, and before he will stay his hand the evil must be completely and entirely done away with.' But these denunciations are not unmingled with incitements to fear in another direction: 'You are separated from your homes by several tens of thousands of miles, and a ship which comes and goes is exposed to the perils of the great and boundless ocean, arising from curling waves, contrary tides, thunders and lightnings, and the howling tempest, as well as the jeopardy of crocodiles and whales! Heaven's chastisements should be regarded with awe. The majesty and virtue of our Great Emperor is the same with that of heaven itself! Our celestial dynasty soothes and tranquillizes the central and foreign lands, and our favor flows most wide. Our central empire is exuberant in all kinds of productions, and needs not in the slightest degree whatever the goods of the outer seas.' As matters are about proceeding to an open rupture with the 'red-bristled foreigners,' and preparations are making to 'fire upon them with immense guns,' there ensues a bit of Chinese diplomacy, which is especially rich. After a long interview by a committee with the _Chefoo_, during which all sorts of arguments are urged upon Snow, the American Consul, and VAN BASEL, the Netherlands Consul, to induce them to sign a 'duly-prepared bond,' that none of their countrymen shall thenceforth bring opium to China, the audience is suddenly closed with: 'To-morrow the Chefoo will be at the Consoo-house, and wait from nine till night to receive the bonds. _Now go home and go to bed!_' But enough for the nonce of JOHN CHINAMAN. · · · IN alluding to Mr. COLE'S graphic account of the _Ascent of Mount Ætna_, in our last issue, we spoke of its late eruption. While reading the proof of that portion of our 'Gossip,' a friend handed us a letter lately received from an American missionary lady at the Sandwich Islands, from which we extract the subjoined vivid description of the great volcano at Hawaii: 'You know,' says the writer, 'something, I suppose, of the geological character of this island. It seems as though a vast crater had boiled over and poured its fiery liquid in every direction. This lava, having cooled and hardened, forms the basis of the island. The district of Kau is a rich, luxuriant spot, surrounded by desolate fields of scoriæ, which renders it difficult of access. We are situated six miles from the sea, sufficiently elevated to give us a commanding view of its vast expanse of waters. We can occasionally spy a sail floating like a speck on its surface. From the shore, the country gradually rises into a range of verdant mountains, whose summits appear to touch the clouds. Proceeding northward toward Hilo, there is a gradual rise, until you reach the Great Volcano, about six miles distant. In making the tour to Hilo, we camped here the second night, on the brink of the burning gulf. Suppose a vast area of earth, as large as the bay of New-York, to have fallen in to the depth of several thousand feet. At the bottom of this great cauldron, you behold the liquid fire boiling and bubbling up, partly covered with a thick black scum. There are two or three inner craters, which have been formed by the lava cooling on its sides while the liquid sunk below. The gentlemen mostly descended into this crater, but I was fully satisfied with a look from above. The earth is cracked all around at the top, and portions of it are continually falling in. Steam issues from open places in all the region. This volcano has been in action from time immemorial, as the natives all assert, and has been with them an object of idolatrous worship. The range of mountains continues for some thirty miles beyond this, and terminates in the snow-capped summit of Mounadoa. This mountain is in full sight at Hilo, and about thirty miles distant. Since we have been here it has been the scene of the most wonderful volcanic eruptions ever yet seen on this island. Mr. P----, in company with Mr. C----, visited it a week or two since, and ascended the mountain to the old crater, from whence the flood of lava proceeded. Fire has not been seen in it within the remembrance of the oldest natives. An immense river of burning lava is at this time running down the side of the mountain, in a subterraneous channel, from three to four miles wide. They had a good view of it through air-holes in the lava, over which they were walking, which was like a sea of glass; frequently sinking in different places in consequence of the intense heat below. It will probably yet find its way to the surface somewhere, and, laying prostrate every thing that opposes it, pursue its devastating course to the sea. Truly we live in a world of wonders!' · · · BY the by, speaking of volcanos: it will be remembered that in 1831 an island was thrown up by volcanic eruption in the Mediterranean sea, off the south coast of Sicily. It presented the form of a round hill, about one hundred and twenty feet above the sea's level, with thick clouds of white smoke issuing from it. As may well be imagined, it excited great wonder and curiosity, and was visited by vast numbers of people. An Austrian, a French and a British vessel met there at the same time. A dispute arose as to what power the island should belong, what it should be named, etc.; when a British sailor leaped on shore, and planted on the topmost peak the union-jack. Nine cheers proclaimed Britannia victorious. On returning shortly after, to take another look at their newly-acquired possession, they found to their dismay that, like Aladdin's palace, the island had disappeared, leaving the Mediterranean as smooth as if the magic wonder had never reared its head! This circumstance suggested the following lines by a correspondent:

FATHER NEPTUNE, one day, as he traversed the seas, Much wanted a spot to recline at his ease: For long tossed and tired by the billow's commotion, ''Tis a shame,' cried the god, 'I'm confined to the ocean. I'll have an island!' To VULCAN he flew, Saying, 'Help me this time, and in turn I'll help you. To make a new island's an excellent scheme; And I think, my dear VULCAN, we'll raise it by steam.' 'Agreed!' cried the god. Straight to work they repair, And throw an abundance of smoke in the air. This mariners saw, and it did them affright; They straightway concluded all could not be right. 'We'll to Sicily repair, and appeal to powers civil, For certainly this is the work of the devil!' The Austrians and French came the wonder to view: Said Britain, in anger, 'That isle's not for you! For us, us alone, did Britannia design it, And, d' ye see, we'll be d----d if we ever resign it! On that island we'll land! there our standard we'll raise! We will there plant our jack, if the island should blaze!'

The gods, in great wrath, heard all this contention: 'Dear NEPTUNE,' said VUL., 'this has spoiled our invention.' 'It has,' said the god, 'but, I swear by my trident, The proud sons of Britain shall never abide on 't! It was raised for a god, and no vile worthless mortal On that island shall dwell, to eat oysters and turtle. Down! down with it, VUL., that will best end the quarrel, And I'll be content with my old bed of coral.'

