SONNETS: BY 'QUINCE.'

Whatis life, but a vision! The forms which have spreadTheir enchantment around us, and gladdened our day,Like the vanishing vapors of morning have fled,Or like eve's sun-gilt clouds, they are passing away.And when Youth's cherished hopes shall have faded and gone,And this turbulent dream of existence is o'er—When life's sparkling current hath ceased to flow on,And the place which now knows me will know me no more—Then bright on this page be engraven my name,And long may it live, when my being is past;Let others contend for a loftier fame,No nobler, no dearer, noother, I ask.Here perchance shouldst thou see it, forgotten, unknown,Oh! hallow that name with the dew of a tear!Far sweeter the tribute, than tale-telling stone,Which Pride, or Ambition, or Folly might rear.

J. H. B.

ABSENCE.

Earthowns no smiles in absence of the sun;Dark mourns the night when chambered is her queen;The sweet flowers wither when Sol's spring is run;Nor fairies dance but in chaste Luna's sheen.Nothing but mourns from that it loves apart:The lone bird sorrows from its sever'd mate;And pines and withers the fond human heart,When those it worshipped leave it desolate.Thus in earth, night, flower, bird, creation's lord,The sweetest, dearest bond, is sympathy;Which sever'd, snaps the close-entwining chordThat all things binds in some fond unity.Life-killing Absence, 'neath thy curse I pine,Affection's Upas tree—that name be thine!

AGE.

Ageis the winter season of man's life,The last dim flickering of the taper's ray;'Tis the last act that closes earthly strife;The latest character that he may play.Yet here, i' the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,With rev'rend hair, white as the drifted snow,We madly mock our fate—play the buffoon,And self-deceiving to the dark grave go.The withered leaf clings latest to the tree,Hope vainly builds itself on dark despair;The shipwreck'd mariner buffets with the sea,And vainly strives for life, though death be there.So age, with palsied hand, to life doth clingMost fondly, as from age life taketh wing.

AMBITION.

Thewaxen wing that strove t' empierce the sky,The daring hand that fired the Ephesian dome,The Spirit's strife with God for mastery,Which made the burning depths of hell its home,Were fell Ambition's. In that one word liesAll that is greatly good or greatly ill;'Tis best of friends—'tis worst of enemies—Honey and poison it doth both distil.With vice enleagued, it sinks our spirit's down,Till lust and murder gorge their fierce desire;But virtue weaves for it a deathless crown,Which teaches noble natures to aspire.Honor and fame soar on its wingéd breath,Hurl'd in its downward flight lie sin and death.

AUTHORS.

Authorsare beings only half of earth—They own a world apart from other men:A glorious realm! giv'n by their fancy birth,Subjects, a sceptre, and a diadem;A fairy land of thought, in which sweet blissWould run to ecstasy in wild delight,But that stern Nature drags them back to this,With call imperious, which they may not slight:And then they traffic with their thoughts to live,And coin their laboring brains for daily bread:Getting scant dross for the rich ore they give,While often with the gift their life is shed:And thus they die, leaving behind a name,At once their country's glory and her shame.

——''Tis too horrible!The weariest and most loathéd worldly lifeThat age, ache, penury, and imprisonmentCan lay on nature, is a paradiseTo what we fear of death!'

Shakspeare.

Inmy morning walk in the country, the other day, a common poor-house hearse passed me. It was a long box, painted black, covered with a scant piece of dark cloth of some kind, hardly large enough to allow the tassels to dangle down its sides, in imitation of more gorgeous drapery. The little door at the hind-end of it looked as if it might open into the infernal regions. This dismal box, mounted nakedly on four frail wheels, was drawn along by a pale, lean horse, and the driver sat severe in his shirt-sleeves and tattered hat, like some desperate blackguard driving a night-cart. As he passed the cottages on the road-side, I observed anxious faces following its course; and particularly that of one poor woman, with an infant in her arms, whose poverty-stricken cheek was blanched still whiter, for the moment, as she contemplated the probable picture of her own humble obsequies. I imagined her as thinking of the time when she should leave her unprotected little ones to the chance charities of a heartless world—heartless to her—and herself be carried in this same vehicle to a stoneless grave.

I felt indignant at this unnecessary harrowing up of her feelings, and my own were not pleasantly affected; and then, and since, I have thought much upon the subject of funerals.

What moral purpose is answered in thus thrusting the thought of their dissolution upon the poor and miserable, amid their labors and wants? Is not life hard enough for them to bear, burthened with hunger and no food, with ignorant vice—habitual and early inculcated vice—which, in their view, is almost virtue, and certainly, is second nature? Must they turn horror-struck from the neglect, even to the remains of the poor beings who, like themselves, are not freed by death from the selfish contempt of their fellows? Why must the bell send forth those tones that seem to the sick and weak nerves of the feeble like a summons from the grave? Why this sickening array in musty black, this dressing up a banquet for the worm, with terrific ceremonies? Death is less awful to all, on account of the departure from life, than because of the black badges, the dark and gloomy retinue, that are associated in our minds with the event of it. When we think of dying, it is of being put in a coffin, the white shroud setting off, in loathsome contrast, the yellow palor of the face, and the indescribable expression of the human features without a soul; and then comes the black carriage, and that decaying pall, which has served so many like occasions, and which will itself, though with the sexton it looks as if it had a terrestrial immortality, finally perish, and be cast aside to rot, but with no ostentatious funeral. The motion, too, of this procession is slow; and our torture is felt as lingering and fated. At last, we rest in the dark earth—we are lonely and out of hearing—pinioned for ever! It would seem that humaningenuity had contrived a tissue of horrors to close the troubles of a human life.

Death is serious business, to be sure, and our passage through its shadows is a fearful journey. Yet it is an entrance to immortality. The entrance to magnificent temples, and brilliant theatres, is through dark portals—necessarily dark to be firm; and nothing human can add to the solemnity of death; but we may, by our sympathetic attempts at the terrible-sublime, change what is solemn and salutary into a source of disgust and aversion.

We come into a world of care, and want, and affliction, and our unconscious ears are struck with sounds of rejoicing. We enter upon an immortality of bliss, and around the self-same body there are wailing and lamentation.

I was perplexing myself for a solution of this strange inconsistency in our customs, when chancing to meet a philosophic friend, he relieved my perplexity, by saying: 'Oh, people are afraid of going to hell, and that their friends are gone there, and so they make all this sad array. They usher their relations into eternity—for the soul in our associations ever accompanies the body—as criminals are led to execution. Their awful fate thus finds an awful language.'

If these be the true reasons of the gloomy ceremonies of death, it is devoutly to be hoped that the fears of this result may in some cases be unfounded. We do not wish to controvert the idea of rewards and punishments hereafter, for they belong to the nature of the soul, whether in this world or in the next; but it seems rather extra-judicial, a plain case of supererogation, to bestow uponallthe marks of divine justice before hand.

In case of executions in human justice, if they take placein terrorem, to awe the multitude into obedience, it is very well to dress the hangman in the probable habiliments of the devil, and to ride the culprit through the streets as a show, upon a pine coffin. There should be as little romance, as few flowers in his way, as possible. It is gross inconsistency, certainly, to introduce any softening circumstances into public executions, as well as mistaken mercy to the passions of men. In saying this, we suppose it is not pretended that the execution of human beings is authorized upon any other ground than support of the law. To execute privately, or with as little terror as possible, is to enact over again the trick of Nero to ensnare his subjects: for surely, the penalty is part of the law, and the execution of it should be as open as the condemnation, or the people are robbed of these horrid privileges of assisting their virtue.

But to return to our subject. We dislike our funerals, because they seem to be one of the remains of the many attempts to subject the people to the control of the priests. And now, we blush to write it, we fear the influence of the clergy in some churches is mainly dependent upon a certain idea people have, that their future destiny is somewhat in such hands. It is a poor compliment to our religious nature, to suppose we are most fit to give our hearts to God, when under an abject fear of death; that

'When thoughts of the last bitter hourCome like a blight over our spirits,And the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make us to shudder, and grow sick at heart,'

we are best prepared to pay that voluntary homage, to feel that free devotion, which can alone be pleasing to our Creator.

Funeral occasions have been hailed as special seasons for operating upon the nervousness of people. Every poor body is dragged about, and exposed to the public gaze, in the church or meetinghouse, upon the same principle that a recruiting sergeant drums his gaily-attired soldiers about a town. Public men, the property of the people, should be buried publicly, for all are supposed to sympathize in the loss; all feel a personal interest in the ceremony. But it is otherwise with private individuals. Then it is death we see, and not a departed friend. But a still stronger objection lies against this display of corpses, and theseverypublic burials, and it is, that the poor are encouraged to indulge in mourning apparel, which they often can ill afford. The salutary terror upon the wicked is more than counteracted by the want and criminal shifts induced by this unnecessary extravagance.

Talk with any man who is not a slave to custom, upon the subject of burning the dead, and he will, with few exceptions, express a liking of it for his own body. If we retain the portraits of our friends as sacred treasures, nay, if a lock of hair, even, be held as a precious memento, why not retain their very ashes embalmed in fire? Who that has beheld the play of Virginius—we are glad to connect a fine feeling with the stage—and seen the urn of Virginia, has not felt a thrill of pleasure that so much is left to the fond father to hug to his bosom? (How Cooper played Virginius!) Who has not felt a wish, then, to have the ashes of some departed friend, to embrace in like manner in his arms? Suppose a father, a brother, a husband, a lover, to return, after long absence; death has cut down his darling child, his saint-like sister, his wife; perhaps, what is hardest to bear, because never thought of as possible, his only love; perhaps pestilence has swept away all of these. He is pointed to their graves, or to the common tomb of his kindred. A slight mound of earth is all that is left him to associate with the loved object; or what is worse, he goes to the tomb, and there is no charm in his sorrow to heal itself, for it has lost all individuality: he looks upon an array of coffins, and they all look alike; he cannot separate his own sacred sorrow from the intrusive presence of that of others. But place in his hands the ashes of those he loved; let him be alone with the embalmed dead. He will kiss the cold urn; imagination will place the cold corse in his arms, and he will take his last embrace, and serenity will begin to dawn upon his mind. As he replaces the urn in its sacred deposit, he will feel, 'She is not dead, but sleepeth!'

The headless trunk of the great Pompey was not left to decay upon the sea-shore. How it rejoices us to learn, after following his fortunes to his unhappy death, when he is cast upon the sand, neglected and uncoffined, that his faithful slave gathered a small pile of wood, and burned his body, carefully collecting the ashes. As soon as the task is done, Pompey is great again; and we close his history with satisfaction, for he is buried with affection. Far better is such a fate, than the freezing ceremony of a modern funeral.

J. N. B.

Andwhere are now thy sunny hours,Fond man, which shone but yesterday?Perchance thy path was rich with flowers,That glittered in thy joyous way;Perchance the Day's pure eye of lightWas one interminable smile,And visions eloquent and brightStirred thy wrapt soul with bliss the while.

II.

And where are they? The sweeping tideOf onward and resistless timeIs strewn with wrecks of baffled pride—Conceptions high, and hopes sublime!Dreams, that have shed upon the earthThe gladdening hues of paradise;Their charm is flown, hush'd is their mirth,And all their kindling exstasies.

III.

It may be that the heart was sad,And wrapt in sorrow, yesterday;Perchance the scenes that once could gladThy spirit, passed like spring away;That on the waste of years was seenNought that might cheer the gloomy breast—No sunny spot of vernal green,On which the thoughtful eye could rest.

IV.

What recks it now, that then a cloudWas dimly brooding o'er thy head;That to the tempest thou hast bowed,When joy's ephemeral beams had fled?That day hath gone—its care is o'er—Its shadows all have passed away;Time's wave hath murmur'd by that shore,And round thee now is but to-day.

Then what is yesterday?—a breath,A whisper of the summer breeze;A thing of silent birth and death,Colored by man's fond sympathies.It had its buds—they all are gone;Its fears—but they are now no more:Its hopes—but they were quickly flown—Its pure delights—and they are o'er!

VI.

Look ye not back, save but to gleanFrom the deep memories of the past—From the illusions of each scene,The thought that time is flying fast:Thatvanityon things of earthIs by a pointed diamond writ;Its hours of wild and transient mirthAre midnight skies by meteors lit.

VII.

Oh, what is yesterday?—a rayWhich burst on being's troubled wave;Which passed like a swift thought awayUnto eternity's wide grave!A star whose light hath left the sky—But for a little moment given;Scarce gleaming on the gladdened eye,Ere it hath left the vault of heaven!

VIII.

To-day!—how in its little spanThe interests of an endless state,Beyond the feverish life of man,Are crowded with their awful weight!Prayers may ascend—the soul may pourIts trembling supplications here,That when time's fitful hour is o'er,Its hopes of heaven may blossom there.

Philadelphia.W.G.C.

A CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED VOLUME.

The 'Literary Gazette'created a great sensation. Frank was congratulated by his friends on the excellence of his hebdomadal. His editorial brethren bestowed liberal commendation; and he was bespattered with praise, where he expected to be flattered by criticism. To be sure, there were some croakers, who thought it a little too light, and some blithe hearts thought it a little too heavy; but generally, great satisfaction was expressed with its contents. Subscribers flocked in, and every thing went on swimmingly.

But however lightly Frank's bark danced at first, he soon found that there were clouds, storms, and rough waters, to be encountered, as well as sunshine and soft winds. An author whom he reviewed with deserved severity, was sure to regard what was said as an emanation of jealousy. Rejected fi'penny rhymists reported him unfriendly to the 'infantile efforts of genius.' Bilious moralists condemned him for what their evil-seeking imaginations tortured into profligacy. In this way, his judgment and goodness of heart were underrated; and although he won more smiles than frowns, yet he sighed when he thought of the goodness of his motives, and the abominable constructions which were frequently put upon them.

In addition to these grievances, the drudgery of preparing matter for his paper soon became sickening. At times, heavy demands were made on his exhausted brain; and then the ungentle efforts to lash his mind into a fury; to spread the wings of an imagination borne down by lassitude; to wake up reluctant thought; were most unpleasant. And yet he knew it must be done, and that his readers would judge him by his weakness rather than his strength. This knowledge, with his desire to please, placed him often in a dilemma which nothing but kindred experience can appreciate. When hewas in the mood, composition was an agreeable occupation; but when draft after draft had been made upon his labors, a sense of fatigue would come over him, and he knew that the stream of thought yet in motion under such cloudy auspices, would reflect but little brilliancy on the vision of his readers. The misery of editorship is, that one dull article will receive more reprobation than a score of successful ones can remove. Men are prone to judge of things by the worst lights. The virtue which one practices, will seldom be considered expiatory of his vices; the day is judged of by the minute of cloud, rather than the hour of sunshine; and a line of dulness will condemn a page of vivacity. We look at the specks on the sun, the mole on the cheek of beauty, and the blemish on the statue otherwise perfect in its symmetry.

Often, while revelling in visions of happiness, Frank would be recalled to his earthly duties, by the entrance of the boy from the printing-office, y'clept,par excellence, the devil. Every editor is aware of the felicity which these intrusions into his sanctum afford. Fixed in his arm-chair, with a horizontal line of leg before him, while his fancy is with his sweet-heart, or his wife and little ones, as the case may be, he feels quite comfortable. At the next instant, all his glistening thoughts and fairy fancies are 'knocked intopi,' by the entrance of the imp of the printing-office, with a face streaked with ink, round-aboutless and vestless, and having on a pair of inexpressibles hitched up on one side by a twine string, who shrieks out, in a merciless tone, 'I'm come for copy, Sir!' Cowper said that the bray of an ass was the only unmusical sound in nature; but the poet had never experienced the discord occasioned to an editor's mind, by an inopportune demand for 'copy,' or he would have make one more exception.

Often did Frank hold with the dirty-faced urchin such a dialogue as the following:

Devil.'They want more copy, Sir.'Frank.'What's become of that I sent before?'Devil.'It's used up, Sir.'Frank.'Isn't it enough?'Devil.'Not by a jug-full, Sir.'Frank.'How much more is wanting?'Devil.'Three columns, Sir.'Frank.'When will it be wanted?'Devil.'Why, I've been here twice before this morning, and I couldn't get in. The foreman's mad as h—ll, and says how as that the paper can't be got out in time.'Frank.'Well, be off. I'll have some copy ready in an hour.'

Devil.'They want more copy, Sir.'

Frank.'What's become of that I sent before?'

Devil.'It's used up, Sir.'

Frank.'Isn't it enough?'

Devil.'Not by a jug-full, Sir.'

Frank.'How much more is wanting?'

Devil.'Three columns, Sir.'

Frank.'When will it be wanted?'

Devil.'Why, I've been here twice before this morning, and I couldn't get in. The foreman's mad as h—ll, and says how as that the paper can't be got out in time.'

Frank.'Well, be off. I'll have some copy ready in an hour.'

Devil goes off, with a sunken aspect, muttering, as he goes, 'I gets more kicks than coppers. The foreman kicks me for not getting copy, and the editor kicks me for coming for it. Deuce take 'em both! As to the paper, she may be late, for me; and as to the press, I wish she was blow'd to the mischief!'

The 'devil' talks upon the common principle, when he speaks of the paper and the printing-press as belonging to the feminine gender. Your statesman, speaking of the country's prosperity, says, 'Hercommerce,hermanufactures, andherarts, are flourishing, andwill soon advanceherhigh in the respect of nations.' The backwoods-men say of Cincinnati, 'Sheis the westernqueen.' A Kentuckian will pet his rifle, and say, 'She'sleetle the slickest bore in these parts, and her voice is sweet as Nannie's, and that's saying a heap forher.' Some go so far as to sex learned bodies, and to say of congress, 'The constitution does not confer such powers on her, and beyond those delegated she cannot rightfully act;' thus flinging a petticoat over this venerable body of gray-haired bachelors, husbands, and orators.

The fact is, it is quite difficult to understand the reason why the neuter gender is not applied to all things neither male nor female. Every vessel that skims the billow, in common nomenclature, belongs to the feminine gender. There is not a steam-boat that ploughs the river, however hoarsely it may bark, or however it may fling volumes of smoke above, like streamers, that belongs to the masculine gender. Every ricketty yawl or skiff that is battered to pieces by the tides, belongs to the lovely and ever-to-be-beloved sex. If a pleasure-boat, with its white sail kissing the wave which its prow proudly spurns, wins a compliment, it is sure to be uttered after this wise: 'See how finely she sails!—and

'Shewalks the water like a thing of life.'

Is not the male sex somewhat scandalously neglected in this matter? Why should not a noble ship, daring and adventurous—a merchant-man, perhaps an India-man—belong to the masculine gender? Ifitbe female, why not be grammatically consistent, and talk of merchant-woman, and India-woman? If it be necessary that inanimate structures be sexed, why not do it with some reference to their qualities? Let a ship be calledshe, by all means; for a lady is beautiful, and a ship bearing steadily away over the waters, is beautiful to look upon, too; and a lady, though not freighted down with bales and packages by the ton, yet is she burthened with those articles in the dry-goods line which are worn bythe ton. Streamers wave from the flag-staff of the one, and ribbons flutter gaily from the main-top of the other. Therefore, let a ship and a woman be of the same sex. But let there be some limits to the license. We take it, there is nothing that floats, which looks less like our own dear sweet-heart, than an old worm-eaten canoe, scooped out of a dead trunk; and yet, when a paddle is applied to the ugly thing, you look at it and say, 'Shemoves!'

We admit and feel the romance and propriety of sexing 'the poetry of heaven.' Blessings be yet again on benighted Egypt, for she taught us to speak of Osiris and Isis, instead of the sun and moon! Blessed for ever be the spirit of him who first conceived the idea of sexing the starry hosts, from the Cynosure to Sirius! How much more poetical is night in consequence—especially such as Moore speaks of in the Epicurean:

——'Sweet nights,When Isis, the pure star of lovers, lightsHer bridal crescent o'er the holy stream!'

All who have been in love, feel that the soft influence which comes down from the face of Isis is feminine in its witchery. She isfriendly to love affairs, although Miss Diana, when in Greece, would have nothing to do with the masculine deities; and although she banished Calisto, and transformed Acteon, yet did these same Greeks scandalize the virgin, by reporting that she forgot her fastidiousness when she was smitten by the charms of an Endymion on the Carian Mount. To return. We are glad that the poets of the olden time sexed the stars pretty much as their fancies thought proper, and that we Christians still perpetuate these beautiful fictions of their mythologies; for there is a charm in the classical association which now comes upon the mind, when viewing the heavens, that we should regret to part with, however heathenish and anti-utilitarian it may be.

The owners of bright eyes have astronomy enough to recognise Venus, the beautiful star of evening; and yet they perversely and anti-mythologically call herit, when they should know thatsheis all that is now left of that beautiful being of the cestus, who, like a wreath of foam, was born of a billow near Cythera. Let us be consistent, and call Venusshe, even as we call the moon she, and her lord and master, 'the eye of the universe,' he. It is proper to speak of Saturn, andhisrings, of Mars, andhisbelligerent front; and we should, to be consistent,shePallas, Juno, and Vesta, every one of them. Let us also call this great heap of dirt and water which we tread on, and sail over, and speak of, as ourmotherearth, feminine. Our wretchedly-abused planet is spoken of as belonging to no sex in particular, now-a-days, although she was once called Terra and Titæa; and then she was a beauty, and a charming one, too, as we should judge from some of her heart-stealing, bright-eyed daughters.

Poetry demands that we still continue to sex the stars. Let us regard Jupiter as a great big lubberly fellow, making love to the shy and bashful Vesta, and waking up jealousy in the bosom of his elder sweet-heart, Juno. Let us have Mars getting up assignations with the all-loving Venus, as of old; and Saturn and Pallas felicitating each other in the manner becoming two heads, the one so full of justice, and the other of wisdom, as are theirs. How delectable it would be, to fancy Madame Earth flirting with the long-yeared Herschel, to the utter astonishment of her neighbor Mercury, who would either have to live an old bachelor, or look up a mistress in some of the systems which revolve in the far-off regions of space!

Our imagination has run riot long enough through the heavens; and we therefore return back to our starting-place, the earth. We were speaking of the incongruity of the sexual designations now in vogue. Why is it, that once introduced, the system of sexing things was not carried out farther? Why not give sex to a tree, a carriage, a wind-mill, and our pantaloons, as well as to a yacht, a watch, and every scrabbling village in the land? We love to think upon the Mississippi as the 'Father of Waters,' and the Ohio as 'La belle Riviere;' for to the masculine strength and stature of the one, we offer our admiration, and to the feminine beauty and grace of the other, we have yielded up our heart.

We were speaking, before we got on this mad-cap digression, of the miseries in which the editorial fraternity in general, and Frank Thornton in particular, were sometimes plunged, by ill-timed demands for that bane of the craft called 'copy.' At such times, Frank woulddisenchant himself of his fond visions, pick up his pen, arrange his paper, and—think, or try to think, of a subject. He would look over the newspapers for topics; whip up his brain for a suggestion, or look out at the window, and seeing his friend James Summers, who prided himself on being a man of the world, he would conclude to write an article on men of the world in general, much after the manner of the fragment below.

'Fieldingsays, that in order to understand men, it is necessary that one should be born with a genius for that purpose.' Your men of the world think so too; hence, they are the favorites of nature, and as such, are superior to ordinary mortals, and have a right, in consequence, to look down on inferiority. We are not going to upset Fielding, Bulwer,et id omne genus; we only say, that we detest the boast and swagger which your men of the world take upon themselves as a natural right, peculiar to those who come into the world with an extra eye to read that volume of mysteries, the human heart, locked up, like the ark of old, from the vision of the vulgar.

'Your man of the world is the most bustling of bodies, and looks like Atlas with the globe incumbent on his shoulders. His lips form an oracle of human wisdom, and it is rank profanity to question aught that emanates from so holy a source. His contempt for inferior understandings is most supreme; and his humor, like a foaming cataract, flows and boils with sublime rage, if impertinence dare question his profundity, or contest his right to monopolize the gleams of knowledge which light up the human mind. He is the greatest and most orthodox of bigots, and takes good care that the stultified head of heresy be scathed by the lightnings of his indignation. He uses old saws with a wink; and if he chooses to bless you with a squint, you are unpardonable, if you do not cheer him with a smile. He is a stickler for antiquity, and hates smooth chins and black heads, for their greenness and folly. He is the repository of all the fragments of wisdom that are left of shipwrecked ages, which have floated down on the stream of time. He gathers together the bits and ends of sayings which go to make up the traditionary lore of a country; and this unbooked knowledge renders him sager than a man of much reading. In fine, your man of the world is a very great man, and is to be respected, whether he discourses of the evangelists at a horse-race, or flourishes political eloquence, and that Helicon which inspires it, a beer-mug, in the unquiet recesses of some venerable ale-house.

'This may be called an 'outline in pencil' of a man of the world, when the shadows of fifty years or so are upon him; when he has exhausted the fountains of his wild blood, and turned out sage and philosopher. A man must run a long and labyrinthine gauntlet, under the scourge of the vices, before he can aspire to the character. Of course, it is right that such an one should usurp the throne of wisdom, as his shoulders have been legitimately invested with the purple of sin. The right to rule can only be predicated on a youth of prostitution, a manhood of degradation, and an old age of impenitence.

'Perhaps you may have seen a man of the world, under the shadow of a tavern sign-post, discoursing wisdom to the simple-hearted villagers. He has the infallible marks of a truly great man legible in his face; bloated veins, and an indented excrescence surmounting his nose, and flaming like a fiëry beacon with the condensed heat of unnumbered barrels of all 'proofs.' His libations to Bacchus have given a remarkable clarification to the emanations of his intellect, as is discoverable in the vividness with which his wisdom glares on the understandings of all who hear him. A flippant attorney is, perhaps, at his side; and the worthy twain discuss national policies, while the unsophisticated lookers-on stand mute, admiring the prodigious display of genius. The village magistrate imbibes ideas which astonish his natural stock of well-behaved ones, that never strayed beyond the hill-top in the distance, or flew off on a wild goose-chase after the phantoms of knowledge. The man of the world lays down his positions, and fortifies them with the maxims he learned from his predecessor, who sleeps in the church-yard. The pettifogger capitulates to his invincible adversary, and acknowledges in him one whose dogmas it were irreverent to doubt.

'Your man of the world never goes to church. His own experience furnishes principles for the government of men, vastly superior to all that Christianity ever dreamed of. He has an intuitive perception into the minds of children, and can predict, to a nicety, the amount of power their intellectual machinery will be able, in time to come, to generate. He believes that scarcely an honest man, beside himself, lives; and as to women, they are not a whit better than they ought to be. Lastly, your man of the world is the chief light of the world, and when he dies, the heavens will be hung in gloom, and the edifice of society will fall into dilapidation; as he, while living, was its chief prop and support.'

Onthe afternoon of the day on which the above article appeared, Mr. James Summers, who sat for the portrait of the 'Man of the World,' ordered his paper to be stopped, as he could not 'conscientiously patronize one devoted to Billingsgate interests, and edited by a person who had evidently received a diploma for his proficiencies, from the college of Saint Giles!'

This is a specimen of one class of miseries to which editors are subject. They rack their weary brains for subjects; and when they dissect them properly, it frequently happens that some subscriber, who fancies himself aggrieved, says, with poor Dennis the critic, 'That meansme!'—and forthwith sends in a peremptory order to have 'his paper discontinued.' And thus the editor not only loses some one's friendship, but, what is of more importance, his subscription.

Subscribers! one word to you. Support your editor through his difficulties; and whatever else you neglect, be sure you do not forget to pay for your intellectual provant; that is, if you would pass decently through this world, and reach heaven at last!

'O'erthe glad waters of the dark blue sea,Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,Survey our empire, and behold our home!'

I haveno ties to bind meTo any spot on earth;I leave no love behind me,No warm familiar hearth;But I roam with the changeful windUpon the changeful sea,Mid isles that shed their fragrance forthLike the blessed Araby;And in the deep and cloudless night,We watch each dewy star,And our fancies rove through that shadowy light,Where the gentle spirits are:Nor while upon the deepWe wander far and free,Are we mariners withoutOur own wild minstrelsy;And the night-breeze seems to catch the song,And bear it on its wing:And the laughing waves seem to echo farThe voice of our carolling:And then we see the unwelcome sharkGliding beneath our lee;Gently he looketh up, but weTrust not his love of harmony;Strange playful fish are gambollingAround our white-winged bark,All harmless, gladsome things are they,Except that soft-eyed shark.When the foam, torn from the billow,Flies furious and fast,And the good mast, like a sapling,Bends to the mighty blast,With steady heart and ready arm,Fearless, unmoved, we stand—(Our bright bow flashing through the sea,)My own, my gallant band!O! who would be a manFettered, instead of free!A sluggard at his hearth,With a bantling on his knee!While there are seas to pass,While there are winds to blow,O! who would be contentWith tales of long ago!While there is knowledge waiting,As fruit upon a tree,Which we for others gather,Over the mystic sea!I like not traveller's stories,Told at the blazing hearth,Of wild and wondrous wanderingOn ocean and on earth;When the wine foams in the gobletWith its glorious ruby light,Imagination sparklesProportionately bright.I loathe to see the simple eyeIn wonder opened wide,At hair-breadth 'scapes from shot and steel,From rock and tempest tide.As each adventure wilder growsOf the traveller's bold career,The listeners gather closer round,And cross themselves for fear;And many an anxious glance is castAround the shadowy room,As if some horrid spectacleLay lurking in the gloom.But I love, in my own good bark,And with my gallant crew,To wander free where fancy leadsOver the waters blue:To speak with new-found people,Of the world a fresh-turned page;O! grateful bounds my spirit,That I live in a gallant age!O! if the tame ones of the earthCould taste the deep delight,Of feeling free upon the main,Whose sway is the bold man's right,The sea would swarm with rovers,Whose zeal would never sleep,While anxiously they gatheredThe treasures of the deep!

Nor while upon the deepWe wander far and free,Are we mariners withoutOur own wild minstrelsy;And the night-breeze seems to catch the song,And bear it on its wing:And the laughing waves seem to echo farThe voice of our carolling:

And then we see the unwelcome sharkGliding beneath our lee;Gently he looketh up, but weTrust not his love of harmony;Strange playful fish are gambollingAround our white-winged bark,All harmless, gladsome things are they,Except that soft-eyed shark.

When the foam, torn from the billow,Flies furious and fast,And the good mast, like a sapling,Bends to the mighty blast,With steady heart and ready arm,Fearless, unmoved, we stand—(Our bright bow flashing through the sea,)My own, my gallant band!

O! who would be a manFettered, instead of free!A sluggard at his hearth,With a bantling on his knee!While there are seas to pass,While there are winds to blow,O! who would be contentWith tales of long ago!While there is knowledge waiting,As fruit upon a tree,Which we for others gather,Over the mystic sea!

I like not traveller's stories,Told at the blazing hearth,Of wild and wondrous wanderingOn ocean and on earth;When the wine foams in the gobletWith its glorious ruby light,Imagination sparklesProportionately bright.I loathe to see the simple eyeIn wonder opened wide,At hair-breadth 'scapes from shot and steel,From rock and tempest tide.

As each adventure wilder growsOf the traveller's bold career,The listeners gather closer round,And cross themselves for fear;And many an anxious glance is castAround the shadowy room,As if some horrid spectacleLay lurking in the gloom.

But I love, in my own good bark,And with my gallant crew,To wander free where fancy leadsOver the waters blue:To speak with new-found people,Of the world a fresh-turned page;O! grateful bounds my spirit,That I live in a gallant age!

O! if the tame ones of the earthCould taste the deep delight,Of feeling free upon the main,Whose sway is the bold man's right,The sea would swarm with rovers,Whose zeal would never sleep,While anxiously they gatheredThe treasures of the deep!

Montreal, August, 1837.A. A. Macnicol.

FROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY.

NUMBER FOUR.

Paris, August, 1836.—After due deliberation respecting the various routes, viz.: first, by Southampton to Havre, and up the Seine; second, by Brighton and Dieppe; third, by steam-boat direct to Calais, or Boulogne; fourth, (the older and most frequented,) by Dover and Calais, or Boulogne; I chose the latter; and in order to be in Paris before Saturday evening, (to-day is Wednesday,) took my outside seat in the night coach to Dover. It was a fine evening, and as we rode out of London through 'the main artery of the right hand of the world,' Charing-Cross, down Whitehall and Parliament-street, over Westminster bridge, and through the villages of Deptford and Greenwich, I had the finest sunset view of the great metropolis, which I had yet seen. A glorious full-moon rose soon after we took leave of the more dazzling luminary, and of course the ride in such an evening was most agreeable. We passed through Gravesend, a bustling and noted town on the Thames, and our course lay for some distance along the margin of the river. At eleven, we stopped for supper at Rochester. The night which looked so promising, was not to be very delightful; a change came over the face of it, in the shape of a cold, thick fog; moreover, that useless and annoying animal,y'clept 'the guard,' kept us awake by a hideous bellowing with a long tin-horn; and altogether, I was abundantly satisfied with my first experiment in riding all night. Day-light came at last, just as we were entering the ancient and honorable town of Canterbury, as weary pilgrims as ever went there in the days of worthy old Chaucer. The cathedral is entirely surrounded by ordinary dwelling-houses, and the massive entrance was at this hour of course closed. We could only get a glimpse of its fine towers. At sixA. M., we were set down at the 'Ship Hotel,' at Dover, and only had to pay five shillings more than the regular fare, beside three shillings to the guard, etc., for keeping us awake, and two shillings more for porters, ladders, etc., to the boat, a pigmy affair, y'clept the Britannia, on board of which wedescended, after a poor breakfast at the hotel; and in a few minutes we were rapidly receding from the 'white cliffs of England.' The hills along this coast appear to be entirely of chalk, and from a short distance, the shore looks as if partly covered with snow. The castle and heights tower above the town, and the latter give it the appearance of our Brooklyn. The morning was brilliant and cloudless, and the sea scarcely ruffled. So we glided over this far-famed and much-dreaded channel as gently as we should cross from New-York to Jersey City, only taking somewhat longer time to do it. Before we had lost sight of Dover, the coast of 'La Belle France' was very distinct; indeed the two coasts may always be seen from each other, in clear weather. We had three or four baskets of carrier-pigeons on board, which were liberated at intervals, to announce our progress. They are used to communicate important intelligence, and never fail of arriving at their destination in about ten minutes.

The distance from Boulogne to Dover is forty miles. After a voyage of three-and-a-half hours, we made the bustling town of Boulogne, which is prettily situated on the open sea-coast, at the head of a small bay. On an eminence near the town, is a conspicuous monument, commenced by Napoleon to commemorate his (intended) conquest of England,(!) and completed by Louis XVIII., to commemorate Napoleon's downfall!

Wesailed up between two long and excellent wood piers, filled with expecting friends, porters, police, soldiers, custom-house officers, etc., and stepping for the first time on the soil of Europe, at least of the continent, I was escorted by a companion through the eager crowd, amid the clamorous calls of the commissioners, 'Hotel du Nord? Hotel D'Angleterre? Hotel D'Orleans? Portmanteau, Monsieur?' and all in a strange tongue. What a jabbering! At a little bureau on the quay our passports were received, and we were permitted to proceed without any personal examination, the commissioner of our hotel (D'Orleans,) taking charge of our luggage, which he 'passed' in an hour, without giving us a word of trouble; but we soon found we were not to escape vexations, for the seats in the diligences, had been engaged for four days to come! This is especially provoking, in such a place as Boulogne. But repining avails not.

This is the second of 'Le Trois Jours,' and the tri-colored flagsare displayed from every house in town, giving the streets a gay and lively face. This is a remarkably clean and orderly place, and in this respect forms a strong contrast to its rival, Calais. It is a famous sea-bathing place, and during the summer, English residents and visitors form one third of the whole population. Indeed, the town is veryà la Anglaise—more so, they say, than any other in France. But still there is enough to remind a novice that he is really in another country, in the old world. The military on the docks and in every street; the poor women, bare-footed and bare-headed, performing the labor of beasts of burthen, being in fact the public porters, and thankful for the chance of carrying your luggage for a few sous; the incessant jabbering in a strange tongue, (strange, alas! to me,) 'for even the children here,' as one sagely remarked, 'talk very good French;' the streets without side-walks, and the picturesque figures in them; the immense clumsy diligences, arriving and setting off in cautious pace; the street harpists and music-grinders, (of which we have abundant specimens,) etc. The hotels form about one-fourth of all the buildings of the town, and are all crowded. Mine host has a summer pavilion on the banks of the sea, commanding an extensive view of the English coast, etc., and very similar to that at Rockaway, (L. I.,) and to this we are sent in a barouche to dine at thetable d'hôte, in a large airy hall, which accommodates one hundred or more. The company, being mostly English, seemed rather awkward in this novel mode of dining; and there was no general conversation at the table. My neighbour stared with astonishment when he found I was not English, and still more so that I was an American, 'the first he had ever seen;' and he looked as tickled as if he had seen an ourang-outang. The shore before the pavilion is covered with little bathing-cars, which are drawn into the water by horses, and there is a handsome assembly-hall near by, for the bathers. After dinner, walked up to the 'barriers,' or ramparts, which surround an elevated part of the city, and serve both for fortification and a public promenade. The view from them is very fine.

Friday.—A rainy day, and the review and ceremonies in the church are given up. Strangers at the hotels have been invited by the mayor to a grand ball at the 'Salle du Spectacle,' or theatre, this evening. A band of music at the pavilion at dinner. Went to the theatre; great crowd, nine-tenths spectators; much like our Masonic Hall balls, except that there is no room to dance. The élite of the town displayed their best, but the majority were English. It was to betrès selecte, and has been the town-talk for a week; yet my companion said, with great surprise, that of one of the prettiest of the dancers he had bought his gloves. Made an appointment to meet him at Amiens cathedral, at fiveA. M.

Saturday.—A most vexatious mistake of my own has lost me my seat again, and I must endure idleness and ennui, in this purgatory, twenty-four hours longer. Horrors! WhatshallI do? Wandered into a museum, and killed an hour. Bought 'Diary of Desennuyée.'Miserable trash! Changed it for Mrs. Trollope's 'Paris and the Parisians;' precious little better. The longest day I have known this two years.

August 31st.—Found myself actually mounted on therotondeof a French diligence, and proceeding, at the pace of six or seven miles an hour, toward Paris. Splendid morning; and the roads are thoroughly sprinkled by the late rain. The diligence has been recently much modified,à l'Anglaise, and I perceived but little difference in the mode or rate of travelling. This one has two outside rear seats, or therotonde; thebanquette, over the conducteur's seat in front; and the interior, divided into three apartments. The front is called thecoupé, and is the highest price. The conducteur is a respectable personage, who overlooks the whole team, delivers the passports, etc., and the fee to him, and the postilion, is always regular, and paid in advance. (The fees to waiters at hotels in France are always charged in the bills; so there is one annoyance well rid of.)

The road to Paris, by Montreuil, Abbeville, and Beauvais, is flat, stale, and unprofitable. There is little to be seen but wheat-fields and pastures, and here and there a bit of a hut, with the philanthropic announcement, 'Loge au pied et un cheval;' which is equivalent, I presume, to the similar English establishments' sign, 'Entertainment for man and horse.' Montreuil is an antique and strongly-fortified town, entirely surrounded by a high wall, and several out-posts. Here we stopped to dine. Abbeville, the next, is the largest town on the route, and quitecontinentalin its appearance. It was a fête-day, and the whole population were amusing themselves in the streets, some with a dancing monkey, others listening to a buffoon, or improvisatrice. Then we passed through Airaines, Granvilliers, and Marseilles to Beauvais, famous for its siege in 1472 by the Duke of Burgundy, which was raised by the heroic Jean Hanchette, whose memory is still honored by an annual festival. Here we took a good breakfast, for which our night ride had created an excellent appetite. Passing then through the small villages of Puiseux, Blaumont, Sur-Oise and Marseilles, we came to Saint Dennis, the burial-place of the kings of France, and from thence proceeded through a broad, straight, dusty avenue, to the capital, without having any general view; and were set down at the bureaux of the Messageries Royal, where our luggage was slightly examined, and I was then escorted, by a young companion, to the Hotel De Lille et d'Albion, opposite the Palais Royal. Dined at the table d'hôte, with a company of thirty, all English. Got a cab and rode over one of the bridges to find my quandam yankee doctor. Find it necessary to be in earnest now about learning French. My ignorance is rather awkward, but still it is not impossible to make myself understood; and 'necessity is the mother of invention.'

