Chapter VI (3)

He penned a letter, in his rude way, full of his love, and of his desolation, and having left it where it would reach SOPHIE, when all should be over, he swallowed the poison. Happily--(French story is always happy in these interventions)--a friend had need of his services shortly after! and hearing sad groans at his door, he burst it open, and finding the dangerous state of the Piedmontese, ran for a physician. Prompt effort brought GIACOMO to life again. But his story had been told; and before this, the gay SOPHIE had grown sad over the history of his griefs.

We should like well to finish up our tale of devotions, with mention of the graceful recognition of the love of the infatuated Piedmontese, by the blooming Mademoiselle SOPHIE. But, alas! truth--as represented by the ingenious Journalist--forbids such sequel. And we can only write, in view of the vain devotion of the Sardinian lover--_le pauvre Giacomo!_

* * * * *

Yet again, these graceful columns of French newsmakers, lend us an episode--of quite another sort of devotion. The other showed that the persuasion of love is often vain; and this will show, that the persuasion of a wife is--vainer still.

--A grave magistrate of France--no matter who--was voyaging through Belgium with his wife. They had spun out a month of summer with that graceful mingling of idlesse and wonder, that a Frenchwoman can so well graft upon the habit of a husband's travel: they had bidden adieu to Brussels, and to Liege, and were fast nearing the border-town, beyond which lay their own sunny realm of France.

The wife suddenly cuts short her smiles, and whispers her husband--"_Mon cher_, I have been guilty of an imprudence."

"It is not possible."

"_Si_: a great one. I have my satchel full of laces, they are contraband; pray, take them and hide them until the frontier is past."

The husband was thunderstruck: "But, my dear, I--a magistrate, conceal contraband goods?"

"Pray, consider, _mon cher_, they are worth fifteen hundred francs; there is not a moment to lose."

"But, my dear!"

"Quick--in your hat--the whistle is sounding--"

There seemed no alternative, and the poor man bestowed the contraband laces in his _chapeau_.

The officials at the frontier, on recognizing the dignity of the traveler, abstained from any examination of his luggage, and offered him every facility. Thus far his good fortune was unexpected. But some unlucky attendant had communicated to the town authorities the presence of so distinguished a personage. The town authorities were zealous to show respect; and posted at once to the station to make token of their regard. The magistrate was charmed with such attention--so unexpected, and so heart-felt. He could not refrain from the most gracious expression of his _reconnaissance_; he tenders them his thanks in set terms;--he bids them adieu;--and, in final acknowledgment of their kindness--he lifts his hat, with enthusiastic flourish.

--A shower of Mechlin lace covers the poor man, like a bridal vail!

The French Government winks at the vices, and short-comings of representatives and President; but with a humble magistrate, the matter is different. The poor man, _bon-gre_--_mal-gre_, was stopped upon the frontier--was shorn of his bridal covering; and in company with his desponding wife, still (so GUINOT says) pays the forfeit of his yielding disposition, in a dusky, and grated chamber of the old border town of ----.

Editor's Drawer.

Well, "_Election is over_," for one thing, and we breathe again. The freemen of the "Empire State" have walked up to the polls, the "captain's office" of the boat on which we are all embarked, and "settled" the whole matter. The little slips of paper have done the deed, without revolution and without bloodshed. Some are rejoiced, because they have succeeded; others lament that when they were all ready at any moment to die for their country and a fat office, their offers were not accepted by the sovereigns. Some, with not much character to spare of their own, are grieved to find that "tailing-on" upon individual eminence won't always "do" with the people. And, by-the-by, speaking of "tailing-on," there "hangs a tale," which is worth recording. It may be old, but we heard it for the first time the other evening, and it made us "laugh consumedly." This it is:--At the time of the first election of General WASHINGTON to the Presidency, there was a party in one of the Southern States, called the "_John Jones' Party_." The said Jones, after whom the party took its name, was a man of talent; a plotting, shrewd fellow, with a good deal of a kind of "Yankee cunning;" in short, possessing all the requisites of a successful politician, except personal popularity. To overcome this latter deficiency, of which he was well aware, especially in a contest with a popular candidate for Congress, John Jones early avowed himself as the peculiar and devoted friend of General WASHINGTON, and on this safe ground, as he thought, he endeavored to place his rival in opposition. In order to carry out this object more effectually, he called a meeting of his county, of "All those friendly to the election of General GEORGE WASHINGTON!"

On the day appointed, Mr. John Jones appeared, and was, on the cut-and-dried motion of a friendly adherent, made chairman of the meeting. He opened the proceedings by a high and carefully-studied eulogium upon the life and services of WASHINGTON, but taking care only to speak of himself as his early patron, and most devoted friend. He concluded his remarks by a proposition to form a party, to be called "_The True and Only Sons of the Father of his Country_:" and for that object, he submitted to the meeting a resolution something like the following:

"_Resolved_, That we are the friends of General GEORGE WASHINGTON, and will sustain him in the coming election against all other competitors."

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Jones, after reading the resolution, "the Chair is now about to put the question. The chairman hopes that every man will declare his sentiments, either for or against the resolution. All those in favor of the resolution will please to say 'Ay.'"

A thundering "_Ay_!" shook the very walls of the building. The united voices were like the "sound of many waters."

"Now, gentlemen, for the opposition," said John Jones. "All those who are contrary-minded, will please to say '_No_!'"

Not a solitary voice was heard. The dead silence seemed to confuse Mr. Jones very much. After some hesitation and fidgeting, he said:

"Gentlemen, _do vote_. The Chair can not decide a disputed question when nobody votes on the other side. We want a direct vote, so that the country may know who are the real and true friends of General WASHINGTON."