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'MILK FOR BABES,' an elaborately-concocted satire upon a certain class of 'learned and pious hand-books for urchins of both sexes,' is not without humor, and ridicules what indeed in some respects deserves animadversion. We affect as little as our correspondent what has been rightly termed 'a clumsy fumbling for the half-formed intellect, a merciless hunting down of the tender and unfledged thought,' through the means of 'instructive' little books, wherein an insipid tale goes feebly wriggling through an unmerciful load of moral, religious and scientific preaching; or an apparently simple dialogue involves subjects of the highest difficulty, which are chattered over between two juvenile prodigies, or delivered to them in mouthfuls, curiously adapted to their powers of swallowing. 'The minor manners and duties,' says our correspondent, 'are quite overlooked by misguided parents now-a-days;' and this he illustrates by an anecdote: 'THOMAS, my son,' said a father to a lad in my hearing, the other day, 'won't you show the gentleman your last composition?' 'I don't want to,' said he. 'I _wish_ you would,' responded the father. 'I wont!' was the reply; 'I'll be goy-blamed if I do!' A sickly, half-approving smile passed over the face of the father, as he said, in extenuation of his son's _brusquerie_: 'Tom don't lack manners generally; but the fact is, _he's got such a cold, he is almost a fool_!' Kind parent! happy boy! · · · WE would counsel such of our readers as can command it, to secure the perusal of '_Hugh Adamson's Reply to John Campbell_,' in the matter of international copy-right. Mr. CAMPBELL, being a paper dealer, and greatly benefitted in his business by the increased sale of stock consequent upon the influx of cheap republications, is naturally very anxious to prevent the passage of an international copy-right law. As might be anticipated of such an advocate, his real reasons are all based upon the _argumentum ad crumenam,_ the argument to the _purse_. Mr. ADAMSON, in a few satirical, well-reasoned, sententious paragraphs, has fairly demolished the superstructure which Selfishness had reared, and exposed the misrepresentations upon which alone the unsubstantial fabric could have rested. It is quiet and good-natured, but _cutting_; and will act as an antidote to the elaborate sophistry of Mr. CAMPBELL'S ambitious _brochure_. · · · WE think we shall publish 'L. D. Q.'s '_Parody_;' but should like him to change the third stanza, which is 'like a mildewed ear, blasting its wholesome brothers.' The other verses are capital. One of the cleverest modern parodies which we remember, was written in a Philadelphia journal, and touched upon some exciting city event, before the Court of Sessions. It was in the measure of '_The Cork Leg_,' and _ran_ somewhat as follows:

'The defendant said that it was too bad To be taken up before Judge CON-RAD.

* * * * *

Now Mr. H----, the lawyer, was there, With a pretty good head, but not very much hair, So little, in fact, that a wig he must wear, Ri tu den u-den a!'

The parody had the jogging, jolting air of the original, and was replete, we recollect, with whimsical associations. · · · WE shall venture to present here the comments of two most valued friends and contributors, upon the performances of two _other_ esteemed friends and favorite correspondents. Of '_The Venus of Ille_,' the one writes as follows: 'I fully sympathise with you in your admiration of this tale, as well as of 'The Innocence of a Galley-Slave.' I could not in the perusal of them both but feel the vast superiority of the Grecian over the Gothic style. For in spite of all the humor and wit and nature and pathos of the DICKENS and LEVER school, there is something more of the Gothic and grotesque in their paintings than in these pure and unforced limnings of the able Frenchman. Where the ground-work of the tale is of sufficiently bold conception, and the incidents offer hooks enough to hang interest upon, there can be no doubt that this cool style is by far the most effectual in the end. The more strained and heated style of some other modern authors will be very effectual for awhile, but the excitement of the reader will flag sooner. The reason is, that too much descriptive and passionate power is expended on minor portions of the tale; and the enthusiasm of the reader is partially exhausted before he comes to the grand catastrophe, where it should be most of all elicited. But writers like WALTER SCOTT, or this Frenchman, are self-possessed and meditative in a great portion of their writings; by skilful touches giving the reader every thing necessary for him to know in reference to characters and scenes; and on any great emergency their sudden heat carries the reader away captive.' The admiration expressed by our other accomplished friend for the chaste and graceful essays of a still more accomplished correspondent (there is nothing like disparagement in this comparison) is widely shared, as we have the best reason to know, by our readers on both sides of the Atlantic: 'JOHN WATERS! There is a drab-coated plainness about the name, which is at the same time _liquid_ and musical; not more liquid and musical, howbeit, than those charming commentaries of his on every variety of quaint topic; full of an amiable grace, tinged with the most delicate hue of a fine humor; a refined ore drawn from no ordinary mine without alloy; like the compositions of SAPPHO, to which an unerring critic has applied the expression, [Greek: chruseiotera chrusou]; the very best of gold. Doves never bore choicer _billet-doux_ beneath their wings. A beautiful sentiment always touches the heart, though couched in homely phrase; but when one knows how to cull from our mother-tongue the most expressive words, and has gained that enviable mastery, making them fall into their own places, and thus become inseparable from the idea, the perfection of art is gained. Serve us up these choice _morceaux_ each month, dear EDITOR; let them not be missed from the generous board, lest the banquet be incomplete. Let me tell you, in passing, that your correspondent HARRY FRANCO'S tale is a caution to dowagers. Never have I encountered such a startling incident on the high seas, out of 'DON JUAN.' · · · DID it occur to 'N.' that the change suggested in the mere inscription of his epigram, '_Religious Disputation_,' would be entirely out of keeping? 'Uniting the circumstances,' as Commissioner LIN would say, would produce such discrepancy as was occasioned lately at a democratic meeting in one of the western States, where a certain resolution in favor of our old friend and correspondent, Gen. CASS, was made to undergo a slight metamorphosis by the substitution of the name of Mr. VAN BUREN; causing it to read something like this: 'Whereas Gen. MARTIN VAN BUREN emigrated to the west from New-Hampshire in early life with his knapsack on his back, and unsheathed his sword in repelling the Indians and fighting against the British!' etc. This historical fiction, in the antagonistic excitement of the moment, was carried by an almost unanimous vote! · · · INVERSION of mere words, or involution of phrase and syntax, let us whisper in the ear of our Troy correspondent, is not a very great beauty in poetry. His own good thoughts are spoiled by this affectation. It requires an artist to employ frequent inversion successfully. The opening of the '_Lines on a Bust of Dante_', by Mr. T. W. PARSONS, affords a pleasing example in this kind. It is clear and musical:

'See from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, _How stern of lineament, how grim The father was of Tuscan song_.'

