Chapter XIV: My Epitaph (2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EDITOR'S TABLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes.'

'And what did you hope for?'

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

'This great grief always ...'

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

'You have preserved it?'

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

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

'Nothing.'

'But this coral necklace?'

'It belongs to the ogresse.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

'How! _you_ also, Monsieur Rodolphe?'

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

'What happiness! Monsieur Rodolphe!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

_'Boston, Sunday Night._

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

'A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER.'

BY N. P. WILLIS, JUN.

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

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

'WHAT IS LOVE?'

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