SONNETS:

Patter, patter comes the rain,Aslant against the window-pane:I can see the large drops fall—Mystic globules, perfect all:See them speed their downward way,Fall, then weep themselves away.So, against my weary brainThoughts come tapping like the rain:Radiant thoughts, from far-off spheres,Strike, then spend themselves in tears.O ye rain-drops clear and bright!O ye thoughts on wings of light!Will ye never, never tellOf the regions whence ye fell?Tell us whence ye come, and whyWhen ye reach us then ye die?Are ye voiceless evermore,Only moaning, moaning ever,When your beauteous forms are driven'Gainst the cold and glassy pane—'Gainst this hardened, earth-worn brain,In your fruitless, vain endeavorTo convey to mortal earsThe language of the far-off spheres?

INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND FANNY.

BY HENRY W. ROCKWELL.

EvenasBeatriceappeared to himWho passed through scenes of unimagined woe,Nor feared hell's gloomy sentry, nor the flowOf dismal Acheron; so I, through dimUncertain paths like his—albeit my famePales 'neath his own, a taper to the sun—Have here been led, and this my work begun,If ended, must be ended in thy name.No idle faith is this, by whose clear light,And the strong effort of Love's conquering will,From out life's mingling mass of good and illI have ascended to the Infinite:Beholding thee whose beauty, cold and pale,Beams like the Cherubim within the veil.

O thou!who dwell'st in memory ever blest,(By whatsoever name in heaven thou'rt known,Thyself on earth, the last and loveliest one,An angel in my bosom art confessed:)If thou inspire my song as thou know'st best,And aid my fond endeavor now begun,No fabled muse need I for guidance ownThe fair inhabitant of my cold breast.Yet whether this my song may stand the test,Or challenge the full sure advance of time,I little know; but if the hidden forceOf Love, and its strong faith, in which I rest,Assist my heart to build the tuneful rhyme,Thou only canst be named the primal source.

ARS LONGA.

Giveme from out the midnight of thy hairOne tress to braid in this my votive song;For time though fleeting, art is nathless long;And I, though skill of workmanship not rareBe mine, in song would make for thee, most fair!A work of such device as shall prolongThy name, exalted o'er Earth's meaner throng,And lovelier than they all in my compare.No silversmith of Ephesus am I,By such device to bring my craftsmen gain:Nor make I thee the idol of my heart;Though thou, like great 'Diana,' whom they cry,Dost hold within my breast as chaste a reign,Nor ever shall thy gentle sway depart.

A mingledsea of color here is rolledAcross the billowy upland filmed with smoke,Whose groves of yellow beech and crimson oakStand forth, a goodly prospect to behold;Nor with less glory do the mountains foldTheir giant forms in Autumn's hazy cloak,While up their sides the distant wood has brokeIn long receding waves of ruddy gold.Could'st thou whose beauty doth my heart ensnare,Give to this lovely scene an added grace,I should not here perforce enjoy aloneThese blended hues, which Autumn, in despairAt not out-vieing thy enchanting face,From his broad pallet o'er the woods has thrown.

Oh!in these colored shades it were too blestTo roam with thee the hill-side and the plain,When in each passing moment we retainThe moral of the great truth here impressed.See! how the woods in green and gold are dressed,As if apparelled for a conqueror's reign;Nor less yon maple groves, whose blood-red stainTrickles far down the distant mountain's crest.Gorgeous October! in thy golden gleamI see the tender light of loving eyes,Which to thy sweet days give an added beam;Nor would it be to me a vain surprise,If sometimes thy low-whispering winds should seemTo be the music of her tender sighs.

Theless of life, the less account is seen:The less account, the less of ill is known:And Beauty, ere its flower be quite full-blown,Is ofttimes nipped by sudden frosts and keen;And thus the course of life with me hath been,For, living among men, I dwell alone:Till now, life's goodly tree well-nigh overthrown,Doth wear the yellow leaf, and not the green.Yet even as Autumn is the proper rest,The sweet and gentlest season of the year;So in the mellow Autumn of thy breast,May my name last, to life and memory dear;Nor less upon my thought be thine impressed,For thou hast ever proved a friend sincere.

LikeSummer-birds, when Summer-hours are fled:Like Summer-skies when Autumn-clouds are nigh:So from my heart did Hope, the watcher, fly,When in thy arms my darling girl lay dead.O fatal bolt! and all too surely sped:Yet sadder far when in her love-lit eyeI saw the smile of recognition die,And felt the death-damp on her fair young head.If Love renewed have ever safe returnTo its far bourne, what matters it which wayOur scarce-fledged hopes and blighted joys have fled?Or why is it that we cannot discernThis last great truth, that our best treasures lieBeyond the silent barriers of the dead?

Creak, ye black forests! and ye mournful formsThat flit like hooded monks across the bareAnd desolate wilderness, urge through the airYour cloudy legions, O ye gloomy storms!Dark ministers of Night! I hear the rollOf rising winds, and in the lonely valeThe melancholy Autumn breathes her wail,Yet pleasant is her sadness to my soul.See! where the Old Year bears her in his arms:The paleCordeliaand the tremblingLear:Will he not strew with heather her sad bier,And keep her safe from Winter's rude alarms?'Vex not his ghost!' his life will soon be o'er,The 'sweet, low voice' he loved he hears no more.

Oh!when shall love toTheebe my best guide,Redeemer, Saviour!ever blessedLord!By all the powers in earth and heaven adored?When flowed the dear blood fromThywounded side—By heaven forsaken and by man denied—Why were its crimson streams so freely poured,If man by love was not to be restored?O mighty theme! that doth debase my pride,And pour contempt on all the things of earth:If angels are not faultless inThysight,How much less we who travail from our birth,Walking apart from Love and its clear light?Yet not for them, but us, wasHeonce slain,That we, redeemed from sin, might live again.

Mourn, mourn, voice of the wilderness!ForHimwho shedHisprecious blood for me:Jesu Redemptor! Lamb of Calvary!The heir of glory, anguish and distress;Oh! how shall mortal tongue the love expressWith whichThoudidst so love us, as to beOur sacrifice upon the accursed tree,Bearing the burden of our wickedness.O ye wild winds! and wilder blasts that wailAmid the ebon darkness, have ye knownMan's dark iniquity that thus ye moanIn hollow accents through the lonely vale?Alas! my soul, thy sins slewGod'sdearSon:Kyrie eleeson! Christe eleeson!

TRISAGION.

'Therefore with angels and arch-angels, laudAnd magnifyHisgreat and glorious Name,Who, to redeem the world from ruin, came,Saying: Holy, holy, holyLord God!Heaven and earth made clean by Thy dear blood,Are ever full ofThygreat majesty:All glory be toThee, OLord, Most High!'So sang the angelic choir, the while I stoodListening the far response: 'Not unto us,Not unto us, OLord! but untoTheeBe all the glory,Lamb of Calvary!Quoniam tu solus Dominius!'So Love doth rule—the high behest of heaven:And Love is ten-fold Love that waits on sins forgiven.

The King of the Mountains.From the French ofEdmond About, Author of 'The Roman Question,' 'Germaine,' etc. ByMary L. Booth. With an Introduction byEpes Sargent, Esq. In one volume: pp. 300. Boston:J. E. Tilton and Company, Number 601 Washington-street.