Inversion should be naturally suggested, not forced. · · · IT is to be inferred, we fear, that the late 'principal editor' of the '_Brother Jonathan_' does not take it in good part that the new proprietors of that now popular journal saw fit to arrest its rapid decadence, by a removal of the inevitable cause of such a consummation. Lo! how from his distant down-east ambush, with characteristic phrase, he denounces them as 'cowards' and 'puppies!' Whereupon, in a response appropriately brief, the 'brave few' of the 'principal editor's' old readers who have 'endured unto the end,' are informed by the new incumbent, that the tabooed ci-devant functionary 'seems disturbed because he was not suffered to kill the 'Brother Jonathan' as he had killed every journal in which he was permitted to pour out his vapid balderdash. He is a perfect BLUEBEARD among newspapers. He no sooner slaughters one, than he manages to get hold of another, and butcher that with the same remorseless indifference.' The editor adds: 'He once enjoyed the honor of some connection with the 'New World,' and would have consigned that well-known sheet to the tomb of the Capulets, had not the publishers foreseen the danger, and escaped in season.' We merely note these facts, as corroborative of a remark or two of our own, in our last issue. · · · '_An Incident in Normandy_', we shrewdly suspect, is _not_ 'from the French;' if it be, all that we have to say is, that such pseudo-rhapsodists as the writer could never by any possibility _love_ nature. The thing is altogether _over-done_. A Frenchman's opinion, however, COWELL tells us, should never be taken where the beauties of nature are concerned, _unless they can be cooked_. There is another grave objection to the article; which consists in the undue frequency of Italian and French words and phrases, foisted into the narrative. We have a strong attachment to plain, perspicuous _English_. Ours is a noble language, a beautiful language; and we hold fully with SOUTHEY, who somewhere remarks that he can tolerate a Germanism, for family sake; but he adds: 'He who uses a Latin or a French phrase where a pure old English word does as well, ought to be hung, drawn and quartered, for high treason against his mother-tongue.' · · · '_The Song of the New Year_, by Mrs. NICHOLS, in a late number,' writes a Boston correspondent, 'is an excellent production, and a fair specimen of the improved style of our occasional American verse. Suppose a book-worm should light on poetry of equal merit among FLATMAN'S, FALCONER'S, PRIOR'S, or PARSELL'S collections? Would it not shine forth, think you? Indeed our lady-writers are wresting the plume from our male pen mongers unco fast.' 'That's a fact.' Mrs. NICHOLS has a sister-poet at Louisville, Kentucky, who has a very charming style and a delicious fancy. A late verse of hers in some '_Lines to a Rainbow_,' signed 'AMELIA,' which we encountered at a reading-room the other day, have haunted our memory ever since:

'There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves; When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose, Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose.'

MOORE never conceived a more beautiful simile than this. · · · NUMBER TWO of the '_Reminiscences of a Dartmoor Prisoner_' will appear in our next issue. We have received from the writer a very interesting and amusing manuscript-volume, filled with patriotic poetry, containing vivid pictures of scenes and events in the daily routine of the prison, as well as sketches of Melville Island Prison, and reminiscences of striking events in the lives of sundry of the prisoners, in the progress of the American war. We shall refer more particularly to this entertaining collection in an ensuing number. · · · THE Lines on '_Niagara Falls at Night_' are entirely too terrific for our pages. They are almost as 'love-lily dreadful' as the great scene itself. 'M.' _must_ 'try again,' that is quite certain; and we are afraid, _more_ than once. · · · TU DOCES! Doubtless many of our young readers, especially in the country, have often pondered over the zig-zag hieroglyphics which covered the tea-chests at the village-store, and marvelled what 'HOWQUA,' which was inseparable from these inscriptions, could mean. It was the name of the great Hong merchant, 'the friend of Americans,' who died recently at Canton, at an advanced age, leaving his vast wealth to two sons. Here is an elegy written upon his death by his brother-merchant TINGQUA, which is now being sung about Canton to a dolorous air, accompanied by the _yeih-pa_ and the _tchung_, a curious sort of guitar and harp in common use. The elegy comprises a little outline, together with hints and allusions, prettily conveyed, of the principal biographical events of HOWQUA'S career, and is entitled

TINGQUA'S TEARS.

I weep for HOWQUA. He was the friend of my youth. We often rose before day-break, and gazed together at the soft blue clouds round the retiring moon.

At that time I smiled on HOWQUA. We both grew old together. We often went to the tombs of our fathers, side by side, and thought tenderly of the loving dead.

Weep friends of the Hong. All friends at home (literally _Celestial_ friends,) and all natives of outside countries weep; weep excessively. For HOWQUA is no more.

HOWQUA was a fixed man. He had reason. Loving old laws, old customs, and all things long since established as wise, he therefore hated change.

HOWQUA was very rich. He had no half-thinkers and third-smokers (meaning _no partners_,) and no branch-breakers to his universal tea-dealings.

Also he had lands for rice and pasture, and to play at ball, and villas, and ponds of fish, and fifteen field-bridges of carved wood gilt, and seven domestic bridges inlaid with ivory birds and dragons.

Also he had money in the foreign mysteries (probably meaning the _funds_.)

Also he had doings with several things of great value, and shares of large ship-loads. But never would he touch the hateful opium-trade, after the recent mad insolences.

Also he had some wives.

Also the GREAT EMPEROR loved him, though HOWQUA was only as the poorest man before that Yellow Illumination of our day and night.

The body of my friend was slight, and easily injured; like the outside of people's pocket-watch when she walk against the sun (that is, an injured watch that _goes wrong_.) But my dear friend for whom I shed these tears had a head with many eyes.

HOWQUA knew what to do with his unnecessary gold. He built a temple to Buddha, and thus made the god a present of 2,000,000 dollars, to the excessive delight of his Essence and Image.

Also, HOWQUA gave 800,000 dollars to assist the ransom of his beloved Canton from the fangs of the late war; to the excessive delight of the Fighting-minded Barbarians.

Weep, then, for HOWQUA, even as I weep. He was the friend of my youth. Together we grew old, walking toward our fathers' tombs. We might have died together; but it is well that one old friend should be left a little while to weep.'

* * * * *

The paper upon '_American Interior and Exterior Architecture_' we are quite certain would not have the tendency which the writer contemplates. It would discourage rather than foster that better taste which is gaining ground among us. In this city, how great have been the improvements in the exterior and interior decorations of our dwellings, within the last eight years! We remember the time as it were but yesterday, when the beautiful muslin window-shades, first introduced among us by Mr. GEORGE PLATT, were considered a luxury of interior decoration--as indeed many of them were. But from these small yet promising beginnings, our accomplished artist has gone on, until his extensive establishment is filled with specimens of rich and elaborate architectural decorations, for the various styles of which the reigns of French and English sovereigns have been put under the most liberal contribution. Our wealthy and tasteful citizens have vied with each other in the enriching and beautifying of their mansions; while, also emulous, a kindred class in our sister-cities have laid requisitions upon Mr. PLATT'S architectural and decorative genius, (for in him it _is_ genius, and of no intermediate order,) which have convinced _him_ at least, that the 'laggard taste' which our correspondent arraigns, is 'not so slow' as he seems to imagine. · · · WHO was '_Dandy Jim from Caroline_,' of whom every boy in the street is either whistling or singing, and whom we 'have heard spoken of' by musical instruments and that of all sorts, at every party or ball which we have found leisure to attend during the gay season? We are the more anxious to glean some particulars touching the origin and history of this personage, because his fame is rife among our legislators, and the 'lobby-interest' at Albany; if we may judge from a quatrain before us, which hints at a verbal peculiarity of our excellent representative, Alderman VARIAN, whose _v_ always takes the form of a _w_, especially in his rendering of a foreign tongue; as witness his being 'just on the _qwi-wi-we_ for the capitol,' on one occasion, and the subjoined versification of another of his Latin sentences, with cockney 'wariations:'

'Then here's a health to WARI-AN, That '_Weni, widi, wici_' man! He talk de grammar werry fine, Like DANDY JIM o' Caroline: For my ole massa tol' me so,' etc.

* * * * *

There is in these humane and benevolent days an increasing sympathy in the public mind for a man condemned to 'march sorrowfully up to the gallows, there to be noosed up, vibrate his hour, and await the dissecting-knife of the surgeon,' who fits his bones into a skeleton for medical purposes. 'There never was a public hanging,' says a late advocate of the abolition of capital punishment, 'that was productive of any thing but evil.' There is an anecdote recorded of WHITFIELD, however, which seems to refute this position, in at least one instance. This eloquent divine, while at Edinburgh, attended a public execution. His appearance upon the ground drew the eyes of all around him, and raised a variety of opinions as to the motives which led him to join in the crowd. The next day, being Sunday, he preached to a large body of men, women and children, in a field near the city. In the course of his sermon, he adverted to the execution which had taken place the preceding day. 'I know,' said he, 'that many of you will find it difficult to reconcile my appearance yesterday with my character. Many of you will say, that my moments would have been better employed in praying with the unhappy man, than in attending him to the fatal tree, and that perhaps curiosity was the only cause that converted me into a spectator on that occasion: but those who ascribe that uncharitable motive to me are under a mistake. I witnessed the conduct of almost every one present on that occasion, and I was highly pleased with it. It has given me a very favorable impression of the Scottish nation. Your sympathy was visible on your countenances, and reflected the greatest honor on your hearts: particularly when the moment arrived in which your unhappy fellow creature was to close his eyes on this world forever, you all, as if moved by one impulse, turned your heads aside and wept. Those tears were precious, and will be held in remembrance. How different was it when the Saviour of mankind was extended on the cross! The Jews, instead of sympathizing in his sorrows, triumphed in them. They reviled him with bitter expressions, with words even more bitter than the gall and vinegar which they gave him to drink. Not one of them all that witnessed his pains, turned the head aside even in the last pang. Yes, there was one; that glorious luminary, (pointing to the sun,) veiled his bright face and sailed on in tenfold night!' _This_ is eloquence! Would that we could have seen the beaming features, the 'melting eye, turned toward heaven,' which indelibly impressed these words upon the heart of every hearer! · · · MANY of our readers will doubtless remember the time when Professor J----, the celebrated 'artist in hair,' was flourishing in his glory, and when his fame was perhaps as rife in New-York and Boston as that of any man living, in his line of art. His advertisements too, so unique in their grandiloquent phraseology, will not soon be forgotten by those who relish such things. The Professor is not now, as regards worldly prosperity, the man he used to be; but his gentlemanly feeling still clings to him, and his pride in his profession is as enthusiastic as ever. We observe by a Boston journal that he is once more trying his luck in our eastern metropolis; and this reminds us of an anecdote concerning him. A friend tells us that some months since he encountered the professor at a coffee-house, where he was rehearsing to a rather verdant customer the former glories of his professional life. Among other things, 'At one time,' said he, 'I was sent for by express, to go to Philadelphia on professional business.' 'To do what?' asked his listener. 'To make wigs for the Signers of the Declaration of Independence!' replied J----, with a pompous air. Now the professor's comrade was not very quick-witted, as we have already hinted, and it did not occur to him at the moment whether the signers were men only of yesterday, or of the last century; and he rejoined, in a tone of wonder: 'What! do they _all_ wear wigs?' '_All?_' replied the professor, with a look of mingled piety and triumph; 'why, Sir, did you ever know a wax-figure to wear its own hair? Men of flesh and blood, now-a-days, don't know any better; but the _man of wax_, Sir, possesses a truer taste, and always consults the PERRUQUIER!' The relator says it would be impossible to convey an adequate idea of the superb manner in which the last word was uttered; the full round tone, and the tonsorial flourish of the right hand, as if it still grasped the magic brush and scissors. · · · THE reader will have gathered from an incidental allusion in an article by Mr. GEORGE HARVEY, in our last number, some idea of the fervent enthusiasm with which he has studied and copied Nature, in her every variety of season and changes of the hour, in executing his beautiful _Landscape Drawings_. We have neither the leisure nor space for an _adequate_ notice of these pictures; but being solicitous that our town readers should participate in the great enjoyment which they have afforded us, we would direct them to Mr. HARVEY'S exhibition-room at the old Apollo Gallery, nearly opposite the Hospital, in Broadway. · · · HERE is a pleasant specimen of an '_Unnecessary Disclaimer_,' for which we are indebted to a metropolitan friend: 'A few evenings since, as a gentleman was walking up Broadway, and just as he was crossing the side-walk at the junction of White-street, his feet suddenly slipped from under him, his hat flew forward with the involuntary jerk, and he measured his length on the side-walk, striking his bare head on the hard ice, till all rang again. At the instant it chanced that a lady and gentleman were just emerging from White-street into Broadway, and the prostrate sufferer, lying directly across their path, interrupted for a moment their farther progress. He soon recovered his feet, however, and with one hand on his newly-developed bump, and the other on his breast, he turned to the couple whose passage he had impeded, and exclaimed with cool gravity: 'Excuse me; _I didn't intend to do it!_' Probably he didn't; at all events, his word was not disputed. · · · MOST likely our readers have not forgotten an admirable satire upon the 'Songs of the Troubadours,' from which we extracted some months since the affecting story of 'The Taylzour's Daughter.' Something in the same style is '_The Doleful Lay of the Honorable I. O. Uwins_,' a gentleman who threw himself away upon a bailiff's daughter, to escape from the restraints and pungent odors of a sponging-house. The 'whole course of wooing' and the result are hinted at in the ensuing lines:

'There he sate in grief and sorrow, Rather drunk than otherwise, Till the golden gush of morrow Dawned once more upon his eyes; Till the spunging bailiff's daughter, Lightly tapping at the door, Brought his draught of soda-water, Brandy-bottomed as before.

'Sweet REBECCA! has your father, Think you, made a deal of brass?' And she answered: 'Sir, I rather Should imagine that he has.' UWINS, then, his whiskers scratching, Leer'd upon the maiden's face; And her hands with ardor catching, Folded her in his embrace.

'La, Sir! let alone--you fright me!' Said the daughter of the Jew: 'Dearest! how these eyes delight me! Let me love thee, darling, do!' 'Vat is dish?' the bailiff mutter'd, Rushing in with fury wild; 'Ish your muffins so vell butter'd Dat you darsh insult ma shild?'

'Honorable my intentions, Good ABEDNEGO, I swear! And I have some small pretensions, For I am a Baron's heir. If you'll only clear my credit, And a thousand give or so, She's a peeress; I have said it! Don't you twig, ABEDNEGO?'

'Datsh a very different matter!' Said the bailiff, with a leer; 'But you musht not cut it fatter Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear! If you seeksh ma approbation, You must quite give up your rigsh; Alsho, you mosht join our nation, And renounch ta flesh of pigsh.'

* * * * *

At a meeting of the Rabbis, Held about the Whitsuntide, Was this thorough-paced Barabbas Wedded to his Hebrew bride. All his former debts compounded, From the spunging-house he came; And his father's feelings wounded With reflections on the same.'

It is a very dear marriage for UWINS, for on visiting his father the Baron, that incensed nobleman tells the double-dyed apostate never to cross his threshold again, and directs JOHN the porter to kick him into the street. The order is anticipated:

'Forth rushed I. O. UWINS, faster Than all winking, much afraid That the orders of the master Would be punctually obeyed; Sought his club, and there the sentence Of expulsion first he saw: No one dared to own acquaintance With a bailiff's son-in-law.

Uselessly down Bond-street strutting, Did he greet his friends of yore; Such a universal cutting Never man received before. Till at last his pride revolted; Pale, and lean, and stern, he grew; And his wife REBECCA bolted With a missionary Jew.

Ye who read this doleful ditty, Ask ye where is UWINS now? Wend your way through London city, Climb to Holborn's lofty brow; Near the sign-post of 'The Nigger,' Near the baked-potato shed, You may see a ghastly figure, With three hats upon his head.

When the evening shades are dusky, Then the phantom form draws near, And, with accents low and husky, Pours effluvia in your ear; Craving an immediate barter Of your trousers or surtout, And you know the Hebrew martyr, Once the peerless I. O. U.'

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A friend, in a recent letter to the Editor, thus alludes to the '_National Intelligencer_,' one of the ablest and most dignified journals in the country, and to two of its 'special correspondents:' 'Mr. WALSH, who writes from Paris, seems an incorporation of European literature and politics; and his articles are, in my belief, the most valuable now contributed to any journal in the world. Willis is the lightest and most mercurial 'knight of the quill' in all the tournament. It is astonishing with what dexterity, felicity, and grace he touches off the veriest trifle of the day, investing the trite with originality, and giving the value of wit and poetry to the worthless and the dry. Pity that this brilliant 'quid nunc' should degenerate into a mere trifling '_arbiter elegantiarum_,' and expend his buoyant and ductile genius in the indictment of ephemeral paragraphs. His genius, it is true, has little solidity; but if he would rest two or three years on his oars, he might collect the scatterings of wit and poetry, which would in that time accrue to him from his readings and reflections, into a volume of essays, etc., which would be inferior in brilliancy and piquancy to but few of any nation.' Possibly; but in the mean time, let us advise our friend, Mr. WILLIS has the little substantials of every-day life to look after. He 'pleases to write' frequently and _currente calamo_, because he 'pleases _to live_.' Fame is one thing, and can be waited for; there are other things that cannot tarry so well. Mr. WILLIS has 'seen the elephant.' He knows that KENNY MEADOWS is not far out of the way in his humorous picture of '_The Man of Fame and the Man of Funds_,' wherein a shadowy hand protrudes from cloud-land, holding a pair of steel-yards, to resolve the comparative weight of an appetizing leg-of-mutton, and a huge laurel-wreath. The mutton 'has it' all to nothing, and the wreath 'kicks the beam! · · · PUNCH, up to the latest dates, suddenly makes his appearance in our sanctum. Merriest of Merry Andrews, he is ever welcome! His 'COMIC BLACKSTONE,' must be of great service to legal gentlemen. In it, among other things, we are enlightened as to the '_Rights of the Clergy_.' We subjoin a few items: 'An archbishop is a sort of inspector of all the bishops in his province; but he does not call them out as an inspector would so many policemen, to examine their mitres, and see that their lawn sleeves are properly starched, before going on duty in their respective dioceses. An archbishop may call out the bishops, just as a militia colonel may call out the militia.' 'A bishop (_episcopes_) is literally an overseer, instead of which it is notorious that some of them are overlookers of their duties, and blind to the state of their diocese, though they call it their see.' 'The duties incumbent on a parson are, first to act as the incumbent, by living in the place where he has his living. Formerly, a clergyman had what is called the benefit of clergy in cases of felony; a privilege which, if a layman had asked for, he would have been told that the authorities would 'see him hanged first.' 'A curate is the lowest grade in the church, for he is a sort of journeyman parson, and several of them meet at a house of call in St. Paul's Church-Yard, ready to job a pulpit by the day, and being in fact 'clergyman taken in to bait' by the landlord of the house alluded to.' Concerning '_Subordinate Magistrates_,' as officers of the customs, overseers of the poor, etc., we glean the following information: 'Tide-waiters are overseers of the customs duties, therefore it is their duty to overlook the customs. Custom is unwritten law, and a practice may be termed a custom when it can be proved to have lasted for a hundred years. Now, can any man doubt that the custom of defrauding the customs has endured more than a hundred years? Then the practice has become a law, and for observing this law, which, it seems, is one of our time-revered institutions, and a profitable proof of the wisdom of our ancestors, landing-waiters and tradesmen are to be prosecuted and punished. Monstrous injustice!' 'Overseers of the Poor are functionaries who sometimes literally over-see or over-look the cases of distress requiring assistance. The poor law of ELIZABETH has been superseded by a much poorer law of WILLIAM the Fourth, the one great principle of which is, to afford the luxury of divorce to persons in needy circumstances. It also discountenances relief to the able-bodied, a point which is effected by disabling, as far as possible, any body who comes into the work-house. The Poor Law is administered by three Commissioners, who spend their time in diluting gruel and writing reports; trying experiments how little will suffice to prevent a repeal of the union between the soul and the body.' We have this information concerning the clock heretofore complained of: 'PUNCH has been accused of hitting this clock very hard when it was down; and it certainly must be admitted that it was wholly unable to strike in return. We are happy to say that the wound has been followed by the clock being at last wound, and we now offer to take it by the hands in a spirit of friendship. We have been told that the long stagnation has been caused by the absurd scruples of the pendulum, which refused to go from side to side, lest it should be accused of inconsistency.' Under the different months, 'PUNCH'S Almanack' gives many important directions, one of which is for the proprietors of the public gardens: 'Now trim your lamps, water your lake, graft new noses on statues, plant your money-taker, and if the season be severe, _cut your sticks_.' The following '_Tavern Measure_' is doubtless authentic: Two 'goes' make one gill; two gills one 'lark;' two larks one riot; two riots one cell, or station-house, equivalent to five shillings.' For office-clerks, as follows: Two drams make one 'go;' two goes one head-ache; two head-aches one lecture; two lectures 'the sack.' To those gentlemen who are lovers of the Virginia weed in its native purity, a list of prices, 'furnished by one of the first _Spanish_ houses,' is published. It includes 'choice high-dried dock-leaf regalias,' 'fine old cabbage Cuba's,' 'genuine goss-lettuce Havana's,' and 'full-flavored brown-paper Government Manilla's!' Two scraps under the head of '_University Intelligence_' must close our quotations: 'Given the _force_ with which your fist is propelled against a cabman, and the _angle_ at which it strikes him; required the _area_ of mud he will cover on reaching the _horizontal plane_.' 'Show the incorrectness of using _imaginary quantities_, by attempting to put off your creditors with repeated promises to pay them out of your Pennsylvania dividends.' · · · MANY German physicians and surgeons hold that there remains in the brain of a decollated head some degree of thought, and in the nerves something of sensibility. It is stated by his biographer, that in the case of Sir EVERARD DIGBY, executed for a participation in the Gunpowder Plot, the tongue pronounced several words after the head was severed from the body. After the execution of CHARLOTTE CORDAY, also, it is alleged that the executioner held up her lovely head by its beautiful hair, and slapped the pale cheeks, which instantly reddened, and gave to the features such an expression of unequivocal indignation, that the spectators, struck by the change of color, with loud murmurs cried out for vengeance on barbarity so cowardly and atrocious. 'It could not be said,' writes Dr. SUE, a physician of the first eminence and authority in Paris, 'that the redness was caused by the blow, since no blow can ever recall any thing like color to the cheeks of a corpse; beside, this blow was given on one cheek, and the other equally reddened.' Singular facts. Do they not militate against certain theories of 'nervous sensation' recently promulgated in our philosophical circles? · · · DOESN'T it sicken you, reader, to hear a young lady use that common but horrid commercial metaphor, '_first-rate?_' 'How did you like CASTELLAN, last evening, Miss HUGGINS?' '_Oh, first-rate!_' 'When a girl makes use of this expression,' writes an eastern friend, 'I mutter inly,' 'Your pa' sells figs and salt-fish, I know he does.' And it is all very well and proper, if he _does_; but for the miserable compound itself, pray kill it dead in your Magazine! Hit it hard! By the by, talking of odd phrases, hear this. A young Italian friend of mine, fresh from Sicily as his own oranges, a well-educated, talented person, who has labored hard to get familiar with English letters, and has read our authors, from CHAUCER downward, dilated thus on the poets: 'PO-PE is very mosh like HORACE; I like him very mosh; but I tink BIR-RON was very sorry poet.' 'What!' quoth I, 'BYRON a sorry poet! I thought he was a favorite with Italians?' 'Oh, yes; I adore him very mosh; I almost do admire him; but he was very _sorry_ poet.' 'How so? BYRON a sorry bard?' 'Oh, yes, very sorry; don't you think so? _molto triste_--very mel-_an_-choly; don't you find him so? I always feel very sorry when I read him. I think he's far more sorry than PETRARCA; don't you?' This will remind the reader of the very strong term used by a Frenchman, who on being asked at a soirée what was the cause of his evident sadness, replied: 'I av just hear my fader he die: _I_ am ver' mosh _dissatisfied!_' · · · WE shall _probably_ find a place for the paper entitled '_Foreigners in America_.' The writer touches with a trenchant pen upon 'the social abuses which the first families in the metropolis tolerate at the hands of disreputable exquisites and titled rascals.' Nervous words, but not undeserved. 'How much more rapidly a fashionable foreigner will move in the high road of preferment than one of your thinking, feeling, complex persons, in whom honor, integrity and reason make such a pother that no step can be taken without consulting them!' · · · WE have indulged in one or two sonorous guffaws, and several of Mr. COOPER's 'silent laughs,' over the following 'palpable hit' from a New-Jersey journal: 'A talking-machine,' says the 'Newton Herald,' 'which speaks passable French, capital English, and choice Italian, is now to be seen at New-York. It is made of wood, brass, and gum-elastic.' 'A similar machine,' adds the 'Sussex Register,' 'compounded of buckram, brass, and soap-locks, and familiarly called 'GREEN JOSEY,' is to be seen in Newton, at the Herald office; though we cannot say that it speaks _any_ language 'passably.' It frequently makes the attempt, however, and here is one of its last 'essays:' 'Gov. GILMER is understood to have had a standing CART-BALANCE for any appointment under the present administration, which he might choose to _except_; but he will not _except_ an appointment of any kind under this administration.' Isn't that 'standing _cart-balance_' rich? The usual phrase _carte-blanche_, which in the sentence quoted might be rendered by 'unconditional offer,' is transmogrified into _cart-balance_! Among all the blunders perpetrated by conceited ignorance in its attempts to _parley-voo_, this stands unequalled. We have seen _hic jacet_ turned into _his jacket_, in an obituary; that was a trifle; but CART-BALANCE overcomes our gravity!' So it does ours. The anecdote, to adopt the reading of a kindred accomplished linguist whom we wot of, is a 'capital _jesus-de-sprit!_' · · · THE beginning of 'L.'s '_Stanzas_' is by no means unpromising; but what a 'lame and impotent conclusion!'