Upon this appeal, one of the audience arose, and said:

"I perceive the unpleasant dilemma in which the Chair is placed; and in order to relieve the presiding officer from his quandary, I now propose to amend the resolution, by adding, after the name of General WASHINGTON--'_and John Jones for Congress_.'"

"The amendment is in order--I accept the amendment," said the chairman, speaking very quickly; "and the Chair will now put the question as amended:

"All those who are in favor of General WASHINGTON for President, and John Jones for Congress, will please to say, 'Ay.'"

"Ay--ay!" said John Jones and his brother, with loud voices, which they had supposed would be drowned in the unanimous thunder of the affirmative vote.

The "Chair" squirmed and hesitated. "Put the contrary!" said a hundred voices, at the same moment:

"All those op--po--po--sed," said the Chair, "will please to say, 'No!'"

"No--o--o--o!!" thundered every voice but two in the whole assembly, and these were Jones' and his brother's. Then followed a roar of laughter, as CARLYLE says, "like the neighing of all Tattersall's."

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Jones, "the Chair perceives that there are people in this meeting who don't belong to _our_ party: they have evidently come here to agitate, and make mischief. I, therefore, do now adjourn this meeting!"

Whereupon, he left the chair; and amid shouts and huzzahs for WASHINGTON, and groans for John Jones, he "departed the premises."

* * * * *

We find in the "Drawer" a rich specimen of logic-chopping, at which there was a hearty laugh more years ago than we care to remember. It is an admirable satire upon half the labored criticisms of Shakspeare with which the world has been deluged:

"Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed;
Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whined!"
MACBETH

"I never was more puzzled in my life than in deciding upon the right reading of this passage. The important inquiry is, Did the hedge-pig _whine once_, or _thrice and once_? Without stopping to inquire whether hedge-pigs exist in Scotland, that is, pigs with quills in their backs, the great question occurs, _how many times did he whine_? It appears from the text that the cat mewed three times. Now would not a virtuous emulation induce the hedge-pig to endeavor to get the last word in the controversy; and how was this to be obtained, save by whining thrice _and_ once? The most learned commentators upon SHAKSPEARE have given the passage thus:

"Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed;
Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whined."

"Thereby awarding the palm to the brinded cat. The fact is, they probably entertained reasonable doubts whether the hedge-pig was a native of Scotland, and a sense of national pride induced them to lean on the side of the productions of their country. I think a heedful examination of the two lines, will satisfy the unbiased examiner that the hedge-pig whined, at least, four times. It becomes me, however, as a candid critic, to say, that reasonable doubts exist in both cases!"

* * * * *

Doesn't the impressive inquiry embodied in the ensuing touching lines, somewhat enter into the matrimonial thoughts of _some_ of our city "offerers?"

"Oh! do not paint her charms to me,
I know that she is fair!
I know her lips might tempt the bee,
Her eyes with stars compare:
Such transient gifts I ne'er could prize,
My heart they could not win:
I do not scorn my Mary's eyes,
But--has she any '_tin_?'

"The fairest cheek, alas! may fade,
Beneath the touch of years;
The eyes where light and gladness played,
May soon grow dim with tears:
I would love's fires should to the last
Still burn, as they begin;
But beauty's reign too soon is past;
So--has she any '_tin_?'"

* * * * *

There is something very touching and pathetic in a circumstance mentioned to us a night or two ago, in the sick-room of a friend. A poor little girl, a cripple, and deformed from her birth, was seized with a disorder which threatened to remove her from a world where she had suffered so much. She was a very affectionate child, and no word of complaining had ever passed her lips. Sometimes the tears would come in her eyes, when she saw, in the presence of children more physically blessed than herself, the severity of her deprivation, but that was all. She was so gentle, so considerate of giving pain, and so desirous to please all around her, that she had endeared herself to every member of her family, and to all who knew her.

At length it was seen, so rapid had been the progress of her disease, that she could not long survive. She grew worse and worse, until one night, in an interval of pain, she called her mother to her bed-side, and said, "Mother, I am dying now. I hope I shall see you, and my brother and sisters in Heaven. Won't I be _straight_, and not a cripple, mother, when I _do_ get to Heaven?" And so the poor little sorrowing child passed forever away.

* * * * *

"I heard something a moment ago," writes a correspondent in a Southern city, "which I will give you the skeleton of. It made me laugh not a little; for it struck me, that it disclosed a transfer of 'Yankee Tricks' to the other side of the Atlantic. It would appear, that a traveler stopped at Brussels, in a post-chaise, and being a little sharp-set, he was anxious to buy a piece of cherry-pie, before his vehicle should set out; but he was afraid to leave the public conveyance, lest it might drive off and leave _him_. So, calling a lad to him from the other side of the street, he gave him a piece of money, and requested him to go to a restaurant or confectionery, in the near vicinity, and purchase the pastry; and then, to 'make assurance doubly sure,' he gave him _another_ piece of money, and told him to buy some for himself at the same time. The lad went off on a run, and in a little while came back, eating a piece of pie, and looking very complacent and happy. Walking up to the window of the post-chaise, he said, with the most perfect _nonchalance_, returning at the same time one of the pieces of money which had been given him by the gentleman, 'The restaurateur had only _one_ piece of pie left, and that _I_ bought with my money, that you gave me!'"