Monsieur Aboutis said to have scaredHis Holiness, thePope, the kind and benevolentPio Nono, (if we may trustanyof all the numerous portraits and drawings which we have encountered of him,) in his book upon 'The Roman Question.' The author's very name may have had something to do with it. He was 'about'—he was 'areöund': and the 'French' of his cognomen, as pronounced by his countrymen, was in itself suggestive of at least a signal of alarm—'Ah-booh!' But this aside: the book is a remarkable one, in many respects: and like its predecessors from the same pen, it will make an 'abiding mark' among the artistically-transferred literature to our own, from a foreign tongue. This narrative of 'The King of the Mountains' is not at all complicated. Regarded as an artistical picture, we may say with truth that 'the canvas is neither confused nor crowded.' The story is supposed to be told by a young German botanist. He proceeds to Greece with the purpose of herbalizing in the mountains. 'Carried away by a scientific enthusiasm—the most common and the most pardonable—he becomes the prisoner of a remarkable brigand,Hadgi-Stavros, the King of the Mountains. He is not alone in his captivity. An English lady and her daughter—the former a striking portrait of a class of weak and consequential tourists, and the latter a thing to be admired and loved by any German, or any American, for that matter, under the circumstances supposed—are the hero's fellow-prisoners. The greater part of the book is taken up with a description of the character, positions, resources, habits and influence of the brigand chief; the temporary captivity of the party, who are made prisoners for the sake of a large ransom, actually in view of Athens, (such is the state of the government and police of that thriving kingdom!) and their final ransom and escape. But there are otherdramatis personæbesideMrs. Simons, who is a sort ofMrs. Nickleby, anAnglaise pour ire, andMiss Simons, who does not take after her mother. There are down at the Piræus an American namedHarris, a young Athenian girl, hightPhotini, and a Frenchman whose ruling passions are archæology and philanthropy. 'He had been rewarded by some provincial academy for an essay on the price of paper in the time ofOrpheus. Encouraged by his first success, he had made a journey to Greece to collect materials for a work on the quantity of oil consumed by the lamp ofDemostheneswhile he was writingthe second Philippic.'Harris, the American, is evidently a favorite character withM. About. He invests him with all the best attributes of our countrymen, and makes every adventure in which he is a participator honorable to his gallantry and sagacity: 'The first time I dined with this strange fellow I comprehended America.Johnwas born at Vandalia, Illinois. He inhaled at his birth that air of the New World, so vivacious, so sparkling and so brisk, that it goes to the head like champagne wine, and one gets intoxicated in breathing it. I know not whether theHarrisfamily are rich or poor; whether they sent their son to college or left him to get his own education. It is certain that at twenty-seven years he depends only on himself; trusts only to himself, is astonished at nothing, thinks nothing impossible, never flinches, believes all things, hopes all things, tries all things; triumphs in all, rises up again if he falls, never stops, never loses courage.' One of the best of our American critics, Mr.Bryant, remarks of this book: 'No work of modern times, even in an English dress, serves to convey so capital an idea of the style which madeVoltairefamous, as this last agreeable romance of the author of 'The Roman Question.' It is just such a story asTalleyrandwould have told over his chocolate, andSydney Smithrelished and decorated with impromptu comment.'

The Literary and Professional Works of Francis Bacon, Baron of Verulam, Viscount St. Albans, and Lord High Chancellor of England. Volume II. of the 'Literary and Professional Works': pp. 454. Boston:Brown and Taggard.

Ourfirst praise of this series ofBacon'sworks must be paid to that feature which first appeals to us through the eye—its typographical execution, byHoughton, of the 'River-side Press' at Cambridge, near Boston, which may be pronounced fully equal to that of the first English printing in choice library editions of kindred standard works. The volume before us contains, with translations,Bacon'seulogium uponHenryPrince of Wales, and the characters ofJuliusandAugustus Cæsar—the original Latin, with translation. Also amendments and corrections inserted byBaconin a manuscript copy ofCamden'sAnnals. Then follow, prefaced by a curious bibliographical note by Mr.Spedding, the 'Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral,' published from 1597 to 1625, (the year before his death,) which exhibit 'the earliest and the latest fruits ofBacon'sobservation in that field in which its value has been most approved by universal and undiminished popularity. These fifty-eight Essays, so wise and so eloquent in their simple yet forcible diction, occupy the greater portion of the volume, and the editor has translated the Latin quotations and added some necessary notes. There is an appendix to the essays, containing a Fragment of an Essay on Fame; reprints of the first edition of 1597, containing only ten, and of the second edition of 1612, with thirty-eight essays, and two essays attributed toBaconwithout authority; but, notwithstanding some similarity of style, marked by Mr.Speddingas spurious. There is, also,Bacon'streatiseDe Sapientia Veterum, itself a curiously learned book, thetranslation of which will appear in a future volume. 'Baconwas one of the most remarkable men the world has ever seen. His character is a remarkable compound of the greatest nobleness and the most contemptible meanness. But of hisintellect, no two opinions have ever been expressed. If we knewBacononly by his works, we should be bound to esteem him to be as good as he was undeniably a great man.'

Guesses at Truth.ByTwo Brothers. From the fifth London edition. Boston:Ticknor and Fields.

The ProverbsandEcclesiastesare still without rival or peer, notwithstanding thatLaconhas given us some good apothegms, andMartin Farquhar Tupper, who undertook to render KingSolomoninto polite English, has had an amazing 'run.' A good proverb is always acceptable: a poor one vexes us always, because the maker assumes the position of teacher, and has no right to be either stupid or mediocre. To set one thinking is more difficult, and indeed more laudable, than to furnish one with thoughts; as it is more praiseworthy to put one in the way of earning a living, than merely to bestow a charity. It is easy, however, to assume the air oracular; in fact there is more or less strength,prima facia, in a pretentious position; and a platitude let off under cover of high-sounding words may be very imposing. We have in 'Guesses at Truth,' a book of five hundred and fifty-five pages, originally published in England more than thirty years ago by two brothers, clergymen, we believe, and now reprinted by the respectable house ofTicknor and Fields. We have looked carefully through the volume; and for once are forced to differ with the publishers as to the taste of reproducing the book here. With the exception of some very fair criticisms onShakspeare,Milton, and one or two others, borrowed a good deal fromGoetheandSchlegel, and certain extended disquisitions absorbed evidently fromWordsworthandColeridge, the book is utterly common-place. A good deal of it we remember to have met with in our various newspaper clippings—a good deal we confess never to have before encountered. In 'Guesses at Truth' the French come in for very severe hits from the 'Two Brothers' whenever opportunity serves: they are full of the English prejudices of the last century. Mark the following sagacious comparison: 'The French rivers partake of the national character. [We should think it would be just the reverse.—Ed.] Many of them look broad, grand and imposing, but they have no depth; and the greatest river in the country, the Rhone, loses half its usefulness from the impetuosity of its current!' Hear this precious piece of intelligence: 'France—the only region between Lapland and Morocco where youth is without bloom, and age without dignity!' Here is something new about the 'best talkers in the world:' 'Talk to a dozen Englishmen on any subject: there will be something peculiar and characteristic in the remarks of each. Talk to a dozen Frenchmen: they will all make the very same remark, and almost in the same words.' But let us give the reader a specimen of the more abstract 'Guesses:' 'What a pity it is there are so many words! Whenever one wants to say any thing, three or four ways ofsaying it run into one's head together; and one can't tell which to choose. It is as troublesome or as puzzling as choosing a ribbon or a husband.' Read the following. It is Blackstonian: 'A use must have preceded an abuse properly so called.' The next strikes us as exceedingly original: 'A little management may often evade resistance which a vast force might vainly strive to overcome.' And this: 'Children always turn toward the light. Oh! that grown-up people in this world would become like little children!' The art-world owes much for what follows: 'A portrait has one advantage over its original: it is unconscious; and so you may admire without insulting it. I have seen portraits which have more.' (Sic.) Here is something worthy a place in the 'Rules of Etiquette:' 'A compliment is usually accompanied by a bow, as if to beg pardon for paying it.' We have puzzled over the following and 'give it up:' 'What way of circumventing a man can be so easy and suitable as a period? The name should be enough to put us on our guard; the experience of every age is not.' Further on we read: 'Truth endues man's purposes withsomewhatof immutability.' This reminds us of the cautious writer who stated that 'mostmen were mortal!'