'Lord HOWE he went out, And LORD! how he came in!'

The third verse would do credit to STREET, so graphic and poetical are the rural images introduced; but it runs into the fourth, a stanza 'most tolerable, and not to be endured.' Our young friend may be assured that we shall _not_ 'regard with indifference' any thing from his pen that may fulfil the _promise_ of the lines to which we allude. Na'theless, he must 'squeeze out more of his whey.' · · · THE admirers of one of the most popular contributors that this Magazine ever enjoyed, will be glad to meet with the following announcement:

'BURGESS, STRINGER AND COMPANY, corner of Broadway and Ann-street, New-York, have in press the Literary Remains of the late WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, including the _Ollapodiana Papers_, with several other of his Prose Writings, not less esteemed by the public; including also his '_Spirit of Life_,' a choice but comprehensive selection from his Poetical Contributions to the Literature of his Country; together with a Memoir: to be edited by his twin-brother, LEWIS GAYLORD CLARK, Editor of the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine. The publishers do not consider it necessary for them to enlarge upon the character of the writings which will compose the above volume. The series of papers under the title of _Ollapodiana_ will be remembered with admiration and pleasure, by readers in every section of the United States. Their rich variety of subject; their alternate humor and pathos; the one natural, quiet, and irresistibly laughable; the other warm from the heart, and touching in its tenderness and beauty; won for them the cordial and unanimous praise of the press throughout the Union, and frequent laudatory notices from the English journals. Reminiscences of early days; expositions of the Ludicrous and the Burlesque, in amusing Anecdote; Limnings from Nature; and 'Records of the Heart,' were among their prominent characteristics. It is not too much to say of the other Prose Writings which the volume will contain, that although of a somewhat different character, they are in no respect inferior to the _Ollapodiana_, in their power to awaken and sustain interest. The _Poetical Writings_ of Mr. CLARK are too well known to require comment. They have long been thoroughly established in the national heart, and have secured for the writer an enviable reputation abroad.'

The work will be embraced in four numbers, of ninety-six~pages each, stereotyped upon new types in the best manner, and printed upon fine white paper; and the price will be but twenty-five cents for each number. Need we ask the interest of our friends, of the friends of the Departed, in behalf of the volume in question? · · · THE ITALIAN OPERA, at Sig. PALMO'S new and beautiful temple in Chambers-street, has taken the town captive. _I Puritani_ was first produced, and to overflowing houses at each representation. _Belisario_ is now running a similar successful career. We shall have occasion in our next to advert more at large to this very popular establishment, and to notice in detail the _artists_ (with and without the _e_) who compose its prominent attractions. · · · SINCE the direction given by an afflicted widow to some humane persons who had found the body of her husband in a mill-race, full of eels, 'Take the eels up to the house, and _set him again_!' we have seen nothing more affecting than an anecdote of a widower at St. Louis, who, on seeing the remains of his late wife lowered into the grave, exclaimed, with tears in his eyes: 'Well, I've lost sheep, and I've lost cows, but I never had any thing to cut me up like this!' As CARLYLE says, 'his right arm, and spoon, and necessary of life' had been taken away, and he could not choose but weep. · · · THE typographical error to which our Natchez friend alludes was corrected in some two or three thousand sheets; hence we dispense with his trifling errata. 'I remember a clergyman in New-England,' once wrote an accomplished contributor to us, 'that when 'the rains descended and the floods came and the winds blew,' carried away in the pulpit in the height of his ardor the wrong house, and left that _standing_ that was built upon the sand. After the service was over I ventured to observe to my uncle, Parson C----, (whose assistant had been preaching) that this seemed to be a new reading to the parable, and that I wondered when Mr. A---- had discovered his error, as he did at the time of re-iteration, that he did not correct it. My uncle defended his curate, and observed that if he had _then_ corrected himself, he would have carried away _both_ houses, which was utterly in opposition to all Scripture. Part of the audience, said he, were asleep; and many of the rest so drowsy that, so long as one of the houses was taken off, the moral was enforced upon their perceptions as well by the one as the other. If he had made a _thorough_ correction, he would have roused the attention of the whole parish, and nothing else would have been talked of for nine days. When a man has made an error he had better let other people make a discovery; and this truth, my lad, said he, you will understand better when you grow up.' Let us conclude with an expression of great force and newness: 'Comment is unnecessary.' · · · 'T.N.P.'s article, as he will perceive, is anticipated by the initial paper in the present number. How does he like the new definition of Transcendentalism: _Incomprehensibilityosityivityalityationmentnessism_?' To us, it seems 'as clear as mud!' · · · THE graceful 'penciller' of the '_New Mirror_' weekly journal copies the beautiful '_Lines to a Cloud_' from our January number, with the remark: 'This BRYANT-like, finished and high-thoughted ('a vile phrase') poetry was written by a young lady of seventeen, and is her first published production. She is the daughter of one of our oldest and best families, resident on the Hudson. If the noon be like the promise of the dawn of this pure intellect, we have here the beginning of a brilliant fame.' We think '_The two Pictures_,' from the same pen, in our February issue fully equal to the fair writer's _coup-d'essai_. By the by, it would have been but simple courtesy, as it strikes us, to have given the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine credit for the lines in question. · · · NUMEROUS articles in prose and verse are on file for insertion, touching which we shall hope soon to have leisure to advise with the writers by letter.