This anecdote, which we are assured is strictly true, is not unlike one, equally authentic, which had its origin in an Eastern city. A mechanic, who had sent a bill for some article to a not very conscientious pay-master in the neighborhood, finding no returns, at length "gave it up as a bad job." A lucky thought, however, struck him one day, as he sat in the door of his shop, and saw a debt-collector going by, who was notorious for sticking to a delinquent until _some_ result was obtained. The creditor called the collector in, told him the circumstances, handed him the account, and added:

"Now, if you will collect that debt, I'll give you half of it; or, if you don't collect but _half_ of the bill, I'll divide _that_ with you."

The collector took the bill, and said, "I guess, I can get half of it, _any_ how. At any rate, if I don't, it shan't be for want of _trying_ hard enough."

Nothing more was seen of the collector for some five or six months; until one day the creditor thought he saw "the indefatigable" trying to avoid him by turning suddenly down a by-street of the town. "Halloo! Mr. ----!" said he; "how about that bill against Mr. Slowpay? Have you collected it yet?" "Not the _hull_ on it, I hain't," said the imperturbable collector; "but I c'lected _my_ half within four weeks a'ter you gin' me the account, and he hain't paid me nothin' since. I tell him, every time I see him, that you want the money _very_ bad; but he don't seem to mind it a bit. He is dreadful 'slow pay,' as you said, when you give me the bill! Good-morning!" And off went the collector, "staying no further question!"

* * * * *

There is a comical blending of the "sentimental" and the "matter-of-fact" in the ensuing lines, which will find a way to the heart of every poor fellow, who, at this inclement season of the year, is in want of a new coat:

By winter's chill the fragrant flower is nipped,
To be new-clothed with brighter tints in spring
The blasted tree of verdant leaves is stripped,
A fresher foliage on each branch to bring.

The aerial songster moults his plumerie,
To vie in sleekness with each feathered brother.
A twelvemonth's wear hath ta'en thy nap from thee,
My seedy coat!--_when_ shall I get another?

* * * * *

"My name," said a tall, good-looking man, with a decidedly _distingue_ air, as he entered the office of a daily newspaper in a sister city, "my name, Sir, is PAGE--Ed-w-a-rd Pos-th-el-wa-ite PA-GE! You have heard of me no doubt. In fact, Sir, I was sent to you, by Mr. C----r, of the '---- Gazette.' I spent some time with him--an hour perhaps--conversing with him. But as I was about explaining to him a little problem which I had had in my mind for some time, I _thought_ I saw that he was busy, and couldn't hear me. In fact, he _said_, 'I wish you would do me the kindness to go _now_ and come _again_; and always send up your _name_, so that I may know that it is _you_; otherwise,' said he, 'I _shouldn't_ know that it was _you_, and might _refuse_ you without knowing it.' Now, Sir, that was kind--that was kind, and gentlemanly, and I shall remember it. Then he told me to come to see _you_; he said yours was an afternoon paper, and that _your_ paper for to-day was out, while he was engaged in getting his ready for the morning. He rose, Sir, and saw me to the door; and downstairs; in fact, Sir, he came with me to the corner, and showed me your office; and for fear I should miss my way, he gave a lad a sixpence, to _show_ me here, Sir.

"They call me crazy, Sir, _some_ people do--_crazy_! The reason is simple--I'm above their comprehension. Do I _seem_ crazy? I am an educated man, my conduct has been unexceptionable. I've wronged no man--never did a man an injury. I wouldn't do it.

"I came to America in 1829 2^_m_ which being multiplied by Caesar's co-sine, which is C B to Q equal X' 3^_m_."

Yes, reader; this was PAGE, the Monomaniac: a man perfectly sound on any subject, and capable of conversing upon any topic, intelligently and rationally, until it so happened, in the course of conversation, that he _mentioned any numerical figure_, when his wild imagination was off at a tangent, and he became suddenly as "mad as a March hare" on _one subject_. _Here_ his monomania was complete. In every thing else, there was no incoherency; nothing in his speech or manner that any gentleman might not either say or do. So much for the man: now for a condensed exhibition of his peculiar idiosyncrasy, as exhibited in a paper which he published, devoted to an elaborate illustration of the great extent to which he carried the science of mathematics. The _fragments_ of various knowledge, like the tumbling objects in a kaleidoscope, are so jumbled together, that we defy any philosopher, astronomer, or mathematician, to read it without roaring with laughter; for the feeling of the ridiculous will overcome the sensations of sympathy and pity. But listen: "Here's '_wisdom_' for you," as Captain Cuttle would say: _intense_ wisdom:

"Squares are to circles as Miss Sarai 18 when she did wed her
Abram 20 on Procrustes' bed, and 19 parted between each head; so
Sarah when 90 to Abraham when 100, and so 18 squared in 324, a
square to circle 18 x 20 = 360, a square to circle 400, a square
to circle 444, or half _Jesous_ 888 in half the Yankee era 1776;
which 888 is sustained by the early Fathers and Blondel on the
Sibyls. It is a square to triangle Sherwood's no-variation circle
666 in the sequel. But 19 squared is 361 between 360 and 362,
each of which multiply by the Sun's magic compass 36, Franklin's
magic circle of circles 360 x 36 considered.

"Squares are to circles as 18 to 20, or 18 squared in 324 to 18 x
20 = 360. But more exactly as 17 to 19, or 324 to 362 x 36, or
half 26064. As 9 to 10, so square 234000 to circle 26000.

POSITIVES. MEANS. NEGATIVES.
20736 23328 25920
20736 23400 26064
4)20736 23422 26108
------- ----- -----
A. M. 5855 this year 1851.

"Squares are to circles as 17 to 19, or 23360 to 26108. The
sequel's 5832 and 5840 are quadrants of 23328 and 23360.

