A CONTRASTED PICTURE.

'Peace has her victories,As well as war;'

says Milton, in his splendid lines to Cromwell, and this is one of them. For months every persuasion to which eloquence could give power, had been exerted on the President, to obtain his veto on the one hand, and his signature on the other. The Whig party, in the plenitude of its power, personified in the person of their bold leader, the 'lord of the lion heart and eagle eye,' and standing on the grave of General Harrison, hallowed by his death, and full of thedictation of success, felt themselves like Olympian Jove with thunderbolt in hand ready to strike down to endless political perdition the 'Acting President' if he dared to veto. The threat was made in tones of thunder, by their great champion. But, lo! the veto came, and calm amidst the breaking of the storm, the President was teaching his little son his lesson. It was a Roman one. In the battle-field a moment often decides the victory. A moment of decisive action which requires no wear and tear of spirit for days, weeks, and months—amidst imprecations and execrations—but an energy which springs to life on the instant, such as Napoleon exerted at Lodi, but which exhibits no greater powers of purpose than President Tyler exhibited—for none but those who witnessed it, can have any idea of the many and the powerful influences which were brought to bear, to obtain the President's signature to the Bank Bill—influences exerted not only by the distinguished and the powerful, face to face with the Chief Magistrate, but through the portentous threatenings of anonymous letters, of the most assassin-like and dastardly character.

We all remember the effigy-burning that succeeded the veto, and which, the President said, 'served but to light him in the path of duty.' A little anecdote which occurred at the dinner-table one day between Mr. John Tyler, Jr. and the President, will show how good-humoredly the President bore a jest upon the subject. There were several young gentlemen present at table, guests of the sons of the President. The Chief Magistrate sat among them, enjoying the talk with apparently as much interest as if the magnates of the nation were around him.

The conversation happened to turn upon the question as to which was the greatest man, Napoleon or Cæsar; and during the conversation, Mr. John Tyler, Jr. chanced to observe, that he had seen it stated, that Pompey's statue, at the base of which Cæsar fell, had been discovered in some excavations made in Rome. 'Ah?' said the President; 'well, John, was there any blood upon it?'

'You don't believe it, I suppose, father?' said the son.

'Why, John, I don't doubt that you have read of the excavation, but I doubt very much if it was truly Pompey's statue; for, after the lapse of so many centuries, the authentication of the statue must be very doubtful.'

'Well, Mr. President,' replied his son, very archly, 'I will tell you of one thing, of which there will be little doubt.'

'What's that?' asked the President.

'Why, some years from this, when some well-digger, or house-builder, or other person, is excavating in the neighborhood of Nashville Tennessee, Louisville Kentucky, or some other place that might be named, he may light upon a stuffed Paddy some six feet high, the earth half burned, with a rope around its neck: 'Ah, what's this?' some one may inquire. 'Why,' replies another, 'it is the effigy of that John Tyler, who vetoed the Bank Bill!'

'Ah,' said the President, laughing heartily, 'you have me there, John.'

I may here remark of Mr.John Tyler, Jr., who is the privatesecretary of the President, that he is a very handsome man, with courtly manners; that his partialities are to the study of the sciences, rather than to politics; and that he has written a pamphlet upon electricity, which is said to exhibit much knowledge and originality.

Those who have not witnessed the terror which prevails among the clerks, on a change of parties in power at Washington, or even of a change of the head of a department, who, it is rumored, intends to make removals, can have no idea of it. Some poor clerk, who supports a large family upon one thousand or twelve hundred dollars, may have inadvertently let slip an imprudent expression, which some ready spy retails and makes public, with a thousand exaggerations, and, lo! the report takes wind that he is to be removed. Then comes the distress of his agonized wife and children, while the poor woman hurries to the President, or to the head of the department to which her husband belongs, to intercede for him, and save herself and family from ruin.

When General Harrison came into power, multitudes of such fears prevailed, and with fearful truth for their foundation. The good old General himself had no wish to proscribe, but proscription was the word with too many of his friends. I may mention a circumstance which came under my own knowledge.

The head of a certain department, shortly before General Harrison's death, turned out a clerk of his, who was accused of having busied himself in politics—a poor man, who had a wife and six children. She is a beautiful woman, but twenty-six years of age. Her agony was such as to render her almost insane. The removal left her and her children houseless and homeless, with the husband and father in debt. Fiction has wrung many a heart to tears with a fancied picture not to compare in sorrow to the truth of this. Shortly after this removal, General Harrison died, and was laid in state in the hall of the White House, whither flocked multitudes to gaze upon his lifeless remains, and reflect upon the instability of earthly power, and the vanity of all human greatness. I met the lady of the removed official with, another lady, and but one escort, on their way to look their first and last upon the departed President; and I joined her. General Harrison I had known well, and I spoke of his goodness of heart, and manliness of character, as we proceeded, with an earnest truthfulness, which seemed to impress the wife of the official, by whose side I walked.

'I blame —— for my trouble,' she said, naming the head of the department, half to herself; 'I believe the old General was good-hearted.'

We entered the White House. In state, just before the entrance, lay the General. His features were placid, and betrayed little or none of the sufferings of the departed spirit. My companion gazed upon him earnestly and long, and then said, with a hysteric start:

'I would to God it was —— who was lying in that coffin! I'd give a party to-night, poor as I am!'

One may well fancy how deep the agony of heart of a sensitive lady must have been, to wring from her such an expression. In fancy, she heard the voice of her children crying to her for bread;and to her excited mind they appeared before her, dead as the departed President, and of hunger; for so she said, in speaking of her expression afterward.

It was a scene, in those days, to see the department 'let out,' as the boys would say at school. The aspect of those clerks whose political bias was known to be against the party in power, was lugubrious enough. They did not look like gentlemen who, after their official labors were over, were going to their dinners, but as if they were wrapped in sorrow, and wending to a funeral.

One day, shortly after the succession of President Tyler, a certain gentleman turned out fifteen of his officials, in one fell swoop. They got their notices that their services were no more needed by the department, about two o'clock,P. M.The public gardener happened to be in the President's grounds when he heard the news, and seeing the President on the portico, he advanced to him and said:

'Mr. President, only think of it; they're turning all the poor clerks out.'

The President immediately despatched a note for the official, who was soon in the President's presence, and ready to recount the political sins of the expelled.

'Reinstate them,' said the President; 'I cannot bear to have their wives and children coming to me with accounts of their sufferings, when I can prevent it.'