For further examples of senseless platitudes dictatorially expressed, we refer the reader to the workpassim. There is nothing more ridiculous than the deliberate sitting-down to write a book of proverbs and reflections. How unlike the genuine flow of the table-talk of some of our best men or the words of wisdom forced, as it were, from the lips of experience. In short, we are sick of pompous mediocrity on stilts: of that placid egotism which complacently assumes the office of guide and teacher, though incapable of aught but the tedious common-place. We do not want the thoughts of great men passed through such alembics—in fact, we much prefer to dilute our own proverbs if they prove too strong for us.

'Guesses at Truth' is beautifully printed on fine paper with clear type; after the newest style of the accomplished publishers. We regret to say the text is marred by the change of spelling of words ending ined. Thus we find: reacht, lookt, discust, toucht, fixt, packt, etc., etc.—instead of reached, looked, discussed, touched, fixed, packed. 'As the body to the soul, so the word to the thought,' and we do not believe in thus mutilating what we are led by habit at least to consider a fair proportion.

Professor Valentine Mott's Surgical Cliniques in the University of New-York.Session 1859-60. Reported bySamuel W. Francis, M.D.

Thisvolume, which is gotten up in the best style of typography, and illustrated with many superior engravings, embraces a report of nearly one hundred surgical cases treated by the eminent surgeon, ProfessorValentine Mott, M.D. The treatment of the cases is simple and judicious, and they are narrated clearly and concisely. The work is of great practical value and interest to the medical profession, and reflects credit on its able reporter, Dr.Samuel W. Francis. It is embellished with a very accurate portrait of ProfessorMott.

Wa-Wa-Wanda: A Legend of Old Orange.In one Volume: pp. 280. New-York:Rudd and Carleton, Corner of Grand and Crosby-streets.

This is a book seriously written, containing the narrative of an old Indian calledWinter Pippin. The author, declining the trouble of giving us a measure of his own, which certainly the originality of his work demands, has modestly employed that of Mr.Longfellow's Hiawatha, for which Mr.Longfellowought to be very grateful.

The book before us—the work, a-hem!—on our table—reader, it's no use; we can't write prose after reading it. We are alone in our sanctum—no friend present to hold us in. We are wound up to a pitch of excitement, the case is desperate, it must come. O shade ofWinter Pippin, listen!

Here'sa poem as is a poem,Poem writ for all the ages;Poem sung byWinter Pippin,'Winter Pippin—Piping Pippin.'Should you ask us, gentle reader,Is it twaddle, sorry twaddle?Is it bosh and utter nonsense,Nonsense all, not worth the paper,Or the ink with which 'tis printed?We should answer, we should tell you,Buy the book and read it, read it,Pay your last red dollar for it,For this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.'Say no more, O carping critic!That our time hath borne no poet;Poet born to chant the chorus,Chorus of the mighty Present;Sing the age—its living genius,Sing the age—its grand upheavings,Sleepy nations slow awaking,Crownless kings with ague shaking;Sing the night, chased by the morning,Sing the day that now is dawning.Mourn no more, O wailing critic!ForHE's come. His name isPippin,Winter Pippin—not a Greening,Not a Golden, but a Pippin—And he sings in sweetest measure,Sings this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.'(How it rhymes with 'goosey gander.')Shades ofHomer,Shakspeare,Milton!From your graves rise up and greet him,Greet him with your heads uncovered,Beavers doffed, with low obeisance,All your hats off in his presence.Minstrel! thou who now art singing,Singing through this mighty nation,(Greatest nation in creation,)Henry Wadsworth, long-drawnFELLOW,Ye who sang ofHiawatha,Sang the charming golden legend,Sang the voices of the darkness,Cease your singing, hush your fiddle,Hang your jews-harp on the willows.Whittier, too, and tunefulLowell,FunnyHolmes, and gracefulStoddard,Ye who soar in upper ether,Feel at home the while you're up there—Down at once, and fold your pinions,Fold them, for theEaglesoareth,Soareth where ye cannot follow.All ye poets, Yankee poets,Go to bed and sleep upon it,Ere again ye sound the cymbals,Sound the cymbals, wake the echoesWhich have floated o'er the waters,Floated sweetly o'er the waters,Till far-distant climes have heard them.Time and space would surely fail us,Were we now to show the beauties,Show the beauties of this poem,Poem writ for all the ages;How there lived a cider-maker,'He, the first of cider-makers;How his cunning built a saw-mill,Sawed right through the Western country,Into cask-staves sawed the forests,Threw the slabs in the Pacific,Threw the scrags in the Missouri.'How he squeezed the juicy apples,How he loved the juicy cider,How he thought the world a barrel,Bound together by a cooper,Filled with cider to the bung-hole;How he feared 'twould 'burst its hoops off,Burst its hoops and split asunder;'How it didn't split asunder,But on fire was set one evening,When the careless sun, retiring,'Went to sleep and left his candle,Slept and left his candle burning;And it caught the chamber-curtains,Caught and set them all a-blazing.'How he thought, in month of August,Dracothe meridian straddles,'Elongates himself to northward,Nine degrees and twenty northward;And then thirteen more to westward,Takes another twist, and downwardSlaps his tail of starry spanglesIn the face ofUrsa Major.'How, one day, 'AuroraopenedNot as wide as wont her portals;And the day-king,Phætondriving,Ran against and brake the gate-posts:Day of dash and dark disaster;And with sun-dogs set, the heavensFrowned affronted, scowled and scolded.''Hold! no more! in mercy spare me!'Thus the reader now is pleading.Can it be that taste poeticFrom the world has fled forever?Can such lofty, moving numbers,Tire the reader in a second,Tire him in a fleeting second?Ere we part, O mighty poet!Poet of the tuneful numbers,Hear, oh! hear, our meek petition:Hear an ancientKnickerbocker!Greatly long we once to see thee,Once to gaze upon thy visage,Once to hear the voice that sungit,Once to press the hand that wroteit,Once to feel the bumps that thoughtit,Once to clip the hairitcame through;(Clip a lock off for a locket.)Once to tell thee all our wonder,All our joy at this thy music,Music sweet as 'Goosey-Gander,'Music sung of 'Wa-Wa-Wanda,'Music sung of apple-cider.Call on us, O mighty Pippin!At our snug and quiet sanctum,Sanctum in the second story,Of the building fifth in number,Fifth in street that men call Beekman,In the city known as Gotham;And—our word is now at stake, Sir,You our beaver hat can take, Sir,Take our hat, our cherished beaver!