"18 cubed is 5832, the world's age in 1828, 5840 its age in the
Halley comet year 1836, 5878 its age the next transit of Venus in
1874, but 5870 is its age in the prophet's year 1866.

POSITIVES. MEANS. NEGATIVES.
{ 5832 5855 5870 over X. }
{ 5840 5855 5878 under X. }
1828 A.D. 1851 now! 1874 over X.
1836 A.D. 1851 now! 1866 under X.

"100 times the Saros 18 = 18-1/2 = 19 in 1800 last year's 1850,
1900 for new moons.

"If 360 degrees, each 18, in Guy's 6480, evidently 360 x 18-1/2
in the adorable 6660, or ten no-variation circles, each 36 x
18-1/2 = 666, like ten Chaldee solar cycles, each 600 in our
great theme, 6000, the second advent date of Messiah, as
explained by Barnabas, Chap. xiii in the Apocryphal New
Testament, 600 and 666 being square and circle, like 5994 and
6660. Therefore 5995 sum the Arabic 28, or Persic 32, or Turkish
33 letters.

"But as 9 to 10, so square 1665 of the Latin IVXLCDM = 1666 to
circle last year's 1850--12 such signs are as much 19980 and
22200, whose quadrants are 4995 and 5550, as 12 signs, each the
Halley comet year 1836, are 5508 Olympiads, the Greek Church
claiming this era 5508 for Christ.

"But though the ecliptic angle has decreased only 40 x 40 in 1600
during 43 x 43 = 1849, say 1850 from the birth of Christ, and
double that since the creation; yet 1600 and Yankee era 1776
being square and circle like 9 and 10--place 32 for a round of
the seasons in a compass of 32 points, or shrine them in 32
chessmen, like 1600 and 1600 in each of 16 pieces; then shall 32
times Sherwood's no-variation circle 666, meaning 666 rounds of
the seasons, each 32, be 12 signs, each 1776, or 24 degrees in
the ecliptic angle, each _Jesous_ 888, in circle 21312 to square
19200, or 12 signs each 1600, that the quadrants of square 19200
and circle 21312 may be the Cherubim of Glory 4800 and 5328;
which explains ten Great Paschal cycles each 532, a square to
circle 665 of the Beast's number 666. Because, like 3, 4, 5, in
my Urim and Thummim's 12 jewels, are

TRIANGLES. SQUARES. CIRCLES.
3600 4800 6000
3990 5320 6650

"Because 3990 of the Latin Church's era 4000 for Christ, is
doubled in the Julian period 7980.

"Every knight of the queen of night may know that each of 9
columns in the Moon's magic compass for 9 squared in 81, sums
369, and that 370 are between it and 371, while 19 times 18-1/2
approach 351, when 19 squared are 361 in

POSITIVES. MEANS. NEGATIVES.
350 360 370
351 361 371
369 370 371

"The Saros 18 times 369 in 6642 of the above 6650; but 18 x 370 =
6660, or 360 times 18-1/2.

"1800 and proemptosis 2400 are half this Seraphim 3600 and
Cherubim 4800: but 7 x 7 x 49 x 49 = 2401 in 4802.

5328 5320
4802 4810
---- ----
10130 10130

"All that Homer's Iliad ever meant, was this: 10 years as degrees
on Ahaz's dial between the positive 4790, mean 4800, negative
4810: If the Septuagints' 72 times 90 in 360 x 18 = 6480, equally
72 times 24 and 66 degrees in 12 cubed and 4752."

Now it is about enough to make one crazy to read this over; and yet it is impossible not to _see_, as it is impossible not to _laugh at_ the transient glimpses of scattered knowledge which the singular ollapodrida contains.

* * * * *

"If you regard, Mr. Editor, the following," says a city friend, "as worthy a place in your 'Drawer,' you are perfectly welcome to it. It was an actual occurrence, and its authenticity is beyond a question:

"Many years ago, when sloops were substituted for steamboats on the Hudson River, a celebrated Divine was on his way to hold forth to the inhabitants of a certain village, not many miles from New York. One of his fellow-passengers who was an unsophisticated countryman, to make himself appear 'large' in the eyes of the passengers, entered into a conversation with the learned Doctor of Divinity. After several ordinary remarks, and introducing himself as one of the congregation, to whom he (the doctor) would expound the Word on the morrow, the following conversation took place:

"'Wal, Doctor, I reckon you know the Scripters pooty good,' remarked the countryman.

"'Really, my friend,' said the clergyman, 'I leave that for _other_ persons to determine. You know it does not become a person of any delicacy to utter praise in his own behalf.'

"'So it doesn't,' replied the querist; 'but I've heerd folks say, you know rather more than _we_ do. They say you're pooty good in larning folks the BIBLE: but I guess I can give you a poser.'

"'I am pleased to answer questions, and feel gratified to tender information at any time, always considering it my _duty_ to impart instruction, as far as it lies in my power,' replied the clergyman.

"'Wall,' says the countryman, with all the imperturbable gravity in the world, 'I spose you've heerd tell on, in the Big BOOK, 'bout Aaron and the golden calf: now, in your opinion, do you think the calf Aaron worshiped, was a heifer or a bull?'

"The Doctor of Divinity, as may be imagined, immediately '_vamosed_,' and left the countryman bragging to the by-standers, that he had completely nonplussed the clergyman!"

Literary Notices.