The President never thinks of making a display of mere official dignity. He never thinks of thePresident, unless he is fulfilling some presidential duty, or unless some one presumes, from his kindness of manner, to encroach upon his dignity; and then the encroacher instantly discovers how much he has erred. This, more than one senator and representative can tell, who has undertaken the task of dictation to the President.

Dickens, who found so much fault with our institutions, and our people generally, justly remarked of our Chief Magistrate, when he called to pay his respects to him: 'The expression of his face was mild and pleasant, and his manners were remarkably unaffected and agreeable. I thought that in his whole carriage and demeanor he became his station singularly well. And yet, as I have before said, he never seems to think of the display of official dignity.'

A distinguished artist who had been employed by the King of France to copy Stuart's full length likeness ofWashingtonwhich hangs in the White House, was invited by the President to be his guest while copying the picture. The President also employed him to take the likeness of himself, Mrs. Robert Tyler, and his youngest daughter, Alice. The artist's manners were distinguished by the profoundest observance of courtly etiquette; and the Jeffersonian ease of the President's manners served to surprise him. I remember one day while the family circle were all seated round the fire after dinner, the artist rose, and with a profound salaam, said: 'Mr. President, with your permission I will retire to my work.'

'My good fellow, do just what you please,' replied the President, good-humoredly smiling, as the artist bowed himself out of the room.

The President has a peculiar power of inspiring confidence in all who approach him. In the summer-time it is the custom for the National Band of the Marine Barracks to play alternately at the Capitol and in the President's grounds. Crowds of citizens, with senators and representatives accompanying the ladies of their families, walk through the grounds while the band is playing, salute their acquaintances and chat with their friends till the music ceases, when they all, as the sun goes down, loiteringly leave. The President and his family always appear on the portico that fronts on the grounds of the White House, to which steps ascend from both sides, and receive their friends and acquaintances, who call on these occasions to pay their respects to the Chief Magistrate and his household. His manners are so very unpretending that, but for the respect that is paid him, you would not distinguish the Chief Magistrate from the group among which he familiarly mingles, unless you were an observer of character, and then you would know him from the absence of all restraint in his person and conversation, and the freedom and entire frankness of his intercourse with those around him.

On one of these Saturday afternoons, two countrymen, who looked like persons who had come to market, approached the portico, evidently with a desire to see the President. One of them asked a gentleman who was ascending the steps, which was the President. The gentleman pointed out the Chief Magistrate, and asked the countryman if he would like to be introduced to him.

'Why,' replied the countryman, 'I am not of his way of thinking, but they say so much about him and against him, that I should like to have a good look at him, any how.'

'Come up; he 'll be glad to see you. Won't your friend come?'

The friend declined; and the gentleman with his new acquaintance beside him, who gave him his name, ascended the steps. The President instantly noticed the countryman, and observed that the visiter felt some diffidence in approaching him. Mr. Tyler accordingly quit the group by which he was surrounded, and advanced to meet him. On his name being mentioned, the President gave him a hearty shake of the hand, and asked him from what State he came?

The countryman replied, from Virginia.

The President entered into conversation with him, and they stood talking together some ten minutes or more, when with a smiling countenance, and a frank offering of his hand, the visiter withdrew.

'There,' said the President, as the visiter left, 'is a man who, consulting the native manliness of his impulses, has a propriety of deportment that is better than any thing that Chesterfield has taught. He is one of Nature's noblemen.'

After hearing this remark, the introducer was anxious to know what impression the President had made upon a political opponent, who had made such an impression upon the President. He accordingly followed him as he walked away with his friend, who had waited below.

He was persuading his friend to go up and be presented to the President, and his introducer overheard him say:

'I tell you what it is, neighbor, I believe they lie about him faster than Eclipse can run.'

The President is truly a republican. He is often heard to express the loftiest sentiments of patriotism in his family circle, when he can have no purpose of popularity in view, but merely the wish to give utterance to his feelings. A visiter at the White House remembers well on one occasion, being then the only guest, when the Rhode Island difficulties were in their midst, when some one laughingly asked him, 'how he would like to be a King?' The reply was: 'I am afraid, in spite of my democracy, that I should say what the king of Prussia said to Doctor Franklin, that were he in the Doctor's situation he would be a republican too; but being born a king, he was determined to support king-craft.'

The President, who was gazing out of the window, and as it was thought not at all attending to the idle talk, turned quickly round and said with animation:

'I would rather settle the Rhode Island question upon the true principles of the constitution, establish a just treaty with Great Britain, and give my administration an honorable place in the history of the republic, than win and wear the most princely crown in christendom.'

The jokes between Mr.Wiseand the President are often very amusing. Mr. Wise is the devoted friend of the President. The representative from Virginia drives a little one-horse carriage, and one day the President observed to him:

'Wise, that carriage of yours looks like a candle-box on wheels; why don't you get a more genteel one?'

'Why, Mr. President, it is a much more genteel one than yours. You keep four horses, which you don't drive more than once a month; and when you do, you hitch them to a second-hand carriage.'

'Why, Wise, how did you find that out?'

'Find it out? Didn't you drive it about for a month, with the coat of arms of Mr.Paulding, late Secretary of the Navy upon it?'

'What of that? Is not Paulding the real Simon Pure of the democracy?'

'Democracy blazoning its coat of arms!' replied Wise. 'I was really glad one day when I stopped at the carriage-maker's to get my truly republican vehicle mended, to see the ex-secretary's carriage there, and a workman employed erasing the coat of arms; making a plain pannel for your excellency.'

'Well,' replied the President, 'I claim to be descended from Wat Tyler, the blacksmith, and I had better have a good stout arm grasping an uplifted hammer, blazoned on my pannel; don't you think so? It would be a real democratic knock-down to Paulding's heraldry.'

Speaking of the President's carriage, reminds me of an anecdote of his coachman, Burrell. Somebody asked Burrell which he liked best, Virginia or Washington?

'Virginia,' replied Burrell. 'I think there are more gentlemen in Virginia, Sir, than there are about Congress. In Virginia, Sir, if a gentleman wanted to abuse the President, he wouldn't come rightby his carriage, where I, his coachman, am sitting, to talk it out so as I can hear it. I, Sir, I've waited on him ever since he was first married; I ought to know what kind of a man he is; and the way they lie about him makes me so savage sometimes, that I feel as if I'd like to have some on 'em tied to a tree, and have fair play at 'em with this horse-whip.'

This anecdote is enough to show what kind of a master the President is.

When Pettrick the sculptor was stabbed by some midnight assassin, as soon as the President heard of it he hurried to his studio, where the deed was perpetrated, and not only ordered him to be provided for, but saw him attended to himself.

One Sunday just after dinner, there were several loud ringings of the front door bell, when the President, who had left a gentleman alone in the dining-room, returned and said: 'They have it through the city that I have been shot!'

'With paper bullets of the brain, I suppose they mean, Mr. President,' said the guest.

'No,' replied the President, 'with leaden bullets from a pistol. Come, walk out on the portico, and smoke your cigar.'

The President with his guest walked out on the portico, whither soon came thronging a crowd of the President's friends, who, hearing the report through the city, had hastened to the White House to learn if there was any truth in the story.

There was no truth whatever in it; but every body present was struck with the President's indifference to the report, and the absence of all curiosity on his part as to how it originated. He only remarked: 'If I am shot at, gentlemen, it will be more in malice than in madness;' and apologizing, by saying that daily confinement required that he should take exercise, he rode away in his carriage unattended.

As a husband and a father, President Tyler is a model for any man; and particularly for public men, who too often neglect their families. For a very long time the lady of the President was in feeble health, which terminated in her death last summer. It was a beautiful moral spectacle to see the President, amidst all the cares and perplexities of his exalted station, beset by so many detractors, so devotedly watchful of Mrs. Tyler's declining condition. In the midst of the veto days, when engaged in the most animated political conversation, if Mrs. Tyler chanced to be in the room, the President's eye every minute wandered to her, in affectionate regard; and when she left the room upon the arm of her son or daughter, he would watch her anxiously and in silence till she withdrew, and would often remain in melancholy thoughtfulness for minutes afterward, forgetful of the conversation and those around him.

In bringing up his family, Mr. Tyler has been fortunate. His daughters, except the youngest, Alice, who is at school, are happily married, and his sons who are grown, Mr. Robert and Mr. John Tyler, are gentlemen of honor, manliness, and intellect; and Tazwell, his youngest son, is a lad of promise. Miss Elizabeth Tyler,who is now Mrs. Waller, and living with her husband in Virginia, was much admired in her bellehood when in the White House. Her unpretending and gentle manners inspired with admiration all who approached her.

'Well,' exclaimed a fashionably ambitious young lady one day to a gentleman who was attending her on a visit to Miss Tyler, 'if I were Miss Tyler, I'd blaze my bellehood out as long as my father was President, and make the most devoted lover in christendom bide my beck in the crowd.'

The fair Virginian had no such ambition, and thereby proved herself worthy of the manly heart that has won her.

Mr.Robert Tyler, the eldest son of the President, is a young man of brilliant genius. As a poet, in high-wrought and vivid imagery, he resembles Shelley, whose likeness he personally resembles; and as an orator, there is not a speaker of his years in our country who has made a greater impression than he made in two extemporaneous efforts before the Irish Association. Bold, eloquent, and manly, he dashes into his subject with his whole soul, while comprehensiveness, energy, and point characterize every thing he says.

Certain persons, forgetting the decencies of life, have abused and calumniated Mr. Robert Tyler in the most gross and libellous manner. It is therefore due to him to say, that a kinder son, a more devoted husband and father, or a firmer friend, those who know him have never known. Magnanimous and chivalrous, he throws no veil over either his actions or opinions; and his frank and high bearing wins the regard of all those who come in personal contact with him, however much they may have been before prejudiced against him.

The lady of Mr. Robert Tyler does the honors of the White House. She is the grand-daughter of the late Major Fairlie, of New-York, a soldier of the revolution, and a distinguished citizen, who was well known to many of the oldest inhabitants of that city. Her mother was a celebrated belle, whom our present minister to Spain, Washington Irving, remembers vividly as his friend, and one of the most brilliant women of the day; a fair and witty and most worthy lady, who might well have inspired the author of the 'Sketch Book' with those exalted perceptions of female character which glow so brilliantly in his portraits of the sex.

Mr.Cooper, the celebrated tragedian, married this lady, and Mrs. Tyler is their eldest daughter. Three years since Miss Cooper married Mr. Robert Tyler. Dickens says when he visited the White House, that Mrs. Tyler 'acted as the lady of the mansion, and a very interesting, graceful, and accomplished lady too.'

The just perception of Dickens understood at once the character of Mrs. Tyler. She does the duties of the White House with a graceful naturalness that is remarked by every one, and she combines with a keen perception of character, an acute sense of the ridiculous and a ready wit, the most feminine gentleness of manner and deportment; qualities which are rarely found in combination. Mrs. Tyler is devoted to her children, and she dresses them asplainly as if they were dwellers on a retired estate in Virginia. Her own attire is simple, and she never departs from this simplicity except when state occasions demand some little ornament. The greatest sense of propriety marks her whole deportment in every relation of life.

Mrs. Robert Tyler is now on a visit to a married sister in Alabama; for another beautiful trait of her character is her devotion to her sisters and brother. The only inmates of the White House at present (May first) are the President with his three sons, and Mrs. Jones, his eldest daughter. Mrs. Semple, the President's second daughter, is living in Virginia, and is a lady of great beauty, and in the bloom of health.

The fine features of Mrs. Jones are wan with long illness. She never leaves her room except on some balmy day, to take a short ride. The President always accompanies her, supporting her in his arms to and from her chamber to the carriage, with a tenderness as gentle and as watchful as her own to her babe. The President, unlike some distinguished statesmen of other as well as of our times, is remarkable for his high estimate of female character. He receives the lady visiters of the White House with a deference and respect which has been much noticed, and which is not the manner of a worldling and a courtier, compliment and hollowness, but the impulse of a lofty and holy sentiment. When a lad at school, he prepared as a theme for declamation an essay upon female education, in which the boy expressed those opinions which have ever since been entertained by the man.

The President is a man of the strongest sympathies. There is not a human being about him, from his servants to his children, of whose feelings he is not regardful, and in whose welfare he does not feel a daily and living interest. If the day be cool, he will ask his coachman why he has not his overcoat. If his servant happens not to be cheerful, he will ask him, in the kindest manner, what's the matter with him. And the complaint, if the servant have one, is made without the least hesitation, and with the certainty that he will meet at the President's hands both sympathy and justice. In his intercourse with his servants he is always kind, and frequently jocular, for he is a great lover of a harmless jest.

A few weeks since, the Irishmen of the Capitol waited on the President in a body, and through Mr. Hobson, their orator, expressed their gratitude for the interest he had taken in them, and their profound respect for his character, to which the President made a most eloquent reply.

It was amusing to watch the interest which the President's servants, all of whom belong to him, except Wilkins, the butler of the establishment, and his son, felt in his speech. They modestly took their station by the door, to listen to their master's reply, for they are devotedly attached to him.

'Short,' asked a gentleman, of one of these humble listeners, 'how did you like the President's speech?'

'I always likes the President's speeches, Sir, but I don't thinkthis one of his happiest efforts. I prefers him, Sir, before a jury. He can beat any man in Virginia, before a jury,' was the reply.

The President's love for Virginia is truly worthy of a mother, whose 'jewels are her children.' He delights in telling anecdotes of his early days, in Virginia; and he always has the most cordial greeting for his old Virginia friends, however humble they may be, when they call to see him. How is such and such a one? he will inquire, from the humblest laborer on a farm, up to the highest dignitary of the State.

President Tyler is a man of very unsuspicious nature, and there is no morbidity of feeling in him. He is always cheerful and natural. In the midst of great difficulties of state, when the Cabinet have held protracted meetings, and when, doubtless, there were differences of opinion among them; when the Secretary of State, with his beetling brows and cavernous eyes, passed by alone, absorbed in his own thoughts; when Mr. Spencer's quick step lost some of its elasticity, and the frank and firm Kentuckian, at the head of the Post Office Department, wore an anxious look; and the Attorney-General forgot, for a moment, his courteous salutation to a friendly passer-by; when that true statesman of the old Virginia school, Judge Upshur, seemed involved in what those who have not the mind to comprehend him, call 'abstractions;' and when Mr. Forward looked as if the cares of the Church, as well as those of the Treasury were resting on his shoulders; the President would pass from their midst to his family circle, assembled for dinner, greet most cordially, and apparently without a care, whatever person might chance to be their guest, and mix in the cheerful chat around him, as if he had no thought but the wish to promote it.

The President is a statesman with no secret opinions. He speaks out plainly whatever he thinks; and he listens respectfully, nay, kindly, to the adverse opinions of others, without the least spirit of dictation.

He is not the least of a formalist. If he has a guest, whom he asks to take a glass of wine with him, he will himself search for the keys of the side-board, if the servant happens to be absent, produce the decanters and glasses himself, and tell some pleasant story the while. When he talks of men, he speaks of their worth, and seldom of their wealth. With his purse he is too open, and too often he bestows more than his means warrant, upon some needy applicant, for whom he can find no office, or whom he may think unfitted for one.

For the President his family have the most unbounded love. The only restraint they know, is what they think he would not approve; and their familiar talk among themselves is never checked, in the least, by his entrance; it is, on the contrary, promoted.

These little personal traits of President Tyler and his family, which might be easily extended into a volume, are offered to the readers of theKnickerbockeras being not without interest, since they illustrate the private character of the Chief Magistrate of our great Republic, and with the assurance that they are strictly true.

FROM 'PASSION ODE,' AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY J. RHEYN PIKSOHN

Itwas a glorious dayWhen, on the winding wayThat led to Salem's towers and temple high,From the assembled throngLoud burst the choral song:'Hosanna in the highest!' rang the cry;While shouting thousands lined the road,And boughs of palm before triumphantJesusstrowed.

'Tis morning: and againThe mighty crowds of menTread Salem's streets and throng her towers high;Their many-voiced roarSwells louder than before,But 'crucify him!' is the savage cry;The furious curse the welkin tore,'His blood be on us and our children ever more!'

In vain false Pilate stands;No washing of the handsClears from the heart the tinct of innocent blood.The crowd, with cruel care,Load his shoulders bare,Like Isaac's, with the sacrificial wood:And the red lash, with many a blow,Scourges his faltering steps along the road of wo.

Nor stripes, nor mockery,Nor heaped-up agony,Can wring from infinite Love one vengeful word:While sufferingJesusstandsAmidst your pagan bands,And ye laugh round, ye cruel hearts abhorred,Hear theLord'sdying prayer for you:'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do!'

Through the city doorsThe shouting tumult pours,And up the steep of Calvary they wind;Golgotha! on theeThey plant the accursed tree;No pity can the God of pity find.Pierced were the hands that gave them bread.And fast 'the beauteous feet that brought good tidings' bled!

TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'KNICKERBOCKER.'

'Sir: At a prayer-meeting held in the house of a friend of mine, in Bleecker-street, one of our most respectable and talented financiers, and who was connected with myself in the late Post-office transaction, of which I have favored you with a development, I was thunder-struck at being shown the last number of your somewhat amusing but reckless Magazine.

'My friend is a subscriber of yours, and was of course greatly agitated and offended at the unexpected and astounding disclosure of the private affair which you have so unwarrantably dished up for the public. As was very natural, he charged me with the authorship of that communication; and as a man of conscientious principle and high moral sense, I was of course unable to deny it. By this time the other gentlemen, our colleagues in said Post-office business, one of whom is in Bangor, the other in Texas, have probably seen the article in question; and you will perceive that I am thus made, through your violation of the sanctity of correspondence, to stand with them in the odious light of an informer.

'Sir, I supposed that your common perception of what is due to the ordinary courtesies of epistolary intercourse rendered it unnecessary for me to desire you not to publish any thing of a personal nature. What is to become of our 'areasandfocus,' of our altars and fires? what is to become of the bonds of social faith, the cherished sentiments of domestic communion, the implicit confidence between man and man, if delicate matters of peculiar and single interest are thus to be blurted by an unreflecting conductor of a journal into the face of all mankind and half New-York? To use the emphatic expression of the western settler, who returned from hunting to find his house and family rifled, (rifled in both senses,) and the walls of his cabin plastered with the brains of his wife and children, it is 'a little too ridiculous.'

'The mischief, however, is done, and is past recall. The least you can do is to make what pecuniary compensation you consider due to my outraged sensibilities. Your Magazine is reputed to be profitable, and for the pile of correspondence which I have placed at your disposal the remuneration ought to be generous. I am no judge of poetry, but the quality of the article which I have sent you I have several times heard spoken of asfirst-rate.

'If you will enclose a draft through the post to the address of 'A. B. C. D. E. F.,' a portion of the fund shall go to soothe the lacerated feelings of my friend in Bleecker-street, and the rest shall be devoted to charitable purposes, or to the temperance cause.

'I had intended to write more fully upon this very vexatious subject, but as the ladies are waiting for me to attend a revival at the Tabernacle this evening, you must allow me to subscribe myself,

'Yours, truly mortified, —— ——.'

Fearlessin the discharge of our duties to the public, as an 'able editor,' we have no hesitation in following the example of all able editors, and give to our readers whatever we think will be considered as a fair part of their money's worth. It is very odd that our sensitive correspondent, so keenly alive to the sufferings of his friend, the talented but lacerated financier of Bleecker-street, does not see that the same sympathy which he insists upon would equally apply to the persons abroad, whose letters he has 'so unwarrantably' made public. This, however, is in the true spirit of the age, which is so remarkably obtuse to that proverbial fact in natural history, that the same sauce which suits the female gander is equally adapted to the male goose.

TO THOMAS CARLYLE, ESQUIRE, LONDON.

Herewitha box, a fragrant casket, goes,Of that loved herb which best in Cuba grows;You had my promise, Thomas, you remember,In Fraser's shop, one morning last November,Of, now and then, a letter from the landWhich cocknies write of ere they understand.Pick then the choicest of the weeds I send,(The Custom House will give them to my friend,)There having paid the duties that accrue,Permit me thus to pay mine own to you.And oh! how difficult each London wightFinds the more Christian duty—notto write;For John is reckoned taciturn and shy,Slow of address and sullen in reply;Bacchus or Ceres, burgundy or ale,To rouse his fancies are of no avail;But would you force the fellow's mettle forth,And of his genius know the pith and worth,In vain you ply him with inspiring drink,Give him a bottle, not of beer, butink:However tongue-tied, asinine, or dull,A quill ay proves a cork-screw to his skull.Hence this poor land so scribbled o'er has been,'Tis like a window in some country inn,Where every dolt has chronicled his folly,His fit of belly-ache or melancholy;With memorandums of his mutton oft,And how his bed was hard, his butter soft;How some John Thompson, on a rainy day,Found nought to eat, but very much to pay,And how said Thompson wished himself away.Ye reverend gods, who guard the household flame,Lares, Penates, whatsoe'er your name,What dire subversion of your sway divineLets loose all cockneydom to tempt the brine?Why from the counter and the club-room soFlock the spruce trader and the Bond-street beau?Why should the lordling[A]and the Marquis come?And many a snug possessor of a plum,Quitting his burrow on the 'Ampstead road,With wife and trunks be flying all abroad?Is it in rivers and in rocks to findSome new sensation for a barren mind?To mark how Albion's little nook has grownTo kiss the limits of the roasted zone?From kindred manners, doctrines, men, and sectsTo learn a lesson of their own defects?Or with rapt eye on cataracts to look?No, their sole passion is—to spawn a book.From the cold Caspian to the Volga thusThe sturgeons pour pell-mell—a mighty muss![B]Eager with annual industry to strowThe slimy bottom with whole heaps of roe;Scarce less I say the multitudinous fryEach season brings to keep a diary;Which oft, to give my simile more truth,Proves 'caviare' to the general tooth.Ere yet my glance anatomized arightThe insect race that fluttered in my sight,Oft as the mote-like myriads of BroadwayI scanned, their trim and bearing to survey,At each third passenger I could not chooseBut curl my lip, with frequentpshas!andpoohs!To mark the vanity, the coarse conceit,That showed the creature's genus to the street.'Was ever nation like Sienna's vain?'[C]Says father Dante, in sarcastic strain;And in my book-learned ignorance I quotedThe line, to fit the follies which I noted.Surely, quoth I, could emptiness and frothAnd the poor pride of superfinest clothTo more excess be carried than by thesePert, whiskered, insolent Manhattanese?But soon I found how poor a patriot I,'Twasmine own countrymenI saw go by!Pride in their port, defiance in their gait,I saw these lords of human kind with hate.O, altered race! with hair upon your chins,In your strut Spaniards, Frenchmen in your grins;The 'snob' and shop-keeper but ill concealedBy boots of Paris, bright and brazen-heeled,Newmarket coats, and Cashmere's flowery vests,And half Potosi blazing on your breasts,Made up of coxcomb, pugilist, and sot—Are ye true Englishmen? I know ye not!With what fierce air, how lion-like a swell,They pace the pavement of the grand hotel;On each new guest with regal stare look down,Or strike him dead with a victorious frown;[D]These are the fools whom I for natives took,Ere I could read their nation in their look;Now wiser grown, I recognize each assFor a true bit of Birmingham's best brass.In Astor's mansion, where the rich resort,And exiled Britons toss their daily port,And sometimes angels condescend to sipTheir balmy hyson with benignant lip,A nook there is to thirsty pilgrims known,But sacred to male animals alone,Where foreign blades receive their morning's whet,As deep almost in juleps as in debt.There from the throng it pleases me at timesTo pick out subjects for a few odd rhymes.And who could guess, amid this cloud of smoke,That yonder things were hearts of British oak;Or who that knew the country of their birth,Could by the gilding guess the fabric's worth?Come, let us dare these lions to attack,And hang a calf-skin on each recreant back.Some are third cousins of the penny press,Skilful a piquant paragraph to dress;Some in their veins a dash patrician boast—Them Stülz has banished from their natal coast:Here sits a lecturer, bearing in his mienMore glories than he bought at Aberdeen.These are tragedians—wandering stars—and thoseSome little nobodies no body knows,Manchester men, deep read in calicoes.Thomas, your soul abominates a quack,Great, small, high, low—the universal pack.And sure our London is a proper placeWherein to study and detest the race.But O, consider in a land like this,Which owns but one distinction, aim, and bliss;One only difference, by all confessed,Betwixt earth's vilest offspring and her best;One sole ambition for the young and old,Divine, omnipotent, eternal gold;Where genius, goodness, head and heart are weighedBy the false balance of delusive Trade,How small, how impotent is Truth's defence }Against the strides of that arch-fiend, Pretence, }The time's worst poison, blight, and pestilence! }Here, only here, a bold and honest lieIts full allowance of success will buy.No sanctity of station, age, or name,Can check the Charlatan's audacious aim;'A self-made man' is here a fav'rite phrase,So self-made talents earn their self-made praise.Whate'er a freeman claims to be, he is;He knows all magic and all mysteries;No matter in what sphere the scoundrel shine,He made himself, and that's a right divine.Come, then, ye mountebanks of all degrees,New Cagliostros! fly beyond the seas;Fiddlers from Rome, philanthropists from France,Lords of the lyre, the lancet, and the dance;Hydropathists, and mesmerisers, come;Ye who Cremonas and Clementis thrum,Here build your altars, hang your banners out,Laurel yourselves, and your own pæan shout;Assume what little, take what coin you will,Profess all science, arrogate all skill:What though no university enrollYour name and honors on a Latin scroll?Sure each may constitute himself a college,And be himself the warrant of his knowledge.Then at small cost in some gazette obtainAlike an apotheösis and fane:Amid its hallowed columns once enshrined,Converts and worshippers you soon shall find,Buy of the editor—'tis cheap enough—The sacred incense of his potent puff;The public nose will catch the sweet aroma,Tut! they who advertise need no diploma.'Good heavens!' methinks I hear my Thomas cry,'With what a low, derogatory eyeYou view the beautiful, primeval shoreWhere first-born forests guard the torrent's roar.What! is there nothing in that lovely landMid all that's fair, and excellent, and grand,Nothing more worthy of a poet's penThan sots and rogues and bastard Englishmen?'Patience! philosopher: as yet I dwellIn the dull echoes of a tavern-bell;My inspiration is not born of rocks,Nor meads, nor mountains white with snowy flocks;Streets and their sights are all that fire me nowTo tap the bump ideal of my brow;Mine ears are thrilled not by Niagara's noise,But that of drays and cabs and bawling boys;And scarce the day one quiet hour affordsTo fit my fancies with harmonious words;Yet oft at evening, when the moon is up,When trees on dew and men on slumber sup,Along the gas-lit rampart of the bayIn rhymeful mood as undisturbed I stray,Awhile my present 'whereabout' I lose,And on my loved ones o'er the water muse.Sometimes lulled ocean heaves an orient sigh,Which brings our terrace and its roses nigh;While each Æolian murmur of the seaSeems whispering fragrantly of home and thee;But something soon dispels the pleasing dream,The fire-fly's flash, the night-hawk's whistling scream,Or katydid, complaining in the dark,Or other sound unheard in Regent's Park.For wheresoe'er by night or noon I tread,Thought guides me still, like Ariadne's thread,Through shops and crowds and placard-pasted wallsTill on my brain Sleep's filmy finger fallsAnd cuts the filament, with gentle knife,That leads me through this labyrinth of life.I feel it now, the power of the dull god;The verse imperfect halts—Thomas, I nod;'Tis late—o'er Caurus hangs the northern car;My page is out—and so is your cigar.

And oh! how difficult each London wightFinds the more Christian duty—notto write;For John is reckoned taciturn and shy,Slow of address and sullen in reply;Bacchus or Ceres, burgundy or ale,To rouse his fancies are of no avail;But would you force the fellow's mettle forth,And of his genius know the pith and worth,In vain you ply him with inspiring drink,Give him a bottle, not of beer, butink:However tongue-tied, asinine, or dull,A quill ay proves a cork-screw to his skull.Hence this poor land so scribbled o'er has been,'Tis like a window in some country inn,Where every dolt has chronicled his folly,His fit of belly-ache or melancholy;With memorandums of his mutton oft,And how his bed was hard, his butter soft;How some John Thompson, on a rainy day,Found nought to eat, but very much to pay,And how said Thompson wished himself away.

Ye reverend gods, who guard the household flame,Lares, Penates, whatsoe'er your name,What dire subversion of your sway divineLets loose all cockneydom to tempt the brine?Why from the counter and the club-room soFlock the spruce trader and the Bond-street beau?Why should the lordling[A]and the Marquis come?And many a snug possessor of a plum,Quitting his burrow on the 'Ampstead road,With wife and trunks be flying all abroad?Is it in rivers and in rocks to findSome new sensation for a barren mind?To mark how Albion's little nook has grownTo kiss the limits of the roasted zone?From kindred manners, doctrines, men, and sectsTo learn a lesson of their own defects?Or with rapt eye on cataracts to look?No, their sole passion is—to spawn a book.From the cold Caspian to the Volga thusThe sturgeons pour pell-mell—a mighty muss![B]Eager with annual industry to strowThe slimy bottom with whole heaps of roe;Scarce less I say the multitudinous fryEach season brings to keep a diary;Which oft, to give my simile more truth,Proves 'caviare' to the general tooth.

Ere yet my glance anatomized arightThe insect race that fluttered in my sight,Oft as the mote-like myriads of BroadwayI scanned, their trim and bearing to survey,At each third passenger I could not chooseBut curl my lip, with frequentpshas!andpoohs!To mark the vanity, the coarse conceit,That showed the creature's genus to the street.'Was ever nation like Sienna's vain?'[C]Says father Dante, in sarcastic strain;And in my book-learned ignorance I quotedThe line, to fit the follies which I noted.Surely, quoth I, could emptiness and frothAnd the poor pride of superfinest clothTo more excess be carried than by thesePert, whiskered, insolent Manhattanese?But soon I found how poor a patriot I,'Twasmine own countrymenI saw go by!Pride in their port, defiance in their gait,I saw these lords of human kind with hate.O, altered race! with hair upon your chins,In your strut Spaniards, Frenchmen in your grins;The 'snob' and shop-keeper but ill concealedBy boots of Paris, bright and brazen-heeled,Newmarket coats, and Cashmere's flowery vests,And half Potosi blazing on your breasts,Made up of coxcomb, pugilist, and sot—Are ye true Englishmen? I know ye not!

With what fierce air, how lion-like a swell,They pace the pavement of the grand hotel;On each new guest with regal stare look down,Or strike him dead with a victorious frown;[D]These are the fools whom I for natives took,Ere I could read their nation in their look;Now wiser grown, I recognize each assFor a true bit of Birmingham's best brass.

In Astor's mansion, where the rich resort,And exiled Britons toss their daily port,And sometimes angels condescend to sipTheir balmy hyson with benignant lip,A nook there is to thirsty pilgrims known,But sacred to male animals alone,Where foreign blades receive their morning's whet,As deep almost in juleps as in debt.There from the throng it pleases me at timesTo pick out subjects for a few odd rhymes.And who could guess, amid this cloud of smoke,That yonder things were hearts of British oak;Or who that knew the country of their birth,Could by the gilding guess the fabric's worth?Come, let us dare these lions to attack,And hang a calf-skin on each recreant back.Some are third cousins of the penny press,Skilful a piquant paragraph to dress;Some in their veins a dash patrician boast—Them Stülz has banished from their natal coast:Here sits a lecturer, bearing in his mienMore glories than he bought at Aberdeen.These are tragedians—wandering stars—and thoseSome little nobodies no body knows,Manchester men, deep read in calicoes.

Thomas, your soul abominates a quack,Great, small, high, low—the universal pack.And sure our London is a proper placeWherein to study and detest the race.But O, consider in a land like this,Which owns but one distinction, aim, and bliss;One only difference, by all confessed,Betwixt earth's vilest offspring and her best;One sole ambition for the young and old,Divine, omnipotent, eternal gold;Where genius, goodness, head and heart are weighedBy the false balance of delusive Trade,How small, how impotent is Truth's defence }Against the strides of that arch-fiend, Pretence, }The time's worst poison, blight, and pestilence! }Here, only here, a bold and honest lieIts full allowance of success will buy.No sanctity of station, age, or name,Can check the Charlatan's audacious aim;'A self-made man' is here a fav'rite phrase,So self-made talents earn their self-made praise.Whate'er a freeman claims to be, he is;He knows all magic and all mysteries;No matter in what sphere the scoundrel shine,He made himself, and that's a right divine.

Come, then, ye mountebanks of all degrees,New Cagliostros! fly beyond the seas;Fiddlers from Rome, philanthropists from France,Lords of the lyre, the lancet, and the dance;Hydropathists, and mesmerisers, come;Ye who Cremonas and Clementis thrum,Here build your altars, hang your banners out,Laurel yourselves, and your own pæan shout;Assume what little, take what coin you will,Profess all science, arrogate all skill:What though no university enrollYour name and honors on a Latin scroll?Sure each may constitute himself a college,And be himself the warrant of his knowledge.Then at small cost in some gazette obtainAlike an apotheösis and fane:Amid its hallowed columns once enshrined,Converts and worshippers you soon shall find,Buy of the editor—'tis cheap enough—The sacred incense of his potent puff;The public nose will catch the sweet aroma,Tut! they who advertise need no diploma.

'Good heavens!' methinks I hear my Thomas cry,'With what a low, derogatory eyeYou view the beautiful, primeval shoreWhere first-born forests guard the torrent's roar.What! is there nothing in that lovely landMid all that's fair, and excellent, and grand,Nothing more worthy of a poet's penThan sots and rogues and bastard Englishmen?'Patience! philosopher: as yet I dwellIn the dull echoes of a tavern-bell;My inspiration is not born of rocks,Nor meads, nor mountains white with snowy flocks;Streets and their sights are all that fire me nowTo tap the bump ideal of my brow;Mine ears are thrilled not by Niagara's noise,But that of drays and cabs and bawling boys;And scarce the day one quiet hour affordsTo fit my fancies with harmonious words;Yet oft at evening, when the moon is up,When trees on dew and men on slumber sup,Along the gas-lit rampart of the bayIn rhymeful mood as undisturbed I stray,Awhile my present 'whereabout' I lose,And on my loved ones o'er the water muse.Sometimes lulled ocean heaves an orient sigh,Which brings our terrace and its roses nigh;While each Æolian murmur of the seaSeems whispering fragrantly of home and thee;But something soon dispels the pleasing dream,The fire-fly's flash, the night-hawk's whistling scream,Or katydid, complaining in the dark,Or other sound unheard in Regent's Park.For wheresoe'er by night or noon I tread,Thought guides me still, like Ariadne's thread,Through shops and crowds and placard-pasted wallsTill on my brain Sleep's filmy finger fallsAnd cuts the filament, with gentle knife,That leads me through this labyrinth of life.I feel it now, the power of the dull god;The verse imperfect halts—Thomas, I nod;'Tis late—o'er Caurus hangs the northern car;My page is out—and so is your cigar.

T.W.P.

Whothat surveys this span of earth we press,This speck of life in Time's great wilderness,This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,The past, the future—two eternities,Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare,When he might build him a proud temple there;A name that long shall hallow all its space,And be each purer soul's high resting-place?

Travels in Egypt, Arabia Petrea, and the Holy Land.By Rev.Stephen Olin, D. D., President of the Wesleyan University. With twelve Illustrations, on Steel. New-York:Harper and Brothers.

Thedescriptions of the Eastern hemisphere, by enlightened American travellers, are the richest contributions to our native literature; and especially the pictures of Western Asia and Egypt, with which the constant perusal of the Bible has already made us familiar. Hence, the principle declared by Dr.Olinin his preface is undeniable: 'An unexceptionable book of oriental travels is a commentary upon the Bible, whose divine teachings derive from no other source illustrations so pleasing, so popular, and so effective.' This statement is true, not only of the erudite researches made expressly to elucidate the apparent difficulties in the sacred volume, but also of the unpretending notices of the visiter who merely records the objects as they passed before his eyes, and the actual impressions derived from the scenes as he surveyed them. From the first publication of that pioneer work, 'Harmer's Observations,' through all its successors of the same character, the result has been identical; the evidence has been progressively cumulative, to verify the infallible accuracy of the historical details connected with the scriptural archæology; and to American citizens probably the illustrations of antiquity, especially of Palestine, Egypt, and the intermediate Deserts, are the most acceptable; because our native travellers have none of the prejudices and prepossessions with which almost all the European monarchists, and especially those of Britain, are trammelled; and the anti-Asiatic citizens of this republic inspect the 'modern antiques' of the old countries through a medium of original freshness and simplicity, which give to their narrative a peculiar naïveté and vividness, evidently distinguished from the impressions on the minds of Europeans. The correctness of this position is obvious on all the pages of Dr.Olin'sinteresting volumes; and while he has expressly and designedly excluded all exhibitions of 'critical, philological, and antiquarian learning,' he has yet given us a work which, instead of satiating the desire to know the character of Egypt, Arabia Petrea, and the Holy Land, produces an earnest solicitude for a more extensive and profound acquaintance with those countries, with which all our loftiest mental and devout associations are inseparably conjoined.

It is not an easy task to specify any particular passages which require distinct notice, in volumes where all is so excellently adapted to interest and edify; but we may remark that Dr.Olin'sdisquisition onMohammed Aliis the best article that we have seen on that topic. Every pure sensibility of the heart is awakened, as we peruse the writer's transcript of his emotions and reminiscences while roaming along the Red Sea; as he read the decalogue on Mount Sinai; studied the prophecies concerning Edom at Petra; contemplated 'the cave in the field of Macphelah;' chanted the songs ofDavidat Bethlehem; surveyed the 'Potter's field;' 'fell among thieves' near Jericho; bathedover the ruins of 'Sodom and Gomorrah;' walked in the garden of Gethsemane; and explored 'the city of the great King.' From all those subjects, lucid passages of great pathos and elegance might be cited to recommend Dr.Olin'svolumes.

The decisively emphatic testimony which he has given to the dignified character and the noble qualifications ofallthe American Protestant missionaries, is of the highest importance and value, and constitutes a very forcible recommendation of his excellent work to every patriot and philanthropist. It is proper also to add, that the amiable spirit and the expansive benevolence which it every where developes, render it as grateful as it is instructive and refreshing. We cannot, however, better express our judgment of Dr.Olin'svolumes, than in a sentiment from his own preface: 'Whether considered in reference to the intellectual tastes and habits produced or fostered by this species of reading, or to the doubtful or pernicious character of the lighter literature which it may supersede, every simple and true account of foreign countries, of their physical or moral peculiarities, manners, institutions, and historical monuments, and of their intellectual and economical condition, brings a valuable contribution to the best interests of education, good morals, and public happiness.' Without doubt such will be the benign effects of the work before us, wherever it is introduced. It will both extend very useful knowledge, and exert a most salutary influence among all who peruse it. Therefore we may hope, to adopt again our author's own language, that 'the fruits of his weakness and affliction will promote the cause which is so dear to his heart,' by the circulation of his travels among Bible classes and Sabbath schools, so that his 'highest ambition may be gratified,' and that 'good reward of his labors' be returned to him in ample abundance, for his perennial enjoyment.

A Memoir of the Construction, Cost, and Capacity of the Croton Aqueduct: Compiled from Official Documents:together with an Account of the Civic Celebration of the Completion of the Great Work, etc. ByCharles King. In one volume, royal quarto, pp. 306.

Mr.King, by the production of this elaborate work, has linked his name with one of the most grand and beneficent enterprises of the present century, and the fame of which will be perpetuated so long as the Croton river courses through our streets, or bursts in its freshness from a thousand hydrants, or surges into the serene sky from hundreds of fountains. We can well believe that the extent and variety of research, and the perspicuous collation of relevant facts, which this work exhibits, are the result of a toil which could have been to the author none other than a 'labor of love' for the renown of 'the city of his birth and his affections.' Indeed there is nothing omitted, which could add to the interest or value of the book. A preliminary essay presents us with a cursory but clear and well-arranged examination and description of the chief ancient and modern aqueducts, as well as of the devices for supplying themselves with water, in use among the earliest peoples. The memoir of the Croton Aqueduct is in all respects complete and authentic; and includes, we are glad to perceive, a sketch of the numerous attempts which, from an early day, were made by the citizens of our metropolis to insure a supply of pure and wholesome water. The principal public water-works of other cities and towns of the United States are not forgotten: a general description of them leaves nothing in this regard to be desired. That this excellent record of our crowning glory as a city will attain a wide metropolitan and State circulation, it would be unjust even to doubt; but it should do more; it should be in the hands of the citizens ofothercities all over the Union. Emulation of a great local good may thus be stimulated, as well as that just pride ofcountry, which every addition to our public enterprises is so well calculated to inspire. The volume, which is printed with great luxury of type and paper, is embellished with a fine steel engraving of the Croton dam, and three or four minor illustrations. The dedicationof the book to the people of New-York, and their representatives in the successive Common Councils, is brief, forcible, and in good taste. In short, the work is an honor alike to the city and to the author.

The Illustrated Edition of the Book of Common Prayer, and Administration of the Sacraments; and other Rites and Ceremonies of the Church: according to the use of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America: together with the Psalter, or Psalms ofDavid. Edited by Rev. J. M.Wainwright, D. D. New-York: H. W.Hewet, Publisher.

Six numbers of this exceedingly beautiful publication are before us; and we hazard little in saying, that when completed it will form one of the most elegant volumes of a kindred character that has ever been produced in this country. The whole work will be concluded in twenty semi-monthly numbers, or within six months from the present time. The illustrations consist of vignettes of a beautiful character and design, and of sacred subjects, from the works of the first masters, adapted to the Epistles and Gospels, and the Psalter. That these will be tasteful and appropriate, may be inferred from the fact that their arrangement and adaptation are confided to the capable supervision of the accomplished editor. The greater part of them will be selected from the English edition of the Pictorial Prayer Book; many others, however, will be added from original drawings, prepared expressly for the work, by Mr. J. G.Chapman. Thus far, they have been engraved in a masterly manner, reflecting additional beauty upon the clear letter-press and pure white paper by which the emulous printer is perpetuating the remembrance of his care and skill. 'As an appropriate companion for the work, Dr.Wainwrightwill prepare a history of the Liturgy, together with a commentary upon the text and rubrics. This work will be embellished with designs having special reference to the church in this country. It will be comprised in twenty numbers. The whole will form two handsome volumes in royal octavo. Either of these volumes may, however, be taken independently of the other, so arranged as to be bound in a single volume.' The cost of the numbers is but thirty-one cents each! The enterprise has received the warmest eulogiums and recommendations from the entire clergy of New-York and Brooklyn, as well as from the clergy and laymen of other States.

Lays of my Home, and other Poems.ByJohn G. Whittier. In one volume, pp. 122. Boston:William D. Ticknor.

Weregard Mr.Whittieras one among the very first of our poets. With one or two eminent exceptions, no one of our best writers excels him in the melody of his verse, and the appositeness and beauty of his imagery. There is, moreover, a depth of feeling, an earnestness and ardor, visible in his later writings, which sufficiently distinguish him from the herd who write verse as they would write an advertisement; stimulated, too often it may be, by the same impulse in the one case as in the other. Mr.Whittiernever sits down with a pen in his hand and a sheet of foolscap before him, to 'pump up a feeling' touching some pliable theme or another, as to the precise nature of which he is either entirely ignorant or quite undecided. How many of our rhymists, miscalled poets, differ from our friend in this! Sitting down with a desperate determination to get up anafflatus; to write, and to rhyme, at all events; to secure the requisite number of feet and the required number of necessary lines; is a process of composition which can never result in the production of poetry. A goodly proportion, and the best parts (evidently so deemed by the writer, who has given them the place of honor) of the volume before us appeared originally in theKnickerbocker. Much of the remainder, although not now first published, will be new to many of our readers, to all of whom we cordially commend FriendWhittier's neat and tastefully-executed volume.

Back to Index Next