Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN (3)

A FEW ladies in Dublin, who often met together to read the Word of
GOD, one day occupied their attention with the passage now before
the eye of the reader. One of the ladies expressed her opinion
that 'the fuller's soap and the refiner of silver' were only the
_same_ image to convey the same view of the sanctifying influence
of the grace of CHRIST. 'No,' said another, 'they are not the same
image; there is something remarkable in the expression, 'HE shall
_sit_ as the refiner and purifier of silver.'' On going into the
town, this lady called on a silver-smith, and desired to know the
process of refining silver, which he fully explained to her. 'But
do you _sit_, Sir,' she asked, 'while you are refining?' 'Yes,
Madam, I must sit with my eye steadily fixed on the furnace; since
if the silver remain too long, it is sure to be injured.' She at
once saw the beauty and comfort of the expression. CHRIST sees it
needful to put his people into the furnace, but HE is seated by
the side of it--HIS eye is steadily fixed on the work of
purifying--and his wisdom and his love are both engaged to do all
in the best manner for them. As the lady was returning to her
friends, to tell them what she had heard, as she turned from the
shop-door, the silver-smith called her back, and said, he had
forgotten one thing, and that was, he only knew the process of
refining to be complete by seeing his own image in the silver.

When CHRIST sees his own image in his people, the work of
purifying is accomplished.

It may be added, that the metal continues in a state of agitation,
until all impurities are thrown off, and then it becomes quite
still; a circumstance which heightens the analogy of the case; for
how

'Sweet to be passive in His hand,
And know no will but HIS!'

* * * * *

DOES 'M.' well to be angry? We 'referred publicly' to his query touching our choice of prose or poetry, _at his own request_, in a playful, but certainly not in an intentionally 'offensive' manner. And now, a 'good that was intended us' is clean gone forever! Very well--we must submit, with what grace we may.' 'My 'spected bredren,' said a venerable colored clergyman, on a recent occasion, 'blessed am dat man dat 'spects noth'n, 'cause he an't gwine to be disapp'inted!' We solace ourselves with this scrap of Ethiopian philosophy. · · · The experiments alluded to below, in the happiest vein of the amusing 'Charcoal-Sketcher' of Philadelphia, have been frequently tried in this city, we understand, but with very infrequent success. Pulling teeth while the patient is asleep is not 'practised to a very great extent in _this_ community;' for no sooner is the glittering instrument of torture 'placed in communication' with the jaw, than it is found to 'disturb the Mesmeric function' to an extraordinary degree:

'MANY who would be valiant in battle, turn pale at sight of the
dentist's chair. To stand up to be shot at in a duel is unpleasant
to the nerves, and to storm a breach requires a considerable
modicum of determination; but to pull the dentist's bell and not
to run away; to walk boldly in and not to request a postponement,
though it gains one no laurels and probably would not help to
secure a political nomination on the score of heroism, is pure
unadulterated valor; intrinsic--deriving no aid from association
or example; nothing from the instinct of discipline or the thirst
for glory. In encountering other dangers, there is a large hope,
too, of impunity. An expectation of survival, a fond trust to be
with the unhurt, always exists. But here, in that morocco throne,
so grotesque, so mystical, so strange in all its aspects; your
mouth wide open and your head thrown back--what hope can there be?
To be hurt is an inevitable thing. We are in the clutches of a
fate, and must realize our mortal frailty. To march to this with a
whistle; neither to kick the smaller dogs on our route, nor to
thrust little children aside spitefully; to take our usual
interest in the occurrences of the street as we pass along to
execution; to laugh, to jest, to talk of the weather with the
identical man as he rattles his glittering instruments and smiles
upon their brightness; to shake hands with him and to make a
tolerable pretence of being glad to see him, is an effort, though
we may have never encountered a war, equal to that which wears
medals and puts pensions in its pocket. There is some comfort,
however, to the afflicted in the fact that there have been of late
symptoms of a combination of animal magnetism with dentistry,
which affords a gleam of consolation. The exhibitors in New-York
frequently have teeth extracted from mesmerised patients, to prove
that in many cases they are insensible to pain--a thing which has
been done very often in private in this city, and in many
instances with complete success. What a cause for rejoicing would
it be then, if the proper degree of 'impressibility' were general
with those who have failing and recreant teeth, that the dentist
and his magnetiser might be one and indivisible? Surgery in all
its branches would be benefitted by the same connection; but this
strange physical condition is not an invariable concomitant of the
mesmeric state; so that valor, such as that to which we have
already alluded, cannot go completely out of use, even if all
could be subjected to the nervous influence of the magnetiser.'

* * * * *

'PHAZMA,' the cleverest of our western poets, who has written so many beautiful things for the New-Orleans '_Picayune_,' presents us lately with the subjoined tender sonnet. He has 'discharged' it as well as if he had previously read the directions of our eastern 'manufacturer of the article,' in our last issue:

MATERNAL TENDERNESS.

A MOTHER bends above her weeping child,
Her bosom heaving with convulsive throe,
Her large eye lighted with expression wild,
That, ah! too plainly speaks maternal wo!
The tearful infant, lost in bitter grief,
Thrills forth its plaintive call for tender care;
While from a mother's trembling hand relief,
Alas! can answer no imploring pray'r.
Swift-falling tears! and piercing cries of pain!
Maternal passion kindling into glow!
Peace banished from its sweet domestic reign!
_Stricken_ with grief!--ah! sad and cruel _blow_!
Behold the matron in a fury blue,
_Beating her screaming Bobby with a shoe!_

* * * * *

OUR esteemed friend, JOHN SANDERSON, the distinguished 'American in Paris,' whom the readers of this Magazine have known so long, and regarded so highly, is no more! Sad indeed is the task of recording the demise of a scholar so profound, a gentleman so accomplished, and a man so widely admired and beloved. SANDERSON was a delightful companion; and as we record this hasty tribute to his memory, we cannot help recalling the many pleasant passages, personal and epistolary, that we have had together. A correspondent of the _Philadelphia Gazette_, who knew him well, furnishes the following notice of the deceased, in the justice of which all who knew him will cordially concur:

'JOHN SANDERSON was a man of genius, a man of talent, a man of
feeling. He was a Philadelphian, and by his life and writings he
added to the good reputation of his country. To natural abilities
of a high order, he added a calm, chaste scholarship, an intimate
knowledge of mankind, a singularly amiable disposition, and a
frank and high-bred courtesy. His departure is lamented not alone
by those who enjoyed his society and his friendship; he is mourned
by our republic of letters; America as well as our city, has lost
one of her most accomplished sons. Mr. SANDERSON has long been
known as a writer. His first publication was the collection of
Memoirs of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence, in nine
octavo volumes; a work embracing a vast amount of original and
authentic information; and his last, excepting contributions to
the literary journals, was '_The American in Paris_.' He was a man
of most excellent humor, blending happily the characteristics of
RABALAIS and STERNE and LAMB. When with his chosen associates, we
doubt whether even COLERIDGE was more entertaining or instructive.
Turn to his Parisian letters and see the union of wit and humor,
of playful satire and nice observation which pervade them. Examine
all the pleasant books of travel of which this age has been so
prolific, and answer whether they have been surpassed. 'You know
SANDERSON,' we said a few weeks since to a French Deputy who was
travelling here. 'Know JOHN SANDERSON? I derived from him my
knowledge of Paris.' 'But you are a Parisian?' '_Je ne sache pas
qu'il y ait eu un Français qui ait plus connu Paris et son
monde._' In that home of the gay, the brilliant and the profound,
of all that in life or art attracts the man of genius, or
learning, or taste, Mr. SANDERSON was the favored guest of the
most celebrated savans and wits, many of whom since his return to
the United States, have waited anxiously for his restoration to
their circles. And he himself looked forward with happy
anticipations to the renewal of his old friendships. In a few
months he was to reöccupy his apartments in the Rue Rivoli.
'There,' he said to the writer of these recollections but a week
ago, 'there with congenial spirits I shall spend the residue of my
days.' How much those friends will sorrow when they learn that
JOHN SANDERSON is no more!