A new work by HERMAN MELVILLE, entitled _Moby Dick; or, The Whale_, has just been issued by Harper and Brothers, which, in point of richness and variety of incident, originality of conception, and splendor of description, surpasses any of the former productions of this highly successful author. _Moby Dick_ is the name of an old White Whale; half fish and half devil; the terror of the Nantucket cruisers; the scourge of distant oceans; leading an invulnerable, charmed life; the subject of many grim and ghostly traditions. This huge sea monster has a conflict with one Captain Ahab; the veteran Nantucket salt comes off second best; not only loses a leg in the affray, but receives a twist in the brain; becomes the victim of a deep, cunning monomania; believes himself predestined to take a bloody revenge on his fearful enemy; pursues him with fierce demoniac energy of purpose; and at last perishes in the dreadful fight, just as he deems that he has reached the goal of his frantic passion. On this slight framework, the author has constructed a romance, a tragedy, and a natural history, not without numerous gratuitous suggestions on psychology, ethics, and theology. Beneath the whole story, the subtle, imaginative reader may perhaps find a pregnant allegory, intended to illustrate the mystery of human life. Certain it is that the rapid, pointed hints which are often thrown out, with the keenness and velocity of a harpoon, penetrate deep into the heart of things, showing that the genius of the author for moral analysis is scarcely surpassed by his wizard power of description.

In the course of the narrative the habits of the whale are fully and ably described. Frequent graphic and instructive sketches of the fishery, of sea-life in a whaling vessel, and of the manners and customs of strange nations are interspersed with excellent artistic effect among the thrilling scenes of the story. The various processes of procuring oil are explained with the minute, painstaking fidelity of a statistical record, contrasting strangely with the weird, phantom-like character of the plot, and of some of the leading personages, who present a no less unearthly appearance than the witches in Macbeth. These sudden and decided transitions form a striking feature of the volume. Difficult of management, in the highest degree, they are wrought with consummate skill. To a less gifted author, they would inevitably have proved fatal. He has not only deftly avoided their dangers, but made them an element of great power. They constantly pique the attention of the reader, keeping curiosity alive, and presenting the combined charm of surprise and alternation.

The introductory chapters of the volume, containing sketches of life in the great marts of Whalingdom, New Bedford and Nantucket, are pervaded with a fine vein of comic humor, and reveal a succession of portraitures, in which the lineaments of nature shine forth, through a good deal of perverse, intentional exaggeration. To many readers, these will prove the most interesting portions of the work. Nothing can be better than the description of the owners of the vessel, Captain Peleg and Captain Bildad, whose acquaintance we make before the commencement of the voyage. The character of Captain Ahab also opens upon us with wonderful power. He exercises a wild, bewildering fascination by his dark and mysterious nature, which is not at all diminished when we obtain a clearer insight into his strange history. Indeed, all the members of the ship's company, the three mates, Starbuck, Stubbs, and Flash, the wild, savage Gayheader, the case-hardened old blacksmith, to say nothing of the pearl of a New Zealand harpooner, the bosom friend of the narrator--all stand before us in the strongest individual relief, presenting a unique picture gallery, which every artist must despair of rivaling.

The plot becomes more intense and tragic, as it approaches toward the denouement. The malicious old Moby Dick, after long cruisings in pursuit of him, is at length discovered. He comes up to the battle, like an army with banners. He seems inspired with the same fierce, inveterate cunning with which Captain Ahab has followed the traces of his mortal foe. The fight is described in letters of blood. It is easy to foresee which will be the victor in such a contest. We need not say that the ill-omened ship is broken in fragments by the wrath of the weltering fiend. Captain Ahab becomes the prey of his intended victim. The crew perish. One alone escapes to tell the tale. Moby Dick disappears unscathed, and for aught we know, is the same "delicate monster," whose power in destroying another ship is just announced from Panama.

G. P. Putnam announces the _Home Cyclopedia_, a series of works in the various branches of knowledge, including history, literature, and the fine arts, biography, geography, science, and the useful arts, to be comprised in six large duodecimos. Of this series have recently appeared _The Hand-book of Literature and the Fine Arts_, edited by GEORGE RIPLEY and BAYARD TAYLOR, and _The Hand-book of Universal Biography_, by PARKE GODWIN. The plan of the Encyclopedia is excellent, adapted to the wants of the American people, and suited to facilitate the acquisition of knowledge. As a collateral aid in a methodical course of study, and a work of reference in the daily reading, which enters so largely into the habits of our countrymen, it will, no doubt, prove of great utility.

_Rural Homes_, by GERVASSE WHEELER (published by Charles Scribner), is intended to aid persons proposing to build, in the construction of houses suited to American country life. The author writes like a man of sense, culture, and taste. He is evidently an ardent admirer of John Ruskin, and has caught something of his aesthetic spirit. Not that he deals in mere theories. His book is eminently practical. He is familiar with the details of his subject, and sets them forth with great simplicity and directness. No one about to establish a rural homestead should neglect consulting its instructive pages.

Ticknor, Reed, and Fields have published a new work, by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, for juvenile readers, entitled _A Wonder-Book for Boys and Girls_ with engravings by Barker from designs by Billings. It is founded on various old classical legends, but they are so ingeniously wrought over and stamped with the individuality of the author, as to exercise the effect of original productions. Mr. Hawthorne never writes more genially and agreeably than when attempting to amuse children. He seems to find a welcome relief in their inartificial ways from his own weird and sombre fancies. Watching their frisky gambols and odd humors, he half forgets the saturnine moods from which he draws the materials of his most effective fictions, and becomes himself a child. A vein of airy gayety runs through the present volume, revealing a sunny and beautiful side of the author's nature, and forming a delightful contrast to the stern, though irresistibly fascinating horrors, which he wields with such terrific mastery in his recent productions. Child and man will love this work equally well. Its character may be compared to the honey with which the author crowns the miraculous hoard of Baucis and Philemon. "But oh the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without trying to describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its color was that of the purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt. The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that had you closed your eyes you would instantly have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor with celestial honeysuckles creeping over it."