Minstrel! thou who now art singing,Singing through this mighty nation,(Greatest nation in creation,)Henry Wadsworth, long-drawnFELLOW,Ye who sang ofHiawatha,Sang the charming golden legend,Sang the voices of the darkness,Cease your singing, hush your fiddle,Hang your jews-harp on the willows.Whittier, too, and tunefulLowell,FunnyHolmes, and gracefulStoddard,Ye who soar in upper ether,Feel at home the while you're up there—Down at once, and fold your pinions,Fold them, for theEaglesoareth,Soareth where ye cannot follow.All ye poets, Yankee poets,Go to bed and sleep upon it,Ere again ye sound the cymbals,Sound the cymbals, wake the echoesWhich have floated o'er the waters,Floated sweetly o'er the waters,Till far-distant climes have heard them.Time and space would surely fail us,Were we now to show the beauties,Show the beauties of this poem,Poem writ for all the ages;How there lived a cider-maker,'He, the first of cider-makers;How his cunning built a saw-mill,Sawed right through the Western country,Into cask-staves sawed the forests,Threw the slabs in the Pacific,Threw the scrags in the Missouri.'How he squeezed the juicy apples,How he loved the juicy cider,How he thought the world a barrel,Bound together by a cooper,Filled with cider to the bung-hole;How he feared 'twould 'burst its hoops off,Burst its hoops and split asunder;'How it didn't split asunder,But on fire was set one evening,When the careless sun, retiring,'Went to sleep and left his candle,Slept and left his candle burning;And it caught the chamber-curtains,Caught and set them all a-blazing.'How he thought, in month of August,Dracothe meridian straddles,'Elongates himself to northward,Nine degrees and twenty northward;And then thirteen more to westward,Takes another twist, and downwardSlaps his tail of starry spanglesIn the face ofUrsa Major.'How, one day, 'AuroraopenedNot as wide as wont her portals;And the day-king,Phætondriving,Ran against and brake the gate-posts:Day of dash and dark disaster;And with sun-dogs set, the heavensFrowned affronted, scowled and scolded.''Hold! no more! in mercy spare me!'Thus the reader now is pleading.Can it be that taste poeticFrom the world has fled forever?Can such lofty, moving numbers,Tire the reader in a second,Tire him in a fleeting second?Ere we part, O mighty poet!Poet of the tuneful numbers,Hear, oh! hear, our meek petition:Hear an ancientKnickerbocker!Greatly long we once to see thee,Once to gaze upon thy visage,Once to hear the voice that sungit,Once to press the hand that wroteit,Once to feel the bumps that thoughtit,Once to clip the hairitcame through;(Clip a lock off for a locket.)Once to tell thee all our wonder,All our joy at this thy music,Music sweet as 'Goosey-Gander,'Music sung of 'Wa-Wa-Wanda,'Music sung of apple-cider.Call on us, O mighty Pippin!At our snug and quiet sanctum,Sanctum in the second story,Of the building fifth in number,Fifth in street that men call Beekman,In the city known as Gotham;And—our word is now at stake, Sir,You our beaver hat can take, Sir,Take our hat, our cherished beaver!

Lewis' New Gymnastics for Ladies, Gentlemen and Children: and Boston Journal of Physical Culture: a Monthly Journal: pp. 16. Edited by Dr. D.Lewisof Boston.

Wehave seen only one number of this work; but we are so much pleased with the plan and general execution of this first issue, that we give it a cordial welcome and commend it to the American people as worthy of the most liberal patronage. There is no subject upon which the men and women of our country, and even the professed educators of the rising generation, are more profoundly ignorant than that of physical culture; and until the laws of physical health are better understood and observed, we need not expect much increase in intellectual or moral vigor. We wish to see on this continent a race of noble men and women, alike healthy and robust in body and in mind. Therefore we hail joyfully every instrumentality which wisely aims to improve the race. Dr.Lewishas for many years been devoted to the subject of physical education, and his new and admirable system of gymnastic training has elicited the warmest expressions of approbation from those who have witnessed its beneficent results. We bespeak for his noble enterprise the liberal patronage which it so richly merits. The specimen number of his excellent paper now before us, is alone worth nearly the price of the year's subscription, which is but a single dollar.

Considerations on Some of the Elements and Conditions of Social Welfare and Human Progress: being Academical and Occasional Discourses and Other Pieces. By C. S.Henry, D.D. In one Volume: pp. 415. New-York: D.Appleton and Company.

Thisvolume, the writer admits in the outset, contains some things which are not quite in unison with the tone of popular opinion, particularly in relation to the working of our political institutions, and to our future fortunes as a nation. 'But who is the better lover of his country,' he asks, 'he who lulls the people with soft strains of pleasing adulation, and kindles their fancy with bright pictures of future greatness and glory; or he who tells them of the rocks and dangers which are around them, and of the conditions on which their safety depends?' The author professes to 'love his country as much as any man that breathes;' but he does not think the best way to show it is by perpetual eulogies on our superiority as a nation: he does not think that the best way to make a 'glorious future' of our country sure, is to be forever casting brilliant horoscopes, without a single suggestion of thepossibilitiesof disaster and defeat. 'At all events,' he adds, 'there are enough to flatter our self-love; let one faithful friend be permitted to point out our faults: there are enough to cry peace and safety; let one voice of warning be tolerated.' The discussions of the volume touch upon great problems of human thought, and embrace questions of high scientific and practical interest. Of the themes treated of, there may be mentioned the following: 'The Importance of Elevating the Intellectual Spirit of the Nation;' 'The Position and Duties of the Educated Men of the Country;' 'The True Idea of the University, and its Relation to a Complete System of Public Instruction;' 'California, and the Historical Significanceof its Acquisition;' 'The Providence of God the Genius of Human History;' 'Young America: the True Idea of Progress;' together with papers upon 'The Destination of the Human Race,' (a somewhat bold 'subject,' and scarcely capable of safe 'handling,') 'Remarks on Mr.Bancroft'sOration on Human Progress;' 'President-Making,' in 'Three Letters to the Hon.Josiah Quincy,' and a dissertation on 'Politics and the Pulpit.' Here, as our readers may perceive, are ample 'fields of thought:' and in the library at 'Greystones' they have been cultivated to much fructification. Let us give a slight taste of our author's quality: thereabout especially where he speaks, in terse, significant, unmistakable language, in respect of 'The University' proper, with its 'True Idea and Relations.' Observe, please, that he considers 'self-made men' as being deprived, by lack of a truly 'liberal' education, of numerous scholarly 'tools,' by the use of which they might greatly have advanced their 'name and fame.' In these matter-full sentences, reader, you may consider 'Dr.Oldham, of Greystones' ('are you there, oldTruepenny?') seated in his beautiful library, now rendered famous, and cogitating upon 'self-made men' and their mistaken judgment, sometimes, in regard to the advantages to be derived from a sound and thorough university education. This is the portrait of oneQuintus Queerleigh, able editor of 'The Daily Trumpet:'

'Heis politician, philanthropist, social reformer, believer in social progress, in divinity of the people, (except those who differ from him,) believer in every thing more than in the wisdom of the Past. Clever man. Really able. Of manifold abilities. Can write. Can think, too. Says many wise and good things. Honest perhaps. So some think him. Great believer in himself, no doubt; perhaps an honest believer in truth—that which he thinks such. But not a learned man. A self-made man: with the one-sidedness that often belong to such men. He has already in advance opposed you. He bloweth with his trumpet to the people, to warn them against you. He telleth them that Common Schools are for the people: Colleges and Universities are only to pamper the pride of the rich, the grinders of the faces of the people. He bloweth with his Trumpet against the legislators—warning them of the wrath of the people, if they take the people's money to build up or sustain aristocratic institutions, contrary to the Gospel of Progress which the Trumpet proclaimeth: 'Peace on earth; and every man's coat cut the same length with his neighbor's. 'Useless institutions, too,' saithQueerleigh. 'Look at me. Am not I an able editor, politician, social reformer, writer, thinker? No college made me. I made myself. That is the way to make men.''FoolishQueerleigh! Foolish able editor! Knowest thou not that there was a stuff in thee, and a spirit that has made thee an exception to the general rule? Few men, perhaps, with thy lack of advantages, would make themselves as able as thou art. But with the advantages thou lackedst, many might. Beside, clever as thou art, able editor, writer, thinker, thou art not a learned man. No disgrace. How shouldst thou be? The thing for thee to be ashamed of is, that thou shouldst decry what thou hast not. For, those who are both asableas thou art, and as learned as thou artnot, have said and testified in many ways, from age to age, that learning, high learning and science, and the discipline that comes with them, are good things, and minister to the greater ability of the ablest of able men. Hadst thou started in thy career of life possessed of the manifold culture and accomplishment of a thoroughly educated man, thou mightest have beaten thy actual self as much as thou now beatest many a printer's apprentice with whom thou didst begin thy career.'