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'AMERICA WELL DEFENDED' would not be inappropriate as a true designation of a beautifully printed pamphlet before us, from the press of Mr. BENJAMIN H. GREENE, Boston, containing a 'Letter to a Lady in France on the supposed Failure of a National Bank, the supposed Delinquency of the National Government, the Debts of the several States, and Repudiation: with Answers to Inquiries concerning the Books of Capt. MARRYAT and Mr. DICKENS.' We have read this production with warm admiration of its calm and dignified style, the grouping and invariable _pertinence_ of its facts and arguments; and the absence of every thing which savors of _retaliatory_ spirit, in its animadversions upon the misrepresentations of the United States by the English press. Expositions are offered of the character of the old United States' Bank, as contradistinguished from the 'United States' Bank of Pennsylvania;' of the origin and nature of our public debts, national as well as of the separate States, etc. The themes of love of money, gravity of manners, of slavery, lynch-law, mobs, etc., are next considered; and the pamphlet concludes with some remarks upon the strength of our government, general results of our experiment, and our growing attachment to the Union. The author we understand to be Mr. THOMAS G. CARY, a distinguished merchant, who has brought the observation and knowledge of a _practical_ life in aid of his reasoning, throughout his pamphlet. It has passed, we are glad to learn, to a speedy second edition; and we cannot but hope that it may be re-published in England. It could not fail to produce great good, in the rectification of gross errors in relation to this country.

PARLEY'S CABINET LIBRARY.--In this work Mr. GOODRICH proposes to furnish the public with forty numbers, at twenty-five cents each, of biographical, historical and miscellaneous sketches, designed for the family circle, and especially for youth. The first two numbers consist of the lives of famous men of modern times; as SCOTT, BYRON, BONAPARTE, BURNS, BURKE, GOETHE, JOHNSON, MILTON, SHAKSPEARE, BACON, etc. The next two numbers are devoted to famous men of ancient times; as CÆSAR, HANNIBAL, CICERO, ALEXANDER, PLATO, etc. The fifth and sixth numbers contain the 'Curiosities of Human Nature,' as ZERA COLBURN, CASPAR HAUSER, etc. The seventh and eighth contain the lives of benefactors: as WASHINGTON, FRANKLIN, HOWARD, FULTON, BOWDITCH, etc. We notice also, in the biographical series, the lives of celebrated Indians and celebrated women. The historical sketches will present a series of striking pictures, illustrative of the history of the four quarters of the globe. The miscellaneous department will embrace arts, sciences, manners and customs of nations, a view of the world and its inhabitants, etc., etc. The intention of the author is to furnish a library of twenty volumes, devoted to the most interesting portions of human knowledge, with the design of rendering their subjects interesting and attractive to the general reader. Several of the numbers are now issued; and judging from these, we are happy to give the work our hearty approbation. The sketches will not be found to be _mere_ sketches, drawn from cyclopedias: the author has evidently gone to the original sources, and culled with care the most interesting points on each subject. A contemporary expresses surprise that he has been able to say so much that is striking, just and new, in so brief a space; a praise in which we fully concur. The work entitled 'Curiosities of Human Nature' is one of the deepest interest, and is calculated to suggest profound reflections as to the capacities of the human mind. The two numbers devoted to the American Indians, as well as other volumes, present a good deal of new and curious matter. The life of JETAU, the Indian VOLTAIRE, is very striking. The Benefactors will be read with gratification by every one who loves to dwell upon the actions of those who have been great in doing good. The moral tendency of these works is excellent, and they may be read with pleasure as well as profit by old and young. They are happily adapted to the family as well as the school-library; and we are glad to know that they have been adopted for the latter purpose in some of our principal cities. They will constitute a wholsome check upon, as well as an agreeable substitute for, most of the trashy and pernicious literature that is now so freely poured upon the public. Mr. JOHN ALLEN, at the office of the KNICKERBOCKER, is the agent for this city.

'WONDERS OF THE HEAVENS.'--A superb large quarto volume has recently been put forth by Messrs. ROBERT P. BIXBY AND COMPANY, entitled, 'The Wonders of the Heavens: being a Popular View of Astronomy, including a full Illustration of the Mechanism of the Heavens; embracing the Sun, Moon, and Stars, with descriptions of the planets, comets, fixed stars, double-stars, the constellations, the galaxy or milky way, the zodiacal light, aurora-borealis or northern-lights, meteors, clouds, falling-stars, aërolites, etc.; illustrated by numerous maps and engravings.' We cannot too highly commend this volume to our readers. The author, Mr. DUNCAN BRADFORD, has kept constantly in view one object, viz: to make his subject plain and interesting to the people. Instead of mingling mathematics with his great theme, to such an extent as to alarm the neophyte at the very threshold of the temple of astronomy, he has with a wise judgment selected from the best works, including the latest, those parts that were least encumbered with the abstruse and the unintelligible; and the illustrations serve to make his sublime teachings still more clear.

ROGERS' POEMS.--We have not seen a more beautiful volume for a twelvemonth than the new illustrated edition of 'Poems by SAMUEL ROGERS, with revisions and additions by the author,' recently issued by Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD, Philadelphia. It is indeed in all respects an _exquisite_ work; being printed upon the finest drawing-paper, with a large clear type, and illustrated with ten engravings on steel, from paintings by the very first artists in England. The volume opens with the 'Pleasures of Memory,' and contains every thing from the author's pen which his maturest consideration has deemed most worthy of preservation. We cordially commend this admirable work to the attention of every reader of the KNICKERBOCKER to whom it may be accessible.