_Glances at Europe_, by HORACE GREELEY (published by Dewitt and Davenport), has passed rapidly to a second edition, being eagerly called for by the numerous admirers of the author in his capacity as public journalist. Composed in the excitement of a hurried European tour, aiming at accuracy of detail rather than at nicety of language, intended for the mass of intelligent readers rather than for the denizens of libraries, these letters make no claim to profound speculation or to a high degree of literary finish. They are plain, straight-forward, matter-of-fact statements of what the writer saw and heard in the course of his travels, recording at night the impressions made in the day, without reference to the opinions or descriptions of previous travelers. The information concerning various European countries, with which they abound, is substantial and instructive; often connected with topics seldom noticed by tourists; and conveyed in a fresh and lively style. With the reputation of the author for acute observation and forcible expression, this volume is bound to circulate widely among the people.

Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, have issued a new volume of _Poems_, by RICHARD HENRY STODDARD, consisting of a collection of pieces which have been before published, and several which here make their appearance for the first time. It will serve to elevate the already brilliant reputation of the youthful author. His vocation to poetry is clearly stamped on his productions. Combining great spontaneity of feeling, with careful and elaborate composition, he not only shows a native instinct of verse, but a lofty ideal of poetry as an art. He has entered the path which will lead to genuine and lofty fame. The success of his early effusions has not elated him with a vain conceit of his own genius. Hence, we look for still more admirable productions than any contained in the present volume. He is evidently destined to grow, and we have full faith in the fulfillment of his destiny. His fancy is rich in images of gorgeous and delicate beauty; a deep vein of reflection underlies his boldest excursions; and on themes of tender and pathetic interest, his words murmur with a plaintive melody that reaches the hidden source of tears. His style, no doubt, betrays the influence of frequent communings with his favorite poets. He is eminently susceptible and receptive. He does not wander in the spicy groves of poetical enchantment, without bearing away sweet odors. But this is no impeachment of his own individuality. He is not only drawn by the subtle affinities of genius to the study of the best models, but all the impressions which he receives, take a new form from his own plastic nature. The longest poem in the volume is entitled, "The Castle in the Air"--a production of rare magnificence. "The Hymn to Flora," is full of exquisite beauties, showing a masterly skill in the poetical application of classical legends. "Harley River," "The Blacksmith's Shop," "The Old Elm," are sweet rural pictures, soft and glowing as a June meadow in sunset. "The Household Dirge," and several of the "Songs and Sonnets," are marked by a depth of tenderness which is too earnest for any language but that of the most severe simplicity.

We have a translation of NEANDER _on the Philippians_, by Mrs. H. C. CONANT, which renders that admirable practical commentary into sound and vigorous English. A difficult task accomplished with uncommon skill. (Published by Lewis Colby).

_The Heavenly Recognition_, by Rev. H. HARBAUGH, is the title of an interesting religious work on the question, "Shall we know our friends in Heaven?" This is treated by the author with great copiousness of detail, and in a spirit of profound reverence and sincere Christian faith. His book will be welcome to all readers who delight in speculations on the mysteries of the unseen world. Relying mainly on the testimony of Scripture, the author seeks for evidence on the subject in a variety of collateral sources, which he sets forth in a tone of strong and delightful confidence. (Published by Lindsay and Blackiston).

Lindsay and Blackiston have issued several richly ornamented gift books, which will prove attractive during the season of festivity and friendship. Among them are, "_The Star of Bethlehem_," by Rev. H. HASTINGS WELD, a collection of Christmas stories, with elegant engravings. "_The Woodbine_," edited by CAROLINE MAY, containing original pieces and selections, among the latter, "several racy stories of Old England," and a tempting series of _Tales_ for _Boys_ and _Girls_, by Mrs. HUGHES, a justly celebrated writer of juvenile works.

Bishop MCILVAINE'S _Charge_ on the subject of _Spiritual Regeneration_ has been issued in a neat pamphlet by Harper and Brothers. It forms an able and appropriate contribution to doctrinal theology, at a time when the topic discussed has gained a peculiar interest from the present position of Catholicism both in England and America. The theme is handled by Bishop McIlvaine with his accustomed vigor and earnestness, and is illustrated by the fruits of extensive research.

* * * * *

Speaking of the decease of our illustrious countryman, FENIMORE COOPER, the _London Athenaeum_ has the following discriminating remarks: "Mr. COOPER was at home on the sea or in his own backwoods. His happiest tales are those of 'painted chiefs with pointed spears'--to use a happy description of Mr. Longfellow; and so felicitous has he been in setting them bodily, as it were, before the reader, that hereafter he will be referred to by ethnological and antiquarian writers as historical authority on the character and condition of the Lost Tribes of America. In his later works Mr. COOPER wandered too often and too much from the field of Romance into that of Polemics--and into the latter he imported a querulous spirit, and an extraordinarily loose logical method. All his more recent fictions have the taint of this temper, and the drawback of this controversial weakness. His political creed it would be very difficult to extract entire from the body of his writings; and he has been so singularly infelicitous in its partial expositions, that even of the discordant features which make up the whole, we generally find ourselves disagreeing in some measure with all. But throughout the whole course of his writing, whenever he turned back into his own domain of narrative fiction, the Genius of his youth continued to do him service, and something of his old power over the minds of readers continued to the last. His faults as a writer are far outbalanced by his great qualities--and altogether, he is the most original writer that America has yet produced--and one of whom she may well be proud."