August 2nd.—Hired a guide, or interpreter, to show me the localities, and assist me in my business. In the city in general, I am disappointed. The narrow, filthy streets, with gutters in the centre,and without side-walks, and the antique and irregular buildings, do not realize my notions of gay, elegant Paris. But the extent and magnificence of thepublicbuildings, palaces, gardens, parks, boulevards, etc., are enough to atone for the dirty streets. The general view of the city, from one of the centre bridges, (the atmosphere being wonderfully clear and transparent,) is grand and imposing in the extreme. The luxurious and superb architecture of the Louvre, Tuilleries, Luxembourg, and Palais Royal, and theimmense extent, as well as the great beauty and elegance, of the gardens and parks, connected with these places, must astonish even the most sanguine.

August 4th.—Took lodgings with Dr. —— in Rue D'Enfer, opposite the garden of the Luxembourg, for three objects, namely: to have a guide to the city; to learn French from him and the talkative landlady, and for economy's sake, for I pay but seven and a half francs a week for a snug room with attendance, in a good situation, and can have breakfast (such as it is) for fifteen sous.[11]

6th.Having disposed of most of my business, I commenced 'lionizing.' First, I walked over Pont des Arts, through the Louvre and the Tuilleries, to the Garden of the Tuilleries, which, I need not say, is laid out on a scale of great extent and magnificence, and is profusely adorned with fine statues, and groups in bronze and marble. The number and variety of the noble walks in this garden are truly astonishing. And it is not less so, that the finest statuary should be so liberally exposed to the public, without the least guard or protection, and yet none of it is ever injured. Passed through Place de la Concorde, (late Place Louis XVI.;) and the Champs Elysées, where they were removing the lamps, etc., used in the late fête of the three days; and walked up the broad and noble avenue to the Arc de Triomphe, which was completed a few days since, and is one of the most conspicuous, and most admired ornaments of the capital. I will send you a printed description, which will save me a great many words. Suffice it to say, that the most extravagant epithets will not give you too high an idea of it. It is of white marble, adorned with exquisite bas-reliefs, and is so immense in extent and height, that from the Pont Neuf, about three miles distant, it is conspicuous far above the tall trees of the Champs Elysées, and all the surrounding objects.

Returnedto the Louvre, and spent the forenoon in its celebrated Musée and Gallery of Paintings. This gallery is one thousand three hundred and thirty feet long, and would reach from Broadway to Wooster-street! The ceiling is oval, and is elegantly gilded and adorned. The perspective of the gallery is much like that of Thames Tunnel, and the farther end appears to be only three or four feet high. As to the paintings, I have marked in the catalogue those which particularly struck me, and no farther description would beworth while. The gallery of ancient sculpture is of course intensely interesting, and contains one of the finest collections in the world. (See Madame Starke.) Walked up to the Boulevards, which, with Rue Rivoli, Rue Castiglione, and perhaps two or three others, are the only streets which do credit to the city. The Boulevards are quite modern; and when the trees are matured, and the building finished, they will be much more beautiful than now. The Boulevard des Italiens is the handsomest. In the Boulevard Conti, is the superb church ofSt. Madeline, the interior of which is not yet completed. It is like theBourse, or Exchange, on the model of a Grecian temple, and is built of white marble, surrounded with exquisite Corinthian pillars, and ornamented with bas-reliefs. In the Place Vendome, nearby, is the celebrated column (on the model of Trajan's,) erected by Napoleon to commemorate his victories. What a gigantic mind was Napoleon's! It is displayed as much in the monuments, edifices, and public works, which he planned and executed, as in his ambitious projects for the conquest of Europe. This column is made of cannon taken in his battles, and you must see it, in order to understand the difficulty as well as grandeur of such a project.

Returned to my room before dark; for recent examples have shown, that it is not quite safe to be out alone, late in the evening, in the streets of Paris. Several persons have been attacked and robbed, and one or two killed, in this neighborhood, within a few days.

Sunday.—Went to St. Sulpice, which is ranked as the second church in Paris, next to Notre Dame. It is Roman Catholic of course, for there are but four or five Protestant churches in all Paris! The front of St. Sulpice is very grand and imposing, but the rest is not particularly so. The interior is spacious and lofty, but far less elaborately finished and decorated than the cathedrals of England. There are large niches around the walls, enclosed with a railing, and adorned with fine paintings, an altar etc., which seemed to be private or family chapels. Several companies of children, apparently belonging to schools, were led into the church by priests in black cloth robes. These priests were reading the service in various parts of the church, and in the niches, to groups of ten or twenty; but the principal one was before the grand altar, which was richly adorned, and contrived for effect, which I cannot describe.

7th.—Went to Versailles, where there was to be a grand review, etc. The Doctor, a medical student, a New-Orleans gentleman, and myself, took a hack together, and started off about eleven o'clock. All the world had gone or were going; the vehicles of all sorts, from the superb barouche of the nobility, to the go-cart of the market folks, were innumerable. Rode along the Quai des Tuilleries and the Champs Elysées. Passed Saint Cloud, the favorite residence of Napoleon, and the scene of the bloodless revolution which gave him the government of France. Near the palace, is a column for telegraphs, by which Napoleon communicated with Paris. A certain light was a signal that he would see nobody. Neither lord nor lady must approach.

Arrivedat Versailles at one. Review just over! The palace here is immensity personified. It can hardly be comprehended. From the magnificent gardens, the view of it is superb. These gardens will more than realize the most brilliant fairy scene of the Arabian Nights. They extendseveral milesin each direction; laid out with the most perfect neatness and order; and this is their only fault. There is too much trimming—too much exactness. If they were a little more like the wild beauty of nature, they would please my eye as well. Statuary, of all sorts, is liberally disposed throughout these vast grounds; noble avenues intersect each other at half-angles in the gardens and park; and in these the trees are so placed and trimmed as to form a grand triumphal arch; while the squares between are occupied by fountains, curiously devised, or by a bed of flowers.

'All the world and his wife' were there. Suddenly, there was a pressing toward one of the grand avenues. It was to see the King of Naples, who is now here on a visit to his aunt, the Queen of the French. The king and the French queen were in an open car, accompanied by two good-looking youths, about sixteen and eighteen, (the Dukes of Nemours and Orleans,) and the two princesses, rather pretty, and dressed with taste and marked simplicity. An elderly gentleman, next to the King of Naples, was said to be his minister or guardian, and he looks as if he needed one. He is a mustachioed, dandyish-looking fellow, and stared through his quizzing glass in a style quite amusing. The people took off their hats, as the car passed, but there was not a whisper of applause or enthusiasm.