'FoolishQueerleigh! Foolish able editor! Knowest thou not that there was a stuff in thee, and a spirit that has made thee an exception to the general rule? Few men, perhaps, with thy lack of advantages, would make themselves as able as thou art. But with the advantages thou lackedst, many might. Beside, clever as thou art, able editor, writer, thinker, thou art not a learned man. No disgrace. How shouldst thou be? The thing for thee to be ashamed of is, that thou shouldst decry what thou hast not. For, those who are both asableas thou art, and as learned as thou artnot, have said and testified in many ways, from age to age, that learning, high learning and science, and the discipline that comes with them, are good things, and minister to the greater ability of the ablest of able men. Hadst thou started in thy career of life possessed of the manifold culture and accomplishment of a thoroughly educated man, thou mightest have beaten thy actual self as much as thou now beatest many a printer's apprentice with whom thou didst begin thy career.'

Hear, also, what our author saith of onePtolemy Tongue-End—patriot, democrat, demagogue, orator; who blows with his noisy breath a blast very much in unison with the 'Daily Trumpet:'

'He'stumpeth' at Ward meetings. Unlike editorQueerleigh, he has no faith in the people, except in their gullibleness—no faith in any thing except the wisdom of buttering his bread with the people's money. So he blows any blast that he thinks may help him to the favor of the sovereign people. He getteth into the legislature, and there opposes, with great wrath and noise, all grants to Colleges—calling them anti-democratic; though he knows in his heart all the while that it is, of all things in the world, the most democratic, that the people should be taxed for the endowment of the highest institutions of learning, free to all, as are the Common Schools—that so the children ofthe people, out of the pockets of the rich, may receive an education that shall enable them to take their share in the great prizes of life. For nothing is more true than that the great prizes of life (other things being equal) are grasped by those who have the highest, most thorough and liberal education; and without a great and perfect system of free Public Instruction, including the University and the Colleges, as well as the Common Schools, the children of the poor are, as a general rule, condemned to a hopeless disadvantage, in competition with the sons of the rich, in all the higher careers of life. There may be exceptional cases: but such must be the rule. This is so patent and palpable, it seems to me, to every man of common-sense and common candor, that I have little patience with the false and stupid twaddle which hollow-hearted demagogues, likeTongue-end, or hopelessly wrong-headed able editors, likeQueerleigh, are perpetually pouring into the ears of the unenlightened masses: putting the Common Schools and Colleges in opposition to each other—as if there was any contradiction between them; as if one was not as necessary as the other, as if every principle of that democracy they prate so about did not require that the State should provide, not only free primary instruction for all the children of the people, but also the highest instruction for all such of the children of the people as desire to go onward and upward into the higher spheres of useful and honorable exertion. Gentlemen, you may boldly join issue with these praters. Expose the foolishness of their hackneyed cant. Keep on doing so: and in due time, if you persevere, you will certainly disabuse the public mind.'

As we have said, there is much matter for thoughtful consideration in the compass of this handsomely-executed book; and we again commend it to the acceptance of our readers.

Pages and Pictures: From the Writings of J.Fenimore Cooper. With Notes bySusan Fenimore Cooper. In one Volume: pp. 400. New-York: W. A.Townsend and Company.

Itis with even somethingmorethan 'unusual pleasure' that we call the attention of our readers to 'Pages and Pictures:' the superb work of MissSusan Fenimore Cooper, just issued by those enterprising and tasteful publishers, Messrs.W. A. Townsend and Company, at Number 46 Walker-street, a locality where book-men 'most do congregate.' It is but simple justice to say, that no work so profusely and beautifully illustrated, and with such unlimited expenditure for paintings, engravings, paper, printing and binding, has ever been issued in this country. The engravings alone, executed from precious original pictures in the very highest style of the art of celature, we are assured, cost overten thousand dollars! The paper, fine and delicate in tint, is of the firm consistence of 'Bristol-Board,' thene plus ultraof printing-paper: and of the binding we can only say that it is exceedingly tasteful—exceedingly beautiful. From a carefully-considered and elaborate review of this excellent work, byGeorge Ripley, Esq., we make the annexed brief but interesting extract. As touchingthework by which Mr.Cooperfirst became popularly known to his countrymen as an American novelist, it is well worthy of preservation in these pages:

'Theplan of this volume has the attraction of novelty, and it is executed, not only in the spirit of filial affection, but with sound judgment, evincing the mingled frankness and reserve which were due to the relation between the subject and the editor. It consists of a selection of episodes from the writings of Mr.Cooper, illustrative of the different phases of his mind, and of the characteristics of his respective productions. In connection with these extracts, the editor has added a large amount of original matter, explaining the origin and history of Mr.Cooper'smost importantworks, and giving a variety of biographical incidents and reminiscences, which serve to throw light on the personal career of the distinguished novelist.''The Spy' was the first work which bore the unmistakable impress of Mr.Cooper'sgenius, and laid the deep foundations of his fame. The scene of this story was laid in Westchester, where he then lived, and it is not difficult to describe the local circumstances by which it was suggested. The incidents of the Revolution had not ceased to be the topics of conversation among the people of the neighborhood. Many who had taken an active part in the great struggle still survived. The gray-haired house-wife, as she sat at the wheel, spinning her thread of flax or wool, would talk of the armies she had seen passing her father's door in her girlhood. There was scarcely a farm-house in the country which had not been ravaged by Cow-boys, Hessians, or Skinners. Homes had been destroyed by fire; good yeoman blood had been shed; life had been taken; husband, father, or brother had fallen in some unrecorded skirmish, the hero of a rustic neighborhood. At the foot of the hill on which stood Mr.Cooper'scottage, there was the dwelling of a small farmer, who loved to visit his genial neighbor, telling stories of old times, and fighting over his battles with fresh interest, aroused by the spirited questions, the intelligent sympathy of his host. Other yeomen of the vicinity often joined the social circle. As they drank their glass of cider, picked over their hickory-nuts, or pared their Newtown pippin, all had some family tradition to relate of hairbreadth escape, of daring feat, of harried fields, of houses burned.'But higher sources than these contributed to the leading idea of the new books. Visits to Bedford were very frequent at that period. One pleasant Summer's afternoon, while sitting on the broad piazza of the house, JudgeJayand Mr.Cooperwere listening to the conversation of the venerableJohn Jay, as he related different facts connected with the history of the Revolution. From an incident which he then described, illustrating the services of a class of men who, in their patriotic zeal, were of the greatest importance in obtaining information for the Commander-in-Chief, the character ofHarvey Birchwas suggested. Strolling peddlers, staff in hand and pack on back, were more common visitors at the country-houses of that day than at present. It was after the visit of one of these men, a Yankee peddler of the old sort, that the lot in life ofHarvey Birchwas decided: he was to be a spy and a peddler. The novel was completed with great rapidity, and on its publication in September, 1821, immediately attracted general attention, and met with the most brilliant success. It was found on every table, and enjoyed by all classes of readers. In Europe, the 'Spy' was received with great favor, and was soon translated into French. MissEdgeworthexpressed herself very warmly in its praise, and sent a complimentary message, through a common friend, to the author, declaring that she liked 'Betty Flanagan' particularly, and that an Irish pen could not have drawn her better. The history of the other principal works of Mr.Cooperis given, interspersed with biographical details, of perpetual interest. We thus have the man and his writings combined in a graphic portraiture, which illustrates the strong individuality of the one and the characteristic boldness and vigor of the other.'

''The Spy' was the first work which bore the unmistakable impress of Mr.Cooper'sgenius, and laid the deep foundations of his fame. The scene of this story was laid in Westchester, where he then lived, and it is not difficult to describe the local circumstances by which it was suggested. The incidents of the Revolution had not ceased to be the topics of conversation among the people of the neighborhood. Many who had taken an active part in the great struggle still survived. The gray-haired house-wife, as she sat at the wheel, spinning her thread of flax or wool, would talk of the armies she had seen passing her father's door in her girlhood. There was scarcely a farm-house in the country which had not been ravaged by Cow-boys, Hessians, or Skinners. Homes had been destroyed by fire; good yeoman blood had been shed; life had been taken; husband, father, or brother had fallen in some unrecorded skirmish, the hero of a rustic neighborhood. At the foot of the hill on which stood Mr.Cooper'scottage, there was the dwelling of a small farmer, who loved to visit his genial neighbor, telling stories of old times, and fighting over his battles with fresh interest, aroused by the spirited questions, the intelligent sympathy of his host. Other yeomen of the vicinity often joined the social circle. As they drank their glass of cider, picked over their hickory-nuts, or pared their Newtown pippin, all had some family tradition to relate of hairbreadth escape, of daring feat, of harried fields, of houses burned.

'But higher sources than these contributed to the leading idea of the new books. Visits to Bedford were very frequent at that period. One pleasant Summer's afternoon, while sitting on the broad piazza of the house, JudgeJayand Mr.Cooperwere listening to the conversation of the venerableJohn Jay, as he related different facts connected with the history of the Revolution. From an incident which he then described, illustrating the services of a class of men who, in their patriotic zeal, were of the greatest importance in obtaining information for the Commander-in-Chief, the character ofHarvey Birchwas suggested. Strolling peddlers, staff in hand and pack on back, were more common visitors at the country-houses of that day than at present. It was after the visit of one of these men, a Yankee peddler of the old sort, that the lot in life ofHarvey Birchwas decided: he was to be a spy and a peddler. The novel was completed with great rapidity, and on its publication in September, 1821, immediately attracted general attention, and met with the most brilliant success. It was found on every table, and enjoyed by all classes of readers. In Europe, the 'Spy' was received with great favor, and was soon translated into French. MissEdgeworthexpressed herself very warmly in its praise, and sent a complimentary message, through a common friend, to the author, declaring that she liked 'Betty Flanagan' particularly, and that an Irish pen could not have drawn her better. The history of the other principal works of Mr.Cooperis given, interspersed with biographical details, of perpetual interest. We thus have the man and his writings combined in a graphic portraiture, which illustrates the strong individuality of the one and the characteristic boldness and vigor of the other.'

It needs but to add, in respect of the volume which we have been considering, that it is worthy of the name and fame ofCooper, and worthy of the name and fame of his present publishers.

Editorial Historical Narrative of the Knickerbocker Magazine: Number Nineteen.—Our last number of this 'Narrative-History' was shorter by some eight pages than its predecessors: so that we had no space to finish our consideration of the 'Ollapodiana Papers,' which we now resume, in connection with other early writings for theKnickerbocker. The few brief passages which we quoted, did not afford a fair example of the variety, the change of mood and manner which this short but admirable series displayed. A passage in the remarks of the author of the paper in the lastNorth-British Review,' elsewhere noticed in these pages, admirably and truly represents the characteristics ofWillis Gaylord Clark'smind and pen, in these popular papers: 'The man who can laugh as well as weep is most a man. The greatest humorists have also been the most serious seers, and men of most earnest heart. And all those who have manifested the finest perfection of spiritual health have enjoyed the merry sun-shine of life, and wrought their work with a spirit of blithe bravery.' The very last chapter of 'Ollapodiana,' written when the writer was prostrated by the illness from which he never recovered, was as felicitous and mirth-moving as any of the numbers which preceded it: and yet the pathos which characterized his sadder musings, as he drew near and nearer to the grave, failed not to draw tears from many a sympathetic soul. We pass to a few more brief and characteristic passages.

AsWillisapproached the end of his earthly pilgrimage, his thoughts grew solemn, deep, mournful possibly, but yet not sad. Thus he says, in the last number but one ofOllapodiana:

'Itis no long time, respected reader, since we communed together. Yet, how many matters have happened since that period, which should give us pause, and solemn meditation!Weare still extant; the beams of our spirit still shine fromoureyes; yet there are many who, since last my sentences came to yours, have drooped their lids forever upon things of earth. Numberless ties have been severed; numberless hearts rest from their pantings, and sleep, 'no more to fold the robe o'er secret pain.' All the deceits, the masks of life, are ended with them.Policyno more bids them to kindle the eye with deceitful lustre; no more prompts tosemblance, which feeling condemns. They are gone!—'ashes to ashes, and dust to dust;' and when I think of the numbers who thus pass away, I am pained within me; for I know from them that our life is not only as a dream which passeth away, but that the garniture, or the carnival of it, is indeed a vapor, sun-gilt for a moment, then colored with the dun hues of death, or stretching its dim folds afar, until their remotest outlines catch the imperishable glory of eternity. Such is life; made up of successful or successless accidents; itsmovers and actors, from the cradle to three-score-and-ten, pushed about by Fate not their own; aspiring but impotent; impelled as by visions, and rapt in a dream—which who can dispel?'

We cite the following here, to show still farther the solemnity of his musings, and mellifluous perfection of his versification. Mark how theliquidsounds melt into melody in the lines which ensue:

'Youmust know, reader, that there lieth, some three miles or so from Brotherly Love—a city of this continent, a delectable city—a place of burial, 'Laurel Hill' by name. On a sweeter spot the great sun never threw the day-spring of the morning, nor the blush of the evening west. There the odors and colors of nature profusely repose; there, to rest of a spring or summer afternoon, on some rural seat, looking at trees, and dancing waters, and the like, you would wonder at that curious question addressed ofDean Swift, on his death-bed, to a friend at his side: 'Did you ever know of any reallygood weatherin this world?' You would take the affirmative. Well, thus I sang:'Herethe lamented dead in dust shall lie,Life's lingering languors o'er—its labors done;Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky,Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.'Here the long concourse from the murmuring town,With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in;To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,No more to suffer, and no more to sin.'And here the impressive stone, engraved with wordsWhich Grief sententious gives to marble pale,Shall teach the heart, while waters, leaves and birdsMake cheerful music in the passing gale.'Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pourOn scented airs the unavailing sigh—While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,And landscapes blooming—that the loved should die?'There is an emblem in this peaceful scene:Soon, rainbow colors on the woods will fall;And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green,As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.'Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round,Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand:While the chained streams are silent as the ground,As death had numbed them with his icy hand.'Yet, when the warm soft winds shall rise in spring,Like struggling day-beams o'er a blasted heath;The bird returned shall poise her golden wing,And liberal nature break the spell of death.'So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end,The blessed Dead to endless youth shall rise;And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blendIts tones with anthems from the upper skies.'There shall the good of earth be found at last,Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand;Where Love her crown attains—her trials past—And, filled with rapture, hails the better land!''Thus I strummed the old harpsichord, from which I have aforetime, at drowsy hours and midnight intervals, extracted a few accidental numbers, (more pleasant doubtless to beget than read,) 'sleepless myself, to give to others sleep!'''Well, that is the only way to write without fatigue, both to author and reader. In all that pertains to the petty businesses which bow us to the routine of this work-day world, I am as it were at home. I am distinctly a mover in the great tide of Action sweeping on around me; yet when I enter into the sanctuary of the Muses, lo! at one wave of the spiritual wand, this 'dim and ignorant present' disappears. I breathe a rarer atmosphere. Visions of childhood throng upon my soul; the blue mountain-tops; the aerial circles of far-off landscapes; the hazy horizon of ocean-waters; the wind-tossed verdure of summer; the hills that burst into singing; and the sweet harmonies of nature—Universal Parent!—all appeal to my spirit. This dismemberment of the ideal from the actual, is a fountain of enjoyment, which whoso knows not, has yet the brightest lessons of life to learn. He has yet to enter that fairy dominion which seems the intermediate territory betwixt the airy realms conceived of in this world, and the more radiant glories of the 'undiscovered country.''