* * * * *

"HAWTHORNE," says a London critic, "has few equals among the writers of fiction in the English language. There is a freshness, an originality of thought, a quiet humor, a power of description, a quaintness of expression in his tales, which recommend them to readers wearied of the dull commonplaces of all but a select few of the English novelists of our own time. He is beyond measure the best writer of fiction yet produced by America, somewhat resembling DICKENS in many of his excellencies, yet without imitating him. His style is his own entirely."

* * * * *

In a notice of HITCHCOCK'S "Religion of Geology," the London _Literary Gazette_ remarks: "Dr. HITCHCOCK is a veteran American clergyman, of high reputation and unaffected piety. Officially, he is President of Amherst College, and Professor of Natural Theology and Geology in that institution. As a geologist, he holds a very distinguished position, and is universally reputed an original observer and philosophical inquirer. His fame is European as well as American. No author has ever entered upon his subject better fitted for his task. The work consists of a series of lectures, which may be characterized as so many scientific sermons. They are clear in style, logical in argument, always earnest, and often eloquent. The author of the valuable and most interesting work before us combines in an eminent degree the qualifications of theologian and geologist."

* * * * *

The _London News_ briefly hits off an American work which has attracted little attention in this country: "A fast-sailing American clipper has appeared in the seas of philosophy. The author of 'Vestiges of Civilization; or the Etiology of History, Religious, AEsthetical, Political, and Philosophical,' advertised as written within two months, has puzzled the scientific public as much as did the original MS. of 'Pepys' Diary.' The reader, however, may be comforted in his bewilderment by finding that the author himself is but little better off. In a note there is a confession which should certainly have been extended to the whole production: "I freely own that, touching these extreme terms of the complication in Life and Mind, or rather the precise combinations of polarities that should produce them, _my meaning is at present very far from clear, even to myself_. And yet I know that I _have_ a meaning; that it is logically involved in my statement; and is such as (perhaps within half a century) will set the name of some distinct enunciator side by side with, if not superior to that of Newton."

* * * * *

The _Westminster Review_ has passed into the hands of John Chapman, the well-known publisher of works on Rationalistic theology. _The Leader_ rather naively remarks, "We rely too much on his sagacity to entertain the fear, not unfrequently expressed, of his making the Review over theological, which would be its ruin."

* * * * *

Among the prominent forthcoming works announced by the English publishers, are the following:--"A Lady's Voyage round the World;" from the German of IDA PFEIFFER, from which some interesting extracts have already appeared in Blackwood.--"Wesley and Methodism," by ISAAC TAYLOR--"Lectures on the History of France," by Professor Sir JAMES STEPHENS--A condensed Edition of DR. LAYARD'S "Discoveries at Nineveh," prepared by the Author for popular reading--A second volume of LAMARTINE'S "History of the Restoration of the Monarchy in France"--An improved Edition of the "Life and Works of Robert Burns"--Richardson's "Boat Voyage," or a History of the Expedition in Search of Sir John Franklin.

* * * * *

It is said that the recent discoveries of Colonel Rawlinson in relation to the inscriptions on the Assyrian sculptures have awakened the British Government to the great historical value of those monuments--and that a sum of L1500 has been placed at his disposal to assist toward the prosecution of excavations and inquiries in Assyria. Colonel Rawlinson will, it is understood, proceed immediately to Bagdad; and from thence direct his explorations toward any quarter which may appear to him likely to yield important results.

* * * * *

Mr. WILLIAM WEIR, a literary veteran of ability and accomplishment, is about to publish, from the papers of one who mixed much with it, another view of English literary society in the days of Johnson.

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A pension of L100 a year on the civil list has been granted to the family of the late Rev. JAMES SEATON REID, D. D., Professor of Church History in Glasgow, and author of the _History of Presbyterianism in Ireland_, besides other works on theology.

* * * * *

In consequence of the present delicate state of health of Professor WILSON, the renowned "Christopher North," he has been obliged to make arrangements for dispensing with the delivery of his lectures on moral philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, at the ensuing session. Principal LEE is to undertake the duty for the learned Professor.

* * * * *

The map of France, which was begun in 1817, is not yet finished. It is to contain 258 sheets, of which 149 are already published. There yet remains five years' work in surveying, and nine years' work in engraving, to be done. The total cost will exceed L400,000 sterling. Up to this time 2249 staff-officers have been employed in the work.

* * * * *

When the celebrated astronomer Lalande died, nearly fifty years ago, his manuscripts were divided among his heirs--a partition which was agreeable to law, but very injurious to science. M. Lefrancais de Lalande, a staff-officer, impressed with the importance of re-collecting these papers, has, after much trouble, succeeded in getting together the astronomical memoranda of his ancestor to the extent of not less than thirty-six volumes. These he presented to M. Arago; and the latter, to obviate the chances of a future similar dispersion, has made a gift of them to the library of the Paris Observatory.