On our return, just as we stopped at the park of St. Cloud, the French king's carriage came up, kept as close as a prison; and in a few minutes, the queen and he of Naples arrived, and stopped in the park to change horses; so we had a chance to scan them all very closely. The queen might have been handsome once, but she certainly is not now. She bowed repeatedly to some one by the carriage; but not a word was uttered, which appeared very strange.

10th.—My way to Galignani's reading-room, every morning, is through the portico of the hall of the celebrated French Institute, over the Pont des Arts, and through the quadrangles of the Louvre and Palais Royal. What a world in miniature, (and not on a very small scale either,) is this Palais Royal! A palace that wouldcover two or three of our squares, in the heart of the city, was converted by its proprietor, the late Duke of Orleans, into an immense bazaar; the entrance from every part being from the interior court, which is a long promenade of itself, adorned with rows of trees, fountains, and gardens. The lower floor of the palace is divided into stores, in the arcade fashion, in which are displayed every article, almost, which can be imagined or desired, for use or ornament. The jewellers are the most numerous. There are, I should think, at least three or four hundred of these shops on the first floor, and they each rent for four thousand francs per annum. The second floor is occupied by cafés, reading-rooms and by gambling-establishments, or 'hells,' and the upper stories by characters of all sorts, male and female. In short,there is a specimen of every thing, good and bad, in this Palais Royal; and even the bad is made so alluring and dazzling, that altogether, it is no very difficult matter for an unwary novice there to rid himself of his superfluous cash. The imposingcoup d'œilof the palace and gardens you can imagine better from the prints, than from any description.

Near the Bourse, is the Halle au Blé, an immense circular building, the dome of which is nearly as large as that of the Pantheon at Rome.

Inmy ramble to-day, I dropped into a church which I found to be that of Saint Roch, one of the most beautiful in Paris. Like Saint Sulpice, it has numerous private altars in the enclosures around the walls, which are adorned with fine paintings. Near the main altar, there is a representation of the sepulchre, made with real stones, and roughly placed in the supposed manner of the original, and a group of statuary, as large as life, representing the entombment. It is so well done, that the credulous devotees who were kneeling before it seemed to think it was reality. Near it is a representation of Mount Calvary and the Crucifixion, not painted, but contrived to produce a most singular effect.

In the aisle of Saint Roch, I met an English lady, and her three daughters, whom I had seen at Boulogne. Having travelled with the lady's husband, but not having been formally introduced, I passed without speaking to them. The lady turned and spoke to me, and politely invited me to call at her hotel. I mention this, as proving that the English are not always so tenacious about formal introductions as they have been represented.

Tuesday, 9th.—Walked before breakfast to the Jardin des Plants, where botanical students have the privilege of studying all the immense variety of specimens which are there displayed, in a garden of three-fourths of a mile long. A small hill in the centre is surmounted by a little bronze temple, from which there is a good prospect. On this hill are two or threeCedars of Lebanon, which are esteemed very rare and valuable; it is a beautiful tree, and quiteoriental. Beside the plants in this establishment, there is a menagerie, a museum of botany and natural history, etc.

Visited the gallery of the Luxembourg, which is appropriated for paintings and sculpture by living artists. It was a rich treat. See catalogue. The garden of the Luxembourg is a beautiful promenade, but not equal to that of the Tuilleries. Nothing can exceed the gayety and brilliancy of the scene in these gardens at sunset, and early in the evening, when the thousands are enjoying the cool refreshing air, or admiring the fountains and statues. In the Tuilleries, a sculpture in bronze has been lately put up, representing a lion crushing a viper or serpent. It seems to attract much attention, as being emblematical of a strong government putting down all insurrectionary vipers.

VisitedNotre-Dame. The interior architecture will not comparewith that of York Minster, and other English cathedrals, but it has a lighter and more cheerful appearance. It is abundantly decorated with paintings, some of which are very superior. A company of priests were chanting in the choir, in the most doleful manner imaginable. Ascended by four hundred steps to the top of the towers, from which there is a fine view of Paris and the environs. The clearness of the atmosphere renders the view much better than that from Saint Paul's. ThePalais de Justice, where the courts, etc., are held, is near Notre Dame, on the Ile de Cité. The Court of Cassation are now engaged in the trial of persons lately arrested for supposed treasonable plots. Poor Louis Phillipe! thine is a throne of thorns! Thou darest not show thyself in public, lest thy life should be forfeited! Who does not envy thee! And yet, I have never learned that the king has merited these attempts on his life. The government, in spite of some severe laws, has been as liberal as the character of the people would justify.

TheBibliothèque du Roicontains eight hundred thousand volumes, the largest library in the world. I noticed a work on the topography, etc., of France, alone, in two hundred and nine large folio volumes! Connected with the library, is an immense collection of prints, and of antique medals, cameos, gems, etc. I saw the armour of the Duke of Sully, Henry IV., and several of the French generals; manuscript original letters of Racine, Molière, Bossuet, Boileau, Voltaire, Fenelon, Rousseau, etc.; manuscripts written in the third, fourth, and fifth centuries, beautifully illuminated; manuscripts in Turkish, Arabic, Coptic, Egyptian, etc., and paintings from the ruins of Thebes, probably done before Christ.

Thepapers announced a review of the troops before the Tuilleries, by the king, and the King of Naples, but it was changed to the Champs Elysées, and the King of France was not present. He is said to be very courageous himself, and it is only the urgent entreaties of his family and his ministers which keep him so close. He wished to have the review on the 29th, but they would not permit him. Just as I was leaving the Garden of the Tuilleries, the king arrived in a coach-and-six, preceded by a courier, and escorted by a party of dragoons. He looked out of the carriage and bowed, and I had a good opportunity to see him. The face was quitenatural, and very much like the prints.

This afternoon I visited one of the most curious and interesting sights in Paris, the manufactory of the celebratedGobelin Tapestry, where those copies of the Cartoons of Raphael, exhibited in New-York, were made. The operation appears perfectly simple, and yet I cannot understand it. The picture to be copied is hung on the wall behind the loom; the weaver sits with his back to it, and works on theback of the tapestry. It is done entirely by hand, and of course it is very slow work, six years being spent on one piece. There are about ten or twelve rooms, some of them containing two or three looms. Several of the pieces now on the looms are very beautiful, and they are, therefore, very expensive. None but kings andmillionairescan afford them. Annexed to the tapestry rooms, there is amanufactory of carpets, of a most princely description, uniting the thickness and durability of the Turkey carpets, with the softness and elegance of the Wilton. The colors and patterns are really superb. The carpets are always made in one piece. These, also, are such as the most wealthy only can buy.

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