He was a wit; he had a most delicate perception of the beautiful,
and a keen sense of the ludicrous. But those who knew him can tell
with what care he directed his powers. He never summoned a shadow
to any face, or permitted a weight to lie on any heart. He was as
amiable as he was brilliant. He was no man of the world. He knew
society, its selfishness and its want of honor, but he looked upon
it less in anger than in sadness. He was no cynic, no Heraclitus;
he deemed it wisest to laugh at the follies of mankind. Through
all his experience he lost none of his natural urbanity, his
freshness of feeling, his earnestness and sincerity. The late
THEODORE HOOK, the first humorist and most celebrated bon-vivant
of our day, was employed by his publisher to edit Mr. SANDERSON'S
'American in Paris.' He read it, adapted it as well as he could to
the English market, and returned it with the observation that
'there was never a book which suffered more from slightest
change.' Had the author devoted the chief portion of his time to
letters, he would have been little less distinguished in the same
department than his famous friend. But he lived a quieter and
happier life; he died a happier death, suddenly, but in a _home_,
and with his friends about him.'

* * * * *

The following '_Lines to a Bouquet of Flowers_,' are from the pen of the lamented Governor DICKINSON, whose melancholy suicide will be fresh in the minds of many of our readers. We learn from the friend through whom we derive them, that they were handed to him by the author, while sojourning for a short time in Albany:

EMBLEM of life and loveliness,
Welcome, sweet harbingers of Spring!
Clad in thy beauteous summer dress,
And wafted on Time's fairy wing.

Would thou wert fadeless as the sky,
All redolent of hope and gladness,
But soon, alas! thou'lt lonely lie,
Emblem of Death, of Grief, of Sadness.

Emblem of Life! thing of an hour,
How soon thou'lt hang thy sickly head,
And bow beneath the conqueror's power,
And lie among the sleeping dead!

Emblem of Life! beyond the tomb,
Thy flowers again shall form a wreath;
Shall germinate amid the gloom.
And triumph o'er the monster Death!

D. S. D.

* * * * *

WE have repeatedly in these pages 'borne testimony' in behalf of a more general cultivation of the fine arts, and especially in the department of architecture. We have had too much reason to concur with JEFFERSON in the opinion that 'the genius of architecture never yet condescended to visit the American Republic.' The Count RENAULT St. JEAN D'A---- was wont to say, while residing among us, that 'more was to be learned by viewing Grace-Church in Broadway, touching the state of mental culture among us in the science of architecture, than by all the methods of reasoning which philosophy could furnish on any abstract point of knowledge;' and yet we believe the plan of this edifice was the result of a confederation of intellectual powers! Moreover, as our old friend, the late Gen. MORTON, was wont to say, we must bear in mind that beside the several recognized orders of architecture, we have also an _order by the corporation_! We may have more to say on this theme on another occasion. We have been led to these incidental remarks, by the recent death in this city of a man of rare genius, and unwearied effort in the promotion of a kindred branch of art--THOMAS HORNER, of England, the well-known draftsman and painter of the wonderful panorama of London, which constitutes the attraction of the great collosseum in that metropolis. The labor to affect this great work, the result of years of toil and severe exposure to the inclemencies of a noxious atmosphere, doubtless predisposed to that prolonged suffering which wasted his physical strength; while sad disappointments, and the precarious means of existence which he derived from his art in this country, may be justly regarded as concurring causes in hastening his final departure from among us. For a period of about fifteen years, he had devoted himself to the taking of sketches of numerous rural views and edifices in different parts of our northern states, and of the public buildings of our prominent cities. His delineation of the city of New-York is perhaps the most conspicuous of the efforts of his pencil. He died in this city on the morning of the 18th of March, aged about sixty years. It may be gratifying to his relatives and friends abroad to know, that there were not a few of our citizens who were ready at all times to aid him by their benefactions; and that in his illness he found in Dr. FRANCIS, whose name is a synonyme for considerate kindness, a constant friend and faithful medical adviser. His funeral was attended by some of our first citizens, among whom it was gratifying to observe Mr. FOWLER, the President of the St. George's Society, and other well-known countrymen of the deceased. · · · OUR correspondent, Mr. THOS. COPCUTT, has opened the present number with an admirable paper, compiled from Carlyle, on the never-tiring theme of NAPOLEON. We always associate, and at once, with NAPOLEON'S name, the dreadful scenes presented by his deserted battle-fields; such for example as marked the sanguinary contests of his Russian campaign. Here is a sketch of one, from the pen of an eye-witness: 'The battle-field presented a terrible picture of ruin and carnage, especially on the left and centre, where the greatest efforts had been made to take, maintain, and retake the redoubts. Corpses of the slain, broken arms, dead and dying horses, covered every elevation and filled every hollow, and plainly indicated the progress of the action. In the front of the redoubts lay the bodies of the French; behind the works, showing that they had been carried, lay the Russians. On many points the heaps of corpses told where squares of infantry had stood, and plainly pointed out the size of the closely formed masses. From the relative number of the slain, it was easy to perceive that the Russians had suffered more than the French.' And this is but one of hundreds of similar scenes! Yet, 'had these poor fellows any quarrel? Busy as the Devil is, not the smallest! Their _Governors_ had fallen out!' If one could indulge a 'grim smile' at any thing in relation to BONAPARTE, it would be at the potential _military_ standard to which he reduced every thing. Do you remember his order on the appearance of the Mamelukes in Egypt? Form square; artillery to the angles; asses and savans to the centre!' Characteristic; but complimentary that, to the 'learned savans!' · · · WE have bestowed but little of our tediousness upon the reader in this department of the present number, whereat he may felicitate himself, since our excellent correspondence will be found a welcome substitute for much that we had written, and which 'lies over' until our next. The _Quod Correspondence_ will arrest the attention of every reader. No two chapters of the entire series excel the present in power of delineation, or depth of interest. For 'Babyhood,' addressed to 'JULIAN;' 'Excelsior,' a parody upon LONGFELLOW; 'Punchiana, with clippings,' and various Gossip with Correspondents, whose favors were intended for the present number, we must refer all concerned to our next issue. · · · WE have _received_ the following works; and to such as we have found leisure to _read_, we shall here briefly advert: From the BROTHERS HARPER, the first two numbers of a 'pocket edition' of select (and _old_?) novels, containing 'The Yemassee,' by Mr. SIMMS, and 'Young Kate, or the Rescue:' of the 'Library of Select Novels,' three issues--'The Heretic,' from the Russian; 'The Jew,' and 'The Grumbler,' by Miss PICKERING: From LEA AND BLANCHARD, HUGO'S 'Hunchback of Notre-Dame:' From J. S. REDFIELD, Clinton Hall, 'NAPIER'S History of the War in the Peninsula and the South of France:' From LEAVITT, TROW AND COMPANY, 'Poems by WILLIAM JAMES COLGAN:' From JOHN ALLEN, 139 Nassau-street, 'The Lady at Home, or Leaves from the Every-day Book of an American Woman:' and from LITTLE AND BROWN, Boston, Lives of PATRICK HENRY and LA SALLE, commencing the second series of SPARKS'S 'American Biography.' Miss PICKERING'S 'Grumbler' is one of the best and most interesting novels we have read for many a day; 'The Hunchback' of HUGO is too well known to our readers to require mention; and the same may be said of NAPIER'S excellent history. 'The Lady at Home' will commend itself to all readers, for its truly admirable lessons to American women. COLGAN'S poems deserve more space than we can devote to them. The writer has the true poetical _feeling_, and his execution is often very felicitous, and always creditable. · · · THE 'Nile Story' of our Boston correspondent; a notice of the Phreno-Mnemotechny of Professor GOURAUD; of the Re-publication of English Magazines and Reviews; of New Music, and other late publications; are all _unavoidably_ postponed, for reasons already stated, until our next number.