* * * * *

In announcing the "Memoirs of his own Life," by ALEXANDRE DUMAS, the correspondent of the _Literary Gazette_ indulges in a lively, exaggerated portraiture of the great _feuilletonist_: "Another addition to that class of French literature, called 'Memoirs,' is about to appear, and from the hand of no less a personage than Alexandre Dumas. The great romancer is to tell the world the history of his own eventful life, and his extraordinary literary career. The chances are that the work will be one of the most brilliant of the kind that has yet been published--and that is saying a great deal, when we call to mind the immense host of memoir writers which France possesses, and that among them are an Antony Hamilton and a Duke de Saint Simon. Having mixed familiarly with all descriptions of society, from that of crowned heads and princes of the blood, down to strolling players--having been behind the scenes of the political, the literary, the theatrical, the artistic, the financial, and the trading worlds--having risen unaided from the humble position of subordinate clerk in the office of Louis Philippe's accountant, to that of the most popular of living romancers in all Europe--having found an immense fortune in his inkstand, and squandered it like a genius (or a fool)--having rioted in more than princely luxury, and been reduced to the sore strait of wondering where he could get credit for a dinner--having wandered far and wide, taking life as it came--now dining with a king, anon sleeping with a brigand--one day killing lions in the Sahara, and the next (according to his own account) being devoured by a bear in the Pyrenees--having edited a daily newspaper and managed a theatre, and failed in both--having built a magnificent chateau, and had it sold by auction--having commanded in the National Guard, and done fierce battle with bailiffs and duns--having been decorated by almost every potentate in Europe, so that the breast of his coat is more variegated with ribbons than the rainbow with colors--having published more than any man living, and perhaps as much as any man dead--having fought duels innumerable--and having been more quizzed, and caricatured, and lampooned, and satirized, and abused, and slandered, and admired, and envied, than any human being now alive--Alexandre must have an immensity to tell, and none of his contemporaries, we may be sure, could tell it better--few so well. Only we may fear that it will be mixed up with a vast deal of--imagination. But _n'importe_!"

* * * * *

In the course of a revision of the archives of Celli, a box has been found containing a collection of important documents from the Thirty Years' War, viz., part of the private correspondence of Duke George of Brunswick-Lueneburg, with drafts of his own epistles, and original letters from Pappenheim, Gustavus Adolphus, and Piccolomini.

* * * * *

The Stockholm papers announce the death, in his seventy-first year, of Dr. THOMAS WINGARD, Archbishop of Upsal and Primate of the Kingdom of Sweden. Dr. Wingard had long occupied the chair of Sacred Philology at the University of Lund. He has left to the University of Upsal his library, consisting of upward of 34,000 volumes--and his rich collections of coins and medals, and of Scandinavian antiquities. This is the fourth library bequeathed to the University of Upsal within the space of a year--adding to its book-shelves no fewer than 115,000 volumes. The entire number of volumes possessed by the university is now said to be 288,000--11,000 of these being in manuscript.

* * * * *

The _London Athenaeum_ announces the death of the Hon. Mrs. LEE--sister to the late Lord Byron, and whose name will ever be dear to the lovers of that poet's verse for the affecting manner in which it is therein enshrined. Few readers of Byron will forget his affectionate recurrences to his sister--made more touching from the bitterness of his memories toward all those whom he accused of contributing to the desolation of his home and the shattering of his household gods. The once familiar name met with in the common obituary of the journals will have recalled to many a one that burst of grateful tenderness with which the bard twines a laurel for his sister's forehead, which will be laid now upon her grave--and of which the following is a leaf:

From the wreck of the past which hath perished
This much I at least may recall,
That what I most tenderly cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all.
In the desert a fountain is springing
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in my solitude singing
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

* * * * *

Numismatic science has to lament the loss of a long known, learned, and distinguished cultivator, Mr. H. P. BORRELL, who died on the 2d inst. at Smyrna. His numerous excellent memoirs on Greek coins, and his clever work on the coins of Cyprus, form permanent memorials of his erudition, research, and correct judgment.

* * * * *

The last mail from China informs us of the death of Dr. GUTZLAFF, at one of the British ports in that country, on the 9th of August last, in his forty-eighth year. The decease of this distinguished Eastern scholar will be learnt with regret by those who take an interest in the progress of European civilization in China. Dr. Gutzlaff was one of the most ardent and indefatigable of the laborers in that cause: and it will be very difficult to fill up the void which his death has occasioned. He was a Pomeranian by birth; and was originally sent to Batavia, Singapore, and Siam by the Netherlands Missionary Society in 1827. He first reached China in 1831; and he appears to have spent the next two years in visiting and exploring certain portions of the Chinese coast, which, previously to that time, had not been visited by any European--or of which, at least, no authentic knowledge was possessed. On the death of the elder Morrison, in 1834, Dr. Gutzlaff was employed as an Interpreter by the British Superintendency; and at a subsequent period he was promoted to the office of Chinese Secretary to the British Plenipotentiary and Superintendent of Trade. That employment he held to the time of his death. Dr. Gutzlaff had ceased to consider himself as a missionary for some years past; but he never relinquished his practice of teaching and exhorting among the Chinese communities in the midst of whom he was placed.

* * * * *

The death of Mrs. MARY SHERWOOD, the celebrated English authoress, took place at Twickenham about the middle of September. She had attained the ripe old age of seventy-six years, but her mind preserved its usual vigor and serenity, unimpaired by the influence of time. She died in the exercise of a tranquil spirit, and firm religious faith. It is said that a biography, prepared from materials left by the deceased, will soon make its appearance from the pen of her youngest daughter, a lady who inherits a portion of her mother's genius and character. A complete edition of Mrs. Sherwood's works, published by Harper and Brothers, has found numerous readers in this country, by whom the name of the writer will long be held in affectionate remembrance.

A Leaf not from Punch.

SECOND SPORTSMAN.--"Aim higher next time! No, I thank you. I'd rather you wouldn't."]

ETYMOLOGICAL INVENTIONS.

We perceive, with great alarm, the increasing number of abstruse names given to various simple articles of clothing and commerce. Rather to keep a head of the world than even to run with it, we intend to register--or dispose of for a consideration--the sole right of producing the following articles: