FIFTH POETICAL EPISTLE.

'A broken voice, and his whole function suitingWith forms to his conceit.'

There was no study there; nothing farther than the mere committing to memory of the words of his part. He identifiedhimselfwith the character, and for the timewasthat character, to all intents and purposes; entering into its sensations, and actually feeling its joys and its sorrows. And what are the effects of suchacting? Let those whose tears have flowed at his bidding, answer!Keandid not createadmiration; he awakenedenthusiasm. Mr.Macreadyis so chaste and perfect, so artistical, to use a cant term, thatadmirationis the usual feeling which he creates. His acting is like a beautiful piece of mechanism, where every wheel and spring performs its perfect work. There is no jarring, no clog, to mar the exquisite regularity of its movements. But itisa piece of machinery, after all. It is man's work, to say the best of it. The power whichKeanpossessed was no more a merit to the man, as being the work of study, than the genius ofByronwas a creation of his own. Nature made him an actor—a thing of feeling; and he could not shut within himself the rays of that divine influence. It could not be cribbed, narrowed down, or fashioned by study, but it shone forth in all its native effulgence—dazzling and unshaded. Therefore it is fairly maintained, that the high station which Mr.Macreadyoccupies as the first tragedian of his time is more to his honor than would be the same position, ifgained for him by nature alone. The profession to which he belongs has reason to be proud of its head. He has done more to elevate the drama to its true position than any of his contemporaries, ifJohn Kemblealone be excepted. We have observed during this engagement of Mr.Macready'smany new and beautiful readings, many striking effects, and many bold points, which together with the unusual care and fitness in the 'dressing' of the stage, will form the subject of some future notice. We can foresee much benefit that is to grow out of his visit to the American stage. We can already perceive the good effects produced both upon the actors and the stage-manager by Mr.Macready'sfirst engagement at the Park; and we sincerely hope that any suggestions which he may be induced to make, may be liberally and promptly acted upon.

Aproposof the foregoing: Here is our friend the 'Mail-Robber,' with a most timely and apposite paper, in his

Macready'scome! I met him, just at dark,Crossing the yard these Yankees call 'the Park:'Full on his figure gleamed th' obtrusive gas,As I beheld the 'great tragedian' pass;His decent person, neatly built and straight,His air abrupt and grenadier-like gait;His Irish face, which doth not much resembleThe more expressive front ofKeanorKemble,All for an instant, as my glance they caught,Brought you and either green-room to my thought.From him I turned my meditative gaze,Where through the trees the play-house lanterns blaze;But not the multitude that nightly throngTo feast their ears with Ethiopian song,Nor all the gaudy neighborhood around,Where nuts and noise and courtesans abound,Nor all the glitter of the gay saloonsWhere oyster-lovers ply their midnight spoons,Nor all the crowd of coaches waiting nigh,Could check my mind's involuntary sigh.Alas! how dwindled from her brighter yearsThe buskin'd nymph, the goddess-queen appears,Who deigned a little while in yonder domeTo fix her throne, her altar and her home;Securely trusting in a land so young,Whose native speech was her ownShakspeare'stongue,To see restored the glories of her reign,And otherGarricksborn,this sidethe main.Delightful dream! delightful as untrue;PoorDrama! this was no domain for you.Here never shall return that early timeWhen the fresh heart can vulgar life sublime,And all the prose of our existence changeBy magic power to something rich and strange;Not here, among this bargain-making tribe,Whose tricks the Muse would sicken to describe,Shall the dull genius of a sordid ageBring an 'all hallow'n summer' of the Stage.They grossly err this thrifty race who callA youthful nation; 'youthful!' not at all!What though some trace of the barbarian stateBetrays at times the newness of their date;What though their dwellings rose but yesterday?The mind, the nature of the land, is gray.Old Europe holds not in its oldest nookA race less juvenile in thought and look;There is no childhood here, no child-like joy;Since first I landed I've not seen a boy:For all the children in their aspect wearThe lines of sorrow and corrosive care;Each babe, as soon as babyhood is past,Is a grown man, and withers just as fast.Oh my dear England! merry land!Godbless you!Though taxes, corn-laws, fogs, and beer oppress you,Still, as of old, a jocund little isle,Still once a year at least allowed a smile;When, spite of virtue, cakes and ale abound,And laughter rings, and glasses clink around.Nor quite extinct is that robust old race(Autumn's last roses blooming on their face,)Whom, spite of silver hairs and trembling knees,At Christmas-time a pantomime can please.Still some bald heads adorn the lower row,Green, lusty lads of three-score years or so;Nor is the veteran yet ashamed to sit,Three times a year, with Tommy, in the pit.But vain your hope, ye gentle sisters twain,Who hold of Passion's realm the double rein!Mirth-moving maid! and thou who wak'st the tear!Vain was your hope to build an empire here:Not ev'nyourslaves will freemen deign to be—Fly to some region where the soul is free.Find some fat soil of indolence and rest,With some good-natured, easy tyrant blest,Who to himself the toil of ruling takes,And his own laws and his own blunders makes;Leaving his people only to obey,And sleep the noon and sing the night away.Or waste in tawdry theatres the hoursWhich here the service of the State devours.Here nobler cares enlightened man engageThan the poor fictions of a trifling stage.Perhaps her sons th' alarmed Republic callsTo solemncaucusin her council halls,Wherein her trembling destiny awaitsThe awful issue of their high debates.What time have they the ravings to endureOf any mad young Prince or horn-mad Moor,When Duty calls them to contrive a wayTo pay the nation's debt—or not to pay?Or when perchance upon a single voiceDepends an alderman's defeat or choice?Why should they care to hear a greedy Jew,With cut-throat air, insisting on his due,When they, by far more naturally, playShylock themselves, in Wall-street, every day?Yet should, by hap, a genial evening spareThe flaming patriot from his country's care,Or Business loose his limbs and tortured brainFrom the long thraldom of her golden chain,Why then his tireless energies demandA dish of knowledge, sold at second-hand:With indefatigable ears and eyesTo look profound in lecture-rooms he tries,And picks Philosophy's delightful scrapsFrom fossils, gases, diagrams and maps.For Science now is easy grown, and cheap,Keeps modest hours, nor interferes with sleep;And much there is to wonder at and knowIn all the 'ologies, fromaertozo.What power against such rivalry could stand?Farewell, poorDrama! seek another land.Fancy ev'n now anticipates the dayWhen your last pageant shall have passed away:I see, I see the auctioneer profaneEach inmost recess of your hallowed reign;While crowds of clergymen and deacons pourYour violated horrors to explore.Nightly no more the magic foot-lights rise,Nor oil-cloth moons ascend the canvass skies.Bragaldis'sbrush, poor Queen! is dry for you,Doomed now to deck the pulpit and the pew.Yes; the same art which whilom could transportThe lost beholder to kingDuncan'scourt,Or bid him stand upon the 'blasted heath,'Where the weird women, low'ring, hailedMacbeth,Is now your only cheap cathedral-builder,With some small aid from carver and from gilder:What masons cannot build, the painter paintsIn water-colors, to delight the saints.'Tis true: I've witnessed in the house of prayerShows that had made a pious Pagan stare;A lie bedaubed upon the walls, forsooth,Where true believers come to worship Truth!Lo! Gothic shafts their taper heads exaltArch above arch, and vault supporting vault;Around the chancel, marble to the eye,Seraphs and cherubs in distemper fly,While far beyond a seeming choir extendsWhose awful depth a mimic window ends.Through the dim panes (so well the scenes are done)For ever streams a never-setting sun,And all appears the work of hands divine,Another Westminster—of varnished pine!Nor only so; the very violinsAre now atoning for their ancient sins,By sweetly blending with the organ's roar,And winning souls asOrpheusdid of yore.Sure, flutes and hautboys and Italian skillMay with fresh crowds the 'anxious-benches' fill,And many a heart an orchestra may move,Past all the power of preaching to improve.Herein observe how modes and tastes recur,And all thingsareprecisely what they were;For all the changes of our history seemInfinite eddies in the sweeping stream,Down which, while gliding whither we are bound,Our course eternally is round and round;Or why life's progress may I not compareTo a long passage up a winding stair;We turn and turn again, as we ascend,For ever climbing toward the unknown end,Where one impenetrable veil of cloudsThe aim and summit of our being shrouds;And on our state bestowing but a glance,We seem to move, but never to advance;Ev'n as old Earth, obedient planet! rollsPoised on the balanced spindle of her poles,Yet duly fills her more extended sphere,Circling the central orb with every year,Thus we our double journey still pursue,Revolving still, yet ever onward too.Think how the stage in piety began,When early players played the 'fall of man;'Or showed the Lord High Admiral of the ArkEyeing the clouds, about to disembark.Now the Church borrows what it lent before,And the just actors all her own restore:Again Devotion asks the help of Art,And paint and music rouse the torpid heart.The self same vein which bade old bards rehearseThe book of Exodus in tragic verse,Reveals itself in operas that mingleReligious hist'ry with dramatic jingle.'Moses in Egypt,' blazoned on the bill,Night after night the galleries can fill,While crowds of Sunday amateurs admireThe tale of 'David,' chanted by a choir.Already, I foresee, the time is nigh,When concert-rooms our worship will supply,And sacred oratorios combine(To suit all tastes) the play-house and the shrine.But soft—the bell! the steamboat sails at noon;Rest thee, my goose-quill, till another moon.

From him I turned my meditative gaze,Where through the trees the play-house lanterns blaze;But not the multitude that nightly throngTo feast their ears with Ethiopian song,Nor all the gaudy neighborhood around,Where nuts and noise and courtesans abound,Nor all the glitter of the gay saloonsWhere oyster-lovers ply their midnight spoons,Nor all the crowd of coaches waiting nigh,Could check my mind's involuntary sigh.Alas! how dwindled from her brighter yearsThe buskin'd nymph, the goddess-queen appears,Who deigned a little while in yonder domeTo fix her throne, her altar and her home;Securely trusting in a land so young,Whose native speech was her ownShakspeare'stongue,To see restored the glories of her reign,And otherGarricksborn,this sidethe main.

Delightful dream! delightful as untrue;PoorDrama! this was no domain for you.Here never shall return that early timeWhen the fresh heart can vulgar life sublime,And all the prose of our existence changeBy magic power to something rich and strange;Not here, among this bargain-making tribe,Whose tricks the Muse would sicken to describe,Shall the dull genius of a sordid ageBring an 'all hallow'n summer' of the Stage.

They grossly err this thrifty race who callA youthful nation; 'youthful!' not at all!What though some trace of the barbarian stateBetrays at times the newness of their date;What though their dwellings rose but yesterday?The mind, the nature of the land, is gray.Old Europe holds not in its oldest nookA race less juvenile in thought and look;There is no childhood here, no child-like joy;Since first I landed I've not seen a boy:For all the children in their aspect wearThe lines of sorrow and corrosive care;Each babe, as soon as babyhood is past,Is a grown man, and withers just as fast.

Oh my dear England! merry land!Godbless you!Though taxes, corn-laws, fogs, and beer oppress you,Still, as of old, a jocund little isle,Still once a year at least allowed a smile;When, spite of virtue, cakes and ale abound,And laughter rings, and glasses clink around.Nor quite extinct is that robust old race(Autumn's last roses blooming on their face,)Whom, spite of silver hairs and trembling knees,At Christmas-time a pantomime can please.Still some bald heads adorn the lower row,Green, lusty lads of three-score years or so;Nor is the veteran yet ashamed to sit,Three times a year, with Tommy, in the pit.

But vain your hope, ye gentle sisters twain,Who hold of Passion's realm the double rein!Mirth-moving maid! and thou who wak'st the tear!Vain was your hope to build an empire here:Not ev'nyourslaves will freemen deign to be—Fly to some region where the soul is free.Find some fat soil of indolence and rest,With some good-natured, easy tyrant blest,Who to himself the toil of ruling takes,And his own laws and his own blunders makes;Leaving his people only to obey,And sleep the noon and sing the night away.Or waste in tawdry theatres the hoursWhich here the service of the State devours.

Here nobler cares enlightened man engageThan the poor fictions of a trifling stage.Perhaps her sons th' alarmed Republic callsTo solemncaucusin her council halls,Wherein her trembling destiny awaitsThe awful issue of their high debates.What time have they the ravings to endureOf any mad young Prince or horn-mad Moor,When Duty calls them to contrive a wayTo pay the nation's debt—or not to pay?Or when perchance upon a single voiceDepends an alderman's defeat or choice?Why should they care to hear a greedy Jew,With cut-throat air, insisting on his due,When they, by far more naturally, playShylock themselves, in Wall-street, every day?Yet should, by hap, a genial evening spareThe flaming patriot from his country's care,Or Business loose his limbs and tortured brainFrom the long thraldom of her golden chain,Why then his tireless energies demandA dish of knowledge, sold at second-hand:With indefatigable ears and eyesTo look profound in lecture-rooms he tries,And picks Philosophy's delightful scrapsFrom fossils, gases, diagrams and maps.For Science now is easy grown, and cheap,Keeps modest hours, nor interferes with sleep;And much there is to wonder at and knowIn all the 'ologies, fromaertozo.

What power against such rivalry could stand?Farewell, poorDrama! seek another land.Fancy ev'n now anticipates the dayWhen your last pageant shall have passed away:I see, I see the auctioneer profaneEach inmost recess of your hallowed reign;While crowds of clergymen and deacons pourYour violated horrors to explore.Nightly no more the magic foot-lights rise,Nor oil-cloth moons ascend the canvass skies.Bragaldis'sbrush, poor Queen! is dry for you,Doomed now to deck the pulpit and the pew.Yes; the same art which whilom could transportThe lost beholder to kingDuncan'scourt,Or bid him stand upon the 'blasted heath,'Where the weird women, low'ring, hailedMacbeth,Is now your only cheap cathedral-builder,With some small aid from carver and from gilder:What masons cannot build, the painter paintsIn water-colors, to delight the saints.

'Tis true: I've witnessed in the house of prayerShows that had made a pious Pagan stare;A lie bedaubed upon the walls, forsooth,Where true believers come to worship Truth!Lo! Gothic shafts their taper heads exaltArch above arch, and vault supporting vault;Around the chancel, marble to the eye,Seraphs and cherubs in distemper fly,While far beyond a seeming choir extendsWhose awful depth a mimic window ends.Through the dim panes (so well the scenes are done)For ever streams a never-setting sun,And all appears the work of hands divine,Another Westminster—of varnished pine!Nor only so; the very violinsAre now atoning for their ancient sins,By sweetly blending with the organ's roar,And winning souls asOrpheusdid of yore.Sure, flutes and hautboys and Italian skillMay with fresh crowds the 'anxious-benches' fill,And many a heart an orchestra may move,Past all the power of preaching to improve.

Herein observe how modes and tastes recur,And all thingsareprecisely what they were;For all the changes of our history seemInfinite eddies in the sweeping stream,Down which, while gliding whither we are bound,Our course eternally is round and round;Or why life's progress may I not compareTo a long passage up a winding stair;We turn and turn again, as we ascend,For ever climbing toward the unknown end,Where one impenetrable veil of cloudsThe aim and summit of our being shrouds;And on our state bestowing but a glance,We seem to move, but never to advance;Ev'n as old Earth, obedient planet! rollsPoised on the balanced spindle of her poles,Yet duly fills her more extended sphere,Circling the central orb with every year,Thus we our double journey still pursue,Revolving still, yet ever onward too.

Think how the stage in piety began,When early players played the 'fall of man;'Or showed the Lord High Admiral of the ArkEyeing the clouds, about to disembark.Now the Church borrows what it lent before,And the just actors all her own restore:Again Devotion asks the help of Art,And paint and music rouse the torpid heart.The self same vein which bade old bards rehearseThe book of Exodus in tragic verse,Reveals itself in operas that mingleReligious hist'ry with dramatic jingle.'Moses in Egypt,' blazoned on the bill,Night after night the galleries can fill,While crowds of Sunday amateurs admireThe tale of 'David,' chanted by a choir.Already, I foresee, the time is nigh,When concert-rooms our worship will supply,And sacred oratorios combine(To suit all tastes) the play-house and the shrine.

But soft—the bell! the steamboat sails at noon;Rest thee, my goose-quill, till another moon.

T. W. P.

Mr.Placide, theuniversalfavorite, who requires not a word of praise from any one who has ever seen him upon the stage, leaves us soon, we learn, for the South-west. As an actor and a gentleman, we commend him to the especial regards of our play-going readers, and editorial and personalfriends, in that meridian. Gentlemen, he is 'a trump!' Mr.Chippendaleis cordially welcomed back to the Park. In his rôle, by no means a limited one, he is not second to any of his confréres. How admirably he personated the 'Intendant' in 'Werner!' It was afaultlessperformance, by common consent of his gratified auditors. The same may be said, andwassaid, indeed, and very unanimously, of his excellent representation of 'Col.Damas' in the 'Lady of Lyons.' Mr.Chippendalehas been greatly missed, during his absence; and he 'can't be spared' again. We are glad of an opportunity to pay a deserved tribute to the talents of Mr.Wheatley. 'That first appeal which is to theeye' is most satisfactorily sustained by the manly person and fine features of this gentleman; and we know of no one in the profession whose improvement has been more marked. To our fancy, his performance of 'Ulrick,' in 'Werner,' was a study. The last scene won the most applause, perhaps; but the previous conception and execution of the actor, though lessoutwardlymanifested, were certainly not less felicitous. As 'Icilius,' in 'Virginius,' also, Mr.Wheatleywon golden opinions. Indeed, it seems quite certain, that with continued study and attention to theminutiæof his characters, this young gentleman is destined to attain a high rank in his profession. Mr.Vache, the new Charleston acquisition, seems a very self-possessed, correct, and gentleman-like performer. All that we have seen him essay, has been well sustained. His success is no longer doubtful.

'American Theatre,' Bowery.—We have nothing but abundant success to chronicle of this spacious establishment. It has been crowded nightly, we are informed, to its utmost capacity, by admiring audiences, to witness the representation ofShakspeare'sheroes and heroines by Mr.Hamblin, and that gifted actress, Mrs.Shaw. Thisfactsufficiently bespeaks thecharacterof the personations of these two popular performers.

Mitchell's Olympic.—Full, every night, of wide-mouthed laughers, who go grinning homeward 'by the light of the moon' or the gas-lamps. What could we say more? The only thing necessary to add is, 'Go early, if you desire to enjoy with comfort the capital acting ofMitchell, in the amusing travestie of 'Macbeth,' the charming voice of MissTaylor, or the clever personations ofWalcott.'

The Chatham.—'E'yah! yah! yah!—e'look-o'-'ere!'James Crow, Esquire, has recently delighted his 'friends and fellow-citizens' at this commodious and well-appointed establishment, which has partaken, during the month, of the general prosperity of theatricals in the metropolis. Mr.Burton, a low comedian, formerly of Philadelphia, followed him in his round of characters, with satisfaction to his admirers; and 'at this present writing,'Yankee Hillis amusing crowded audiences with his unique representations of 'down-east' life and manners.

Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—It is many years since we first perused the thoughtful 'Vision of Mirza.' We have been pondering it again this wailing autumn evening; and as we read, we remembered how many companions, who went hand-in-hand with us through the valley of youth, had entered upon the bridge which spans the stream of time, and one after another disappeared in the ever-flowing tide below. Amidst the beating of the 'sorrowing rains' against the window-panes, and the fitful sighing of the night-wind, we thought ofOnewho held with Nature an affectionate fellowship, and who loved this melancholy season as a poet only could love it; of one who stepped upon that bridge at the same moment with ourselves, but who, while yet in the first stages of his journey, growing weary and faint with the toil and strife, reached with gradually-faltering pace one of the concealed pit-falls, and was 'lost for ever to time;' leaving his companionalone, to press on toward the dark cloud which ever broods over the onward distance. Strange power of memory!

'In thoughts which answer to our own,In words which reach the inward earLike whispers from the void Unknown,We feel his living presence here!'

Somethingthere is in the autumn season which reaches back into those recesses of the spirit, where lie the sources whence well out the bitter or the sweet waters; recollections of the hopes, the fears, the sorrows and the happinesses, of our incomprehensible being! Enter with us,reader, uponMirza'sBridge, and listen to the teachings of this matchless allegory of the mysterious shepherd:

'Castthy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.' 'What is the reason,' said I, 'that the tide and sea rise out of a thick mist at one end, and again lose themselves in a thick mist at the other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life; consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of three-score and ten arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me farther,' said he, 'what discoverest thou on it?' 'I see multitudes of people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon farther examination, I perceived that there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner toward the middle, but multiplied and lay close together toward the end of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons, but then their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.'I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood by, to save themselves. Some were looking toward the heavens, in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often, when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I observed some with cimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them.'

'I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood by, to save themselves. Some were looking toward the heavens, in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often, when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I observed some with cimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them.'

The misty expanse which was spanned by this bridge opened at length, it will be remembered, at the farther end; where, thronging the Islands of the Blessed, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and 'interwoven with shining seas that ran among them,' were seen 'innumerous persons, dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers;' and there was a confused harmony of singing-birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. 'Gladness,' exclaims the rapt dreamer, 'grew in me, upon the discovery of so delightful a scene! I longed for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats!' But there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death, that were opening every moment upon the bridge. Happy are they who can say, in the fullness of faith and hope, 'Come the hour of reünion with the loved and lost on earth! and the passionate yearnings of affection shall bear us to that blessed land! Come death to this body!—this burthened, tempted, frail, failing, dying body!—and to the soul, come freedom, light, and joy unceasing!—come the immortal life!' * * *The'Tale' of our Zanesville (Ohio) friend is too long for our pages. It is well written, however; and especially the third chapter, which describes the progress of a Yankee pedler through the 'Buckeye State,' thirty-five years ago. But for the injunction of the writer, we should have ventured to appropriate this chapter entire. The ''cute trick' upon thehonestfarmer was capital, and a fairquid pro quo. It was not better, however, than the following, which is equally authentic. A gentleman from New-York, who had been in Boston for the purpose of collecting some moneys due him in that city, was about returning, when he found that one bill of a hundred dollars had been overlooked. His landlord, who knew the debtor, thought it 'a doubtful case;' but added, that if itwascollectable at all, a tall raw-boned Yankee, then dunning a lodger in another part of the room, would 'annoy it out of the man.' Calling him up, therefore, he introduced him to the creditor, who showed him the account. 'Wal, 'Squire, 'tan't much use tryin', I guess. Iknowthat critter. You might as well try to squeeze ile out o' Bunker-Hill monument, as to c'lect a debt o' him. But any how, 'Squire, what'll you give, s'posin' Idotry?' 'Well, Sir, the bill is one hundred dollars. I'll give you—yes, I'll give youhalf, if you can collect it.' ''Greed!' replied the collector; 'there's no harm intryin', any way.' Some weeks after, the creditor chanced to be in Boston, and in walking up Tremont-street, encountered his enterprising friend: 'Look o' here!' said he,''Squire, I had considerable luck with that bill o' your'n. You see, I stuck to him like a dog to a root, but for the first week or so 't wan't no use—not a bit. If he was home, he was 'short;' if hewasn'thome, I couldn't get no satisfaction. By and by, says I, after goin' sixteen times, 'I'll fix you!' says I; so I sot down on the door-step and sot all day, and part o' the evenin'; and I begun airlynextday; but about ten o'clock, he g'in in.He paid me my half, an' I 'gin him up the note!' * * *Weinvite the attention of our readers to the following spirited lines. We shall be glad to hear again from the writer, when he returns to his 'several places of abode.' He tells us that his physician, 'after giving him a little of every thing in his shop, and doubly jeopardizing his life by a consultation, has advised a change of air.' We shall less regret his temporary indisposition, if we can be made the recipient of his pleasant letters from the Southern Springs. In the stanzas annexed, not unmixed with one or two infelicities, are several fine pictures. The chant pealing from the choir of the North Winds; the fierce armies of the pole issuing from their battlements of snow to ravage the fair fields of the temperate regions; the hail-stones beating the march of Winter on the hollow trees; the snow falling silently in the garden of the dead; all these are poetical conceptions, graphically expressed:

Andart thou coming, Winter!In thy wild and stormy mightTo cast o'er all earth's lovely thingsThy pale and withering blight?Ay, here he comes o'er the dreary wold;I feel his breath—ah me! how cold!He wears the same wild, haggard browWhich he wore when in his prime;And he singeth the same shrill, wailing song,Which he sang in the olden time;The same hoarse moan o'er field and fell—Ah! ha! oldWinter! I know thee well!Thou art coming, icy Winter!To tell the same sad tale,Of bright things passing from the earth,With sigh and moan and wail;Of fair flowers fading, one by one,As thy sable banners cloud the sun:A chant from the polar choir peals out,Wildly, and full of wo,As march thy fierce escadrons forthFrom their battlements of snow:A requiem 'tis o'er pale Summer's form,Or the deep war-cry of the gathering storm!Thy cohorts with their night-black plumesShut out the bright blue sky;All nature mourns the fast decayOf Summer's blazonry:Now murmuring low, now shrieking wild,She sorrows o'er her dying child.The lips of the prattling brook are sealed,And the singing birds have flownAway, away to some bright landTo thee and thine unknown;And even man in his pride grows pale,And trembles at thy fierce assail.Thy trumpet rings through the mountain pass,With a fitful, wild halloo;And the hail-stones drum on the hollow trees,With a mournful rat-tat-too!Oh spare, in thy fearful marches, spareThe fruitful field and the gay parterre!But the fierce battalions, filing on,Nor heed nor hear my cry;And a dirge for the fair and flowery fieldSwells through the darkened sky:And showers of icy javelins fall,The only answer to my call!But ho! a flag of truce hangs outIn spotless folds on high;And the snow-flakes wheel in light platoonsThrough the dark and troubled sky:And now, like the ghosts of murdered flowers,They seek the earth in countless showers;They fall on the mountain's giddy height,In the dark ravine they fall,And o'er the distant city's domesThey spread their radiant pall;That beauteous snow, like a winding-sheet,Is spread over forest and field and street.On the storied monument it falls,Blots out the studied verse,And covers all the high and lowWith one unsculptured hearse.Methinks it lies more lightly onThe grave of the broken-hearted one.The folds of a Paynim turban nowThe village spire doth hide;And see! it dresses the old yew-treeAs gay as a bonny bride;With an ermine-cloak it wraps the plain,And shuts the blast from the growing grain.Come on! come on! old Winter!Spring wears a winning smile,And Summer has a lulling artTo charm and to beguile;And Autumn is in beauty drest;But thy rough form I love the best!Thou tellest me 'of long ago,'Of childhood's spotless day;Of boyhood's freaks by th' old fire-side—Of friends now passed away:Albeit to me thy accents drearTell thatLife'swinter draweth near!

Thou art coming, icy Winter!To tell the same sad tale,Of bright things passing from the earth,With sigh and moan and wail;Of fair flowers fading, one by one,As thy sable banners cloud the sun:A chant from the polar choir peals out,Wildly, and full of wo,As march thy fierce escadrons forthFrom their battlements of snow:A requiem 'tis o'er pale Summer's form,Or the deep war-cry of the gathering storm!

Thy cohorts with their night-black plumesShut out the bright blue sky;All nature mourns the fast decayOf Summer's blazonry:Now murmuring low, now shrieking wild,She sorrows o'er her dying child.The lips of the prattling brook are sealed,And the singing birds have flownAway, away to some bright landTo thee and thine unknown;And even man in his pride grows pale,And trembles at thy fierce assail.

Thy trumpet rings through the mountain pass,With a fitful, wild halloo;And the hail-stones drum on the hollow trees,With a mournful rat-tat-too!Oh spare, in thy fearful marches, spareThe fruitful field and the gay parterre!But the fierce battalions, filing on,Nor heed nor hear my cry;And a dirge for the fair and flowery fieldSwells through the darkened sky:And showers of icy javelins fall,The only answer to my call!

But ho! a flag of truce hangs outIn spotless folds on high;And the snow-flakes wheel in light platoonsThrough the dark and troubled sky:And now, like the ghosts of murdered flowers,They seek the earth in countless showers;They fall on the mountain's giddy height,In the dark ravine they fall,And o'er the distant city's domesThey spread their radiant pall;That beauteous snow, like a winding-sheet,Is spread over forest and field and street.

On the storied monument it falls,Blots out the studied verse,And covers all the high and lowWith one unsculptured hearse.Methinks it lies more lightly onThe grave of the broken-hearted one.The folds of a Paynim turban nowThe village spire doth hide;And see! it dresses the old yew-treeAs gay as a bonny bride;With an ermine-cloak it wraps the plain,And shuts the blast from the growing grain.

Come on! come on! old Winter!Spring wears a winning smile,And Summer has a lulling artTo charm and to beguile;And Autumn is in beauty drest;But thy rough form I love the best!Thou tellest me 'of long ago,'Of childhood's spotless day;Of boyhood's freaks by th' old fire-side—Of friends now passed away:Albeit to me thy accents drearTell thatLife'swinter draweth near!

The'Tribune' daily journal finds the October number of theKnickerbocker'well filled with readable and pleasant papers, upon a gratifying variety of topics;' its 'Literary Notices extended and interesting;' and 'its Editor's Table admirably filled, as usual, with whatever is light, graceful, and pleasing.' We hold ourselves bound to be duly grateful for praise so much beyond our deserts; but we cannot permit the young associate-editor of that print, howsoever prompted, to misrepresent us, as he has done, in the notice from which we derive the encomiastic tributes we have quoted. We are accused of 'going out of our way' to attack the writings and the fame (Heaven save the mark!) of the author of 'Puffer Hopkins;' and of being actuated in this by a spirit of malevolence and personal pique. We choose, for the nonce, to occupy space which we could much better employ, in opposing apoint-blank denialto this charge. Such a course is notthe wont of theKnickerbocker; a fact no better known to our readers themselves than to the absent senior editor of the 'Tribune,' with whom for ten years and upward we have walked hand-in-hand in the support and encouragement of such native literature as was worthy of the name. Were this Magazine accustomed to be swayed in its judgments by private pique, its adverse opinions would need no corrective; its 'sneers' would be impotent; its 'satire' unavailing. No; our sin consists in exposing, without fear, favor, or hope of reward, the literary pretensions of one who has no claim to be regarded as an 'American author;' who has foisted upon the community such works as we have elsewhere considered; and whose efforts to establish a literary reputation are of a kind to heighten rather than to lessen the effect of his uniform failures. We are gravely told, that this writer has 'just conceptions of what an American literatureoughtto be; ofthe missionof the American writer,' and so forth. We have had and have nothing to say of his 'conceptions' of what our literature should be, nor of his ideas of literary 'missions;' but wehavehad something to say of hisperformances, and of the manner in which they have been presented to and received by the public; and for this reason, and this alone, are we accused of being actuated by private prejudice. But so it has always been. 'Tell these small-beer littérateurs,' saysChristopher North, 'that they are calves, and sucking calves too, and they low against you with voices corroborative of the truth they deny.' We should like to know whetherallwho hold our own opinions touching 'Puffer Hopkins' and the other 'writings' of its author arealsoactuated by 'personal pique.' If so, there is a goodly number of us! ''Fore Heaven,' asDogberrysays, 'we are all in a case;' for we can truly say, that we never heard an individual speak of these productions, who did not agree with usentirelyin the estimate we had formed of them. 'Personal pique!' Was it this which led the kindly 'Boston Post' to pronounce 'Puffer Hopkins' 'about as flat an affair as it ever tried to wade through?' and the 'Poem on Man' a 'mere pile of words,' in which even poetical thoughts were 'completely spoiled by verbiage?' Was it this which prompted our own lively 'Mercury' to say that Mr.Mathewshad 'no more humor than a crying crocodile,' and that his short-livedArcturus'died of a lingering 'Puffer Hopkins?'' Was it this which caused a monthly metropolitan contemporary to declare, that his writings were 'characterized by an air of pretension, and an eternal succession of futile attempts at humor, which at once disposed the reader to dislike him and his works?' Was it 'malevolence' which prompted the publishers of 'Behemoth,' (over whom the writer had 'come the evil eye,') when they saw his proposals for a 'newedition,' to advertisetheir's—'four years old and complete'—at half the money? Was it 'personal pique' which caused the house whose name appears as publishers on the title-page of his last work, to complain that it had previously been used by him without their consent, and to object to its being again employed?—on the ground, too, that they did not desire their names to appear upon any of his productions? Was it 'malevolence' which suggested a new title-page, at the publisher's expense, from which their names might be omitted? As well might 'the disaffected' upon whom a humorous 'work' of the author had been inflicted abroad, be accused of acting from 'personal pique' in deciding that for them at least 'one such fun, it was enough!'Æsopis dead, but his frog is still extant; and if we were not at the end of our tether, we could 'illustrate this position' to the satisfaction of every body save Mr.Mathewshimself. As it is, we take our leave of him, with no fear that he will write less creditably, and no hope that he will print less frequently, than heretofore; for such is hiscacoëthes scribendi, that we verily believe he would be an author, if he were the only reader in the world. Indeed, we even hear ofanotheredition of his writings, 'at the risk of the owner,' to be sent forth from his stereotype-plates, by our friends theHarpers! We had intended a word or two touching Mr.Mathews'sposition in the 'Copy-right Club'—for we hear there are two sides tothatmatter—but we wish well to a cause of which this Magazine was the earliest, and has been a constant advocate, and to Mr.Mathews'sefforts in it; and if heisto prepare an address to the public, we earnestly hope that it may be clear, simple, and direct, as becomes the plain truths it should present; and that 'giants, elephants, 'tiger-mothers,' and curricles, angels, frigates, baronial castles, and fish-ponds,' will be carefully excluded from its arguments and its expostulations. By the by: this reminds us that we have an error to correct, alike unintentional and immaterial. It was at the Society Library,notthe Tabernacle, that Mr.Mathews'sgreat lecture on copy-right was delivered. On this point, the following passage from an editorial paragraph in the 'New World' may be deemed pertinent by many readers, andimpertinent, perhaps, by one or two: 'The 'Tribune' accuses theKnickerbockerof mistaking the Tabernacle for the Society Library, as the place where Mr.Mathewsdelivered his lecture on copy-right to a beggarly account of empty benches, last winter, after placarding the town with the fact that 'the author of 'Puffer Hopkins' was to be heard and seen at that place. But is thefactaltered by this trifling error? Was there not a 'capacious edifice' almost empty, and tickets numbered as high as twelve hundred, and not fifty persons in the room?—and half of those 'dead heads?'—as dead as the lecturer's? Ifthisis denied, it can easily beproved.' * * *Weare obliged for the kind wishes and intentions of our friend and correspondent 'F.;' but he must allow us to say, that his 'Sketch of Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell' embodies many anecdotes of that learned and eccentric person, which are already familiar to the public. The story of the semi-black man is 'as old as the hills.' The following, however, which we segregate, is quite new, at least to us: 'Jarvis, celebrated no less as an artist than as a pleasant social companion, walking one sultry summer morning with a friend down Murray-street, encountered the Doctor, with a pound of fresh butter upon a cabbage-leaf. 'I'll lay you a small wager,' said he to his companion, 'that I'll cross over on the sunny side, and engage the doctor in conversation, until his butter has melted completely away!' No sooner said than done.Jarvisentertained him withinquiriesupon abstruse themes, which Dr.Mitchelltook great delight in answering in detail, as well as the objections whichJarvisoccasionally urged against the correctness of his conclusions. Meanwhile, the butter dripped slowly away upon the walk, until it was utterly wasted. The waggish painter then took leave of the Doctor, who now for the first time glanced at his cabbage-leaf, exclaiming: 'You've almost made me forget my errand,Jarvis; I started to get some fresh butter fromWashington-market!' * * *Weshall venture to hope that in declining the 'Stanzas to my Boy in Heaven' we shall give no pain to the bereaved author. Thefeelingof the lines is itself eloquent poetry; but theirexecutionis in certain portions marked by deficiences in rythm and melody. Will the writer permit another to express for her the very emotions which she evidently depicts with her 'heart swelling continually to her eyes?'

'Thenursery shows thy pictured wall.Thy bat, thy bow,Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;But where art thou?A corner holds thy empty chair.Thy playthings idly scattered thereBut speak to us of our despair.'Even to the last thy every word,To glad, to grieve,Was sweet as sweetest song of birdOn summer's eve;In outward beauty undecayed.Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade.And like the rainbow thou didst fade.'We mourn for thee, when blind blank nightThe chamber fills;We pine for thee, when morn's first lightReddens the hills:The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,All, to the wall-flower and wild pea,Are changed—we saw the world through thee!'And though, perchance, a smile may gleamOf casual mirth,It doth not own, whate'er may seem.An inward birth;We miss thy small step on the stair;We miss thee at thine evening prayer;All day we miss thee, every where.'Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair.Fond, fairest boy!That heaven isGod's, and thou art there.With Him in joy;There past are death and all its woes;There beauty's stream for ever flows;And pleasure's day no sunset knows.'Farewell, then—for a while farewell—Pride of my heart!It cannot be that long we dwell,Thus torn apart;Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;And, dark howe'er life's night may be,Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee.'

'Even to the last thy every word,To glad, to grieve,Was sweet as sweetest song of birdOn summer's eve;In outward beauty undecayed.Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade.And like the rainbow thou didst fade.

'We mourn for thee, when blind blank nightThe chamber fills;We pine for thee, when morn's first lightReddens the hills:The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,All, to the wall-flower and wild pea,Are changed—we saw the world through thee!

'And though, perchance, a smile may gleamOf casual mirth,It doth not own, whate'er may seem.An inward birth;We miss thy small step on the stair;We miss thee at thine evening prayer;All day we miss thee, every where.

'Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair.Fond, fairest boy!That heaven isGod's, and thou art there.With Him in joy;There past are death and all its woes;There beauty's stream for ever flows;And pleasure's day no sunset knows.

'Farewell, then—for a while farewell—Pride of my heart!It cannot be that long we dwell,Thus torn apart;Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;And, dark howe'er life's night may be,Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee.'

The'Lines to Niagara Falls' are very far from being worth double-postage from Buffalo. They are termed 'descriptive;' but they afford about as much of an idea of the Great Cataract as the 'magnificent model' of the Falls which was 'got up at an enormous expense' at the American Museum last winter.Thatwas a sublime spectacle! We saw it, it is true, under very favorable circumstances. The whole hogshead of water had just been 'let on,' and the wheezing machine that represented the 'sound of many waters' was in excellent wind. Indeed, so abundant was the supply of cataract, (as we were afterward informed,) that a portion of the American fall, to the amount of several quarts, leaked down into the barber's-shop below. A lisping young lady present was quite carried away with the exhibition. Some one inquired if she had ever seen 'therealfalls, the great original?' She had not, she said, 'but shehad heard them very highly thpoken of!' Theyareclever, certainly; and if their real friends would occasionally 'say a good word for them,' they would doubtless soon become very 'popular!' * * *Wewere struck (and so we recorded it at the time) with the felicitous remarks of Mr. ConsulGrattan, on 'SaintPatrick'sDay in the' evening. He said he could not help wondering sometimes how the dear old country looked in her new temperance dress; remembering as he did how becoming to her was the flush of conviviality and good fellowship. 'When I picture to myself,' said he, 'the Irishman of the present day seeking for his inspiration at the handle of a pump, I cannot help thinking of the Irishman I once knew, who couldn't bear cold water at all, unless the half of it was whisky; without which they considered it as a very depreciated currency; a sort of liquidskin-plaster, in comparison with the healthful circulating medium of grog and punch.' This is both lively and witty; and we do not wish toderogate from either quality; but if the reader will permit us, we will ask him to glance at the following passage fromCharles Lamb's'Confessions of a Drunkard:'

'Thewaters have gone over me. But out of the black depths, could I be heard, I would cry out to all those who have but set a foot in the perilous flood. Could the youth to whom the flavor of his first wine is delicious as the opening scenes of life, or the entering upon some newly-discovered paradise, look into my desolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it is when a man shall feel himself going down a precipice with open eyes and a passive will; to see his destruction, and have no power to stop it, and yet to feel it all the way emanating from himself; to perceive all goodness emptied out of him, and yet not be able to forget a time when it was otherwise; to bear about the piteous spectacle of his own self-ruin; could he see my fevered eye, feverish with last night's drinking, and feverishly looking for this night's repetition of the folly; could he feel the body of the death out of which I cry hourly with feebler and feebler outcry to be delivered; it were enough to make him dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the pride of its mantling temptation; to make him clasp his teeth,——'and not undo 'emTo sufferWET DAMNATIONto run through 'em.''Oh! if a wish could transport me back to those days of youth, when a draught from the next clear spring could slake the heats which summer suns and youthful exercise had power to stir up in the blood, how gladly would I return to thee, pure element, the drink of children, and of child-like holy hermit! In my dreams I can sometimes fancy thy cool refreshment purling over my burning tongue. But my waking stomach rejects it. That which refreshes innocence, only makes me sick and faint.'

——'and not undo 'emTo sufferWET DAMNATIONto run through 'em.'

'Oh! if a wish could transport me back to those days of youth, when a draught from the next clear spring could slake the heats which summer suns and youthful exercise had power to stir up in the blood, how gladly would I return to thee, pure element, the drink of children, and of child-like holy hermit! In my dreams I can sometimes fancy thy cool refreshment purling over my burning tongue. But my waking stomach rejects it. That which refreshes innocence, only makes me sick and faint.'

How many thousands in Great Britain, whose experience is here described as with a pencil of light, hasFather Matthewrescued from 'slippery places,' and placed once more within the charmed circle of sobriety and virtue! * * *Thegrammatical blunder recorded by 'S. T.,' and 'suggested by the sixthclawof the constitution,' reminds us of a clever anecdote which we derive from Mr.Robert Tyler. The old negro who receives and ushers visitors at the President's mansion is always very precise in his announcements. On one occasion a gentleman namedFoot, with a daughter on each arm, was shown into the drawing-room with this introduction: 'Mr.Footandthe two Miss Feet!" * * * 'Cryyou mercy!' gentlemen of the long robe and of the bar; we have neither 'abused the law' nor yet 'the lawyers,' though by your wincing you would seem to say so; at least some score of law-students would, if we may judge from the communications which have thickened upon us since our last. Saving the sordid and obscure tricksters of abused law; such, for example, as may be seen any day in the week, holding their sanhedrim of babble around or within the miscalled 'Halls of Justice;' and the undignified personal bickerings of the members of the bar; nothing of alocalcharacter, in a legal point of view, deserves the whip and the branding-iron. The latter matter, too, is generally understood, we believe, by the public. A pair of lawyers, like a pair of legs, may thoroughly bespatter each other, and yet remain the best of friends and brothers. Our allusion to courts implied no reflection uponJudges. We hold in proper respect and reverence these sacred depositories of the people's rights. 'The criminal, and the judge who is to award his punishment, form a solemn sight. They are both men; both the 'children of an UniversalFather, and sons of immortality;' the one so sunken in his state as to be disowned by man; the other as far removed by excellence from the majority of mankind.'Nofunction can be more honorable, more sacred, or more beneficial, than that of an upright judge. With his own passions and prejudices subdued; attentive to the principles of justice by which alone the happiness of the world can be promoted, and by the rectitude of his decisions affording precedent and example to future generations; he presents a character that must command the reverence and love of the human race. * * *The'London Charivarri,' or 'Punch,' maintains its repute—for which it is partly indebted to the high indorsement of the 'Quarterly Review,' 'Examiner,' 'Spectator,' etc.,—undiminished. It reallyoverflowswith genuine humor, not unmixed, certainly, with many failures. We condense from it a few items of metropolitan intelligence, commencing with an office-seeker's 'begging letter' to LordLyndhurst: 'My Lord: I am an Irishman, in the direst distress. To say that I am an Irishman, is I know a passport to the innermost recesses of your soul. I want something of about three hundred pounds per annum; I will not refuse four hundred. At present, however, I am destitute, and terribly out of sorts. You will have some idea of my condition, when I tell you that I have not tasted food these six weeks, and that I am so disastrously off for clothing, that the elbows of my shirt are hanging out of the knees of my breeches! P. S. Don't mind the hole in the bearer's trowsers; he is trustworthy.' To this missive the 'noble lord' replied: 'Sir: That you are an Irishman, is a sufficient passport to my fire-side, my purse, my heart. Come; never mind the shirt. With or without that conventional ornament, you will be equally well received by your devotedLyndhurst.' The writer 'went very often to the house of his lordship, but asoften as he went, just so often was his lordship not at home!' Curious, wasn't it? The plan of the 'Joke Loan Society' reminds us ofSanderson'sjoke-company for theOpera-Comiquein Paris, several members of which, with due economy, managed to live for an entire quarter upon the 'eighth of a joke' which they had furnished to the management! 'The object of the institution is, to supply those with jokes who may be temporarily distressed for the want of them. The directors invite the attention of barristers to a very extensive stock of legal jokes, applicable to every occasion. The society has also purchased the entire stock of a retired punster, at a rate so low that the jokes—among which are a few that have never been used—can be let out on very moderate terms. Damaged jokes repaired, and old ones taken in exchange. Dramatic authors supplied on easy terms, and a liberal allowance on taking a quantity. Puns prepared at an hour's notice for large or small parties!' Under the 'Infantry Intelligence' head we find the following: 'The Twelfth Light Pop-guns acquitted themselves very creditably, and discharged several rounds of pellets with great effect and precision. The First Life Squirts also highly distinguished themselves, and kept up a smart fire of ditch-water for upward of a quarter of an hour; and the Hop-Scotch Grays went through their evolutions in admirable order.' A 'commercial problem' must close our excerpts: 'How can a junior partner be taken into a house over the senior partner's head? By the senior partner sitting in the shop, and the junior partner being taken in at the first-floor window!' * * *Theeulogy entitled 'Mr. Webster's Noble Speech at Rochester' is from the pen of an Englishman, or we have for the first time in our life mistaken the 'hand-write' ofJohn Bull, Esq. Thespiritof the paper is not in the main unjust to this country; yet it touches with severity upon those culprit States of our Republic, that abroad are considered remarkable for their 'swaggering beginnings that could not be carried through; grand enterprises begun dashingly, and ending in shabby compromises or downright ruin;' and for their treasuries, filled with evidences of 'futile expectations, fatal deficit, wind, and debts.' Cruel words, certes; but are they wholly groundless? 'Guess not!' But Sir Englishman, pr'ithee, don't despond—don't be scared! Look at the progress of our western States, as evinced in the growth of their towns. Louisville, in three years, has gained eight thousand additional inhabitants; Saint Louis twelve thousand; Pittsburgh nearly the same amount; Cincinnati has erected within that period nearly three thousand houses, and gained seventeen thousand inhabitants. Four western cities have added to them nearly fifty thousand inhabitants in three years; and the adjacent country has kept pace with the towns. And the like progress is visible elsewhere. Truly, thisis'a great country!'

Back to Index Next