'Herethe lamented dead in dust shall lie,Life's lingering languors o'er—its labors done;Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky,Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.'Here the long concourse from the murmuring town,With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in;To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,No more to suffer, and no more to sin.'And here the impressive stone, engraved with wordsWhich Grief sententious gives to marble pale,Shall teach the heart, while waters, leaves and birdsMake cheerful music in the passing gale.'Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pourOn scented airs the unavailing sigh—While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,And landscapes blooming—that the loved should die?'There is an emblem in this peaceful scene:Soon, rainbow colors on the woods will fall;And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green,As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.'Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round,Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand:While the chained streams are silent as the ground,As death had numbed them with his icy hand.'Yet, when the warm soft winds shall rise in spring,Like struggling day-beams o'er a blasted heath;The bird returned shall poise her golden wing,And liberal nature break the spell of death.'So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end,The blessed Dead to endless youth shall rise;And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blendIts tones with anthems from the upper skies.'There shall the good of earth be found at last,Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand;Where Love her crown attains—her trials past—And, filled with rapture, hails the better land!'

'Herethe lamented dead in dust shall lie,Life's lingering languors o'er—its labors done;Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky,Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.

'Here the long concourse from the murmuring town,With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in;To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,No more to suffer, and no more to sin.

'And here the impressive stone, engraved with wordsWhich Grief sententious gives to marble pale,Shall teach the heart, while waters, leaves and birdsMake cheerful music in the passing gale.

'Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pourOn scented airs the unavailing sigh—While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,And landscapes blooming—that the loved should die?

'There is an emblem in this peaceful scene:Soon, rainbow colors on the woods will fall;And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green,As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.

'Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round,Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand:While the chained streams are silent as the ground,As death had numbed them with his icy hand.

'Yet, when the warm soft winds shall rise in spring,Like struggling day-beams o'er a blasted heath;The bird returned shall poise her golden wing,And liberal nature break the spell of death.

'So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end,The blessed Dead to endless youth shall rise;And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blendIts tones with anthems from the upper skies.

'There shall the good of earth be found at last,Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand;Where Love her crown attains—her trials past—And, filled with rapture, hails the better land!'

'Thus I strummed the old harpsichord, from which I have aforetime, at drowsy hours and midnight intervals, extracted a few accidental numbers, (more pleasant doubtless to beget than read,) 'sleepless myself, to give to others sleep!''

'Well, that is the only way to write without fatigue, both to author and reader. In all that pertains to the petty businesses which bow us to the routine of this work-day world, I am as it were at home. I am distinctly a mover in the great tide of Action sweeping on around me; yet when I enter into the sanctuary of the Muses, lo! at one wave of the spiritual wand, this 'dim and ignorant present' disappears. I breathe a rarer atmosphere. Visions of childhood throng upon my soul; the blue mountain-tops; the aerial circles of far-off landscapes; the hazy horizon of ocean-waters; the wind-tossed verdure of summer; the hills that burst into singing; and the sweet harmonies of nature—Universal Parent!—all appeal to my spirit. This dismemberment of the ideal from the actual, is a fountain of enjoyment, which whoso knows not, has yet the brightest lessons of life to learn. He has yet to enter that fairy dominion which seems the intermediate territory betwixt the airy realms conceived of in this world, and the more radiant glories of the 'undiscovered country.''

Yet in the succeeding number we find the writer indulging in such whimsical imaginings as the following:

'Observe, my friend, I am not writingagainsttime; so let us slowly on. My impressions of the old gentleman are sometimes extremely fantastic. I was looking the other day at a playful young cat, just emerging from the fairy time of kittenhood; something between the revelry of the fine mewer, and the gravity without the experience of the tabby. Now one would think that no great subject for contemplation. It would be looked upon by the million as inferior to astronomy. But it is the connection of the events having reference to the quadruped which renders her of interest.Timewill expand her person, increase her musical powers, and bring her admirers. In her back, on winter evenings, will sleep a tolerable imitation of the lightnings of heaven. She will make great noise o' nights, and lap at interdicted cream. So much for her exterior—her love-passages and obstreperous concerts. But look within! That compact embodiment of ligaments and conduits, now treading gingerly over those fading leaves, and grapes of purple, what may they not be hereafter? Whose hearts may they not thrill, when strung on the sonorous bridge of a cremona, guided to softest utterances by the master hand? How many memories of youth, and hope, and fond thoughts, and sunny evenings, and bowers by moonlight, radiant with the beams of Cynthia, and warm with the sweet reflex of Beauty; the heart, touched by the attempered entrail, rosin-encompassed and bow-bestrid, may bound in age with recollections of departed rapture. And all from what? Smile not at the association, my friend—from Time and cat-gut.'. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .''Twasa new idea to me, that conveyed of late by the author of 'Leslie,' surnamedNorman, that the only things you see, after crossing the Atlantic, which you have seen before, are the orb of day, sometimes vulgarly calledPhœbusor the sun, the chaste Regent of the Night orLuna, that greenhorns sometimes denominate the moon, and those jewels of heaven—'doubloons of the celestial bank,' as a Spanish poet calls them—sometimes named stars, by plain uninitiated persons. These, it seems, are the only old acquaintances a man meets abroad. They are not to be put by. A man may curse his stars, indeed, but he cannotcutthem. As well might the great sea essay 'to cast its waters on the burning Bear, and quench the guards of the ever-fixéd pole.' Therefore shall I learn henceforth yet more to love those dazzling planets, fixed or errant, because in no long time I may meet them in Philippi. Precious then to me will be their bright companionship! Milky feelings will come over me, as I scrutinize thevia lactea, with upturned eyes; conscious will be the moon; inexpressibly dear every glimpse of the lesser lights that rule the night with modest fires. Without the slightestpremonitory symptoms of astrology, and being withal no horologe consulter, I yet do love the stars. Rich, rare and lustrous, they win my gaze, and look into my soul.'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

''Twasa new idea to me, that conveyed of late by the author of 'Leslie,' surnamedNorman, that the only things you see, after crossing the Atlantic, which you have seen before, are the orb of day, sometimes vulgarly calledPhœbusor the sun, the chaste Regent of the Night orLuna, that greenhorns sometimes denominate the moon, and those jewels of heaven—'doubloons of the celestial bank,' as a Spanish poet calls them—sometimes named stars, by plain uninitiated persons. These, it seems, are the only old acquaintances a man meets abroad. They are not to be put by. A man may curse his stars, indeed, but he cannotcutthem. As well might the great sea essay 'to cast its waters on the burning Bear, and quench the guards of the ever-fixéd pole.' Therefore shall I learn henceforth yet more to love those dazzling planets, fixed or errant, because in no long time I may meet them in Philippi. Precious then to me will be their bright companionship! Milky feelings will come over me, as I scrutinize thevia lactea, with upturned eyes; conscious will be the moon; inexpressibly dear every glimpse of the lesser lights that rule the night with modest fires. Without the slightestpremonitory symptoms of astrology, and being withal no horologe consulter, I yet do love the stars. Rich, rare and lustrous, they win my gaze, and look into my soul.'

In the twenty-sixth number, the last of the series, there is the same combination of the humorous and the pathetic, which constituted the variety and the charm of the Ollapodiana Papers. With these brief passages we close our 'labor of love' and duty to the literary memory of our departed twin-brother.

'How do you bear yourself, my friend and reader, on the subject ofwintergenerally? What are 'your views?' If you are young and sanguine, with no revulsions or tempests of the heart to remember, I will warrant that you like old Hyem, and patronize that most windy individual, Boreas, of that ilk. Well, you have a free right to your opinion, and if you held it two years or less ago, you had the honor to agree with me. But I confess on that point a kind of warped idiosyncrasy; an unaccountable change of opinion. The truth is, reader, between you and me, there is not much dignity in winter, in a city. When, in the country, you can look out upon the far-off landscapes, the cold blue hills rising afar, and where a snow-bankisreally what it is cracked up to be; where the blast comes sounding to your dwelling over a sweep of woods, and lakes, and snowy fields, for miles of dim extension, there is some grandeur in the thing. But what is it to hear a blast, half-choked with the smoke and soot of the city, wheezing down a contemptible chimney-pot, or round a corner, where the wind, that glorious emblem of freedom, has no charter at all to 'blow out' as he pleases, but is confined by the statute of brick-and-mortar restrictions?'. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .'I haveturned this subject of steam-music extensively over in my mind, of late; and I have married myself to the idea, after a very short courtship, that it is a kind of thing that mustgo on. At the first blush, indeed, it might appear chimerical; but I ask the skeptic why the steam-whistle of a locomotive should not discourse in tones more soft and winning? Why cannot a locomotive ask a cow to leave a railroad track in a politer manner than in that discordant shriek, which excites the animal's indignation, and awakens her every sentiment of quadrupedal independence? I protest against such conduct. We presume a locomotive to buzz, andvapor, and deport itself pragmatically; but its conversation by the way ought to be chastened into something like propriety: and pleaseApollo, I think it will. I once saw an animal of this stamp killed instantly by the crushing transit of a train; and I thought I saw in the singular turn of her upper lip, as her torn-out heart lay yet palpitating on the rails, a peculiar curl of disdain, in her dying moments, at the treatment she had won. I put this down, because I hope 't will be remembered as a warning to whistlers in especial, and the great generation of calves unborn.''Onone of those warm April-like afternoons, with which, in our Philadelphia meridian, the fierce February chose to delight us, as if by contrast, I sat by my open window, which commands, through and over pleasant trees, fine glimpses of the country: and'As the red round sun descended,Mid clouds of crimson light,'I began to feel coming upon me the influence of a reverie. For a long time, my good friend whom I 'occupy' at present with this matter, I have had my day-dreams sadly broken in upon; in the few roses I have gathered, I have found the cypress mingling among their faded leaves; and a voice, as from the lowly leafiness of an autumnal wilderness,has spoken of the lost and of the past. Why is it, that though the mind may wander, theheartcan never forget? Well could I say with him who sings so well:'Thou unrelenting Past!Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain;And fetters, sure and fast,Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.'In thy abysses hideBeauty and excellence unknown; to theeEarth's wonder and her prideAre gathered as the waters to the sea!'And there they rest in dust and cold obstruction! Oh! that those who walk about in the beauty of the morning, with the greenness of earth around them, and the mysterious vitality which makes the elements in their nostrils, would think of this; considering truly their coming end!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'I haveturned this subject of steam-music extensively over in my mind, of late; and I have married myself to the idea, after a very short courtship, that it is a kind of thing that mustgo on. At the first blush, indeed, it might appear chimerical; but I ask the skeptic why the steam-whistle of a locomotive should not discourse in tones more soft and winning? Why cannot a locomotive ask a cow to leave a railroad track in a politer manner than in that discordant shriek, which excites the animal's indignation, and awakens her every sentiment of quadrupedal independence? I protest against such conduct. We presume a locomotive to buzz, andvapor, and deport itself pragmatically; but its conversation by the way ought to be chastened into something like propriety: and pleaseApollo, I think it will. I once saw an animal of this stamp killed instantly by the crushing transit of a train; and I thought I saw in the singular turn of her upper lip, as her torn-out heart lay yet palpitating on the rails, a peculiar curl of disdain, in her dying moments, at the treatment she had won. I put this down, because I hope 't will be remembered as a warning to whistlers in especial, and the great generation of calves unborn.'

'Onone of those warm April-like afternoons, with which, in our Philadelphia meridian, the fierce February chose to delight us, as if by contrast, I sat by my open window, which commands, through and over pleasant trees, fine glimpses of the country: and

'As the red round sun descended,Mid clouds of crimson light,'

I began to feel coming upon me the influence of a reverie. For a long time, my good friend whom I 'occupy' at present with this matter, I have had my day-dreams sadly broken in upon; in the few roses I have gathered, I have found the cypress mingling among their faded leaves; and a voice, as from the lowly leafiness of an autumnal wilderness,has spoken of the lost and of the past. Why is it, that though the mind may wander, theheartcan never forget? Well could I say with him who sings so well:

'Thou unrelenting Past!Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain;And fetters, sure and fast,Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.'In thy abysses hideBeauty and excellence unknown; to theeEarth's wonder and her prideAre gathered as the waters to the sea!'

'Thou unrelenting Past!Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain;And fetters, sure and fast,Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

'In thy abysses hideBeauty and excellence unknown; to theeEarth's wonder and her prideAre gathered as the waters to the sea!'

And there they rest in dust and cold obstruction! Oh! that those who walk about in the beauty of the morning, with the greenness of earth around them, and the mysterious vitality which makes the elements in their nostrils, would think of this; considering truly their coming end!'

Amongour frequent and always welcome early contributors, in prose and verse, wasLewis W. Mansfield,Esq. Our old readers will recal the papers which appeared from his pen, under the signature of 'Julian.' His prose was more felicitous than his verse; although in the 'Morning Watch,' and other of his poems, there were many noble passages. The subjoined will afford an example of his humorous prose:

'Itwould be amusing, if one could laugh at any thing so sad, to observe the humors of the few who think upon the bearings of this solemn time. In the year to be, there are many to come, many to go, and but few to tarry; yetallhave their ambitions of a life-time; those even, to whom the stars have grown dim, and life become almost a mockery under Heaven, dashing into the coming day with something of the old zest; while the many, theoi polloi, who have not yet made their grand move, are now ready, and think that therefore the earth is to take a new route in creation: forgetting that the old round must be the round forever. Nights sleepless with joy, nights sleepless with pain, nights long with watching, feverish thought; crime that stings like an adder, and nights short, with perfect rest; days long and weary, days bright and dashing, hot and cold, wet and dry, and days and nights with all of these—as hath been in the time that's past, and will be in the time to come.'There is something very pitiable in these humors; indeed very laughable, if your mouth is shaped to that effect; but as it happens with me to-night, my mouth refuses to twitch except in one direction. Its corners have the 'downward tendencies.' Perhaps it is because this is with me the anniversary of a day upon the events of which are hanging the movements of all after-life; it may be this, and there may be thereto added the coloring of a winter's day. The wind howls about the house-tops, and the air pierces like needles; even the stars, when they look down in thousands, as the rack goes by, seem to shiver in their high places; yet perhaps there is nothing so personal in all that, considering that just so the wind howled last night, and may for a month to come; but oh! as I am a nervous man, and look back upon the circling months, and feel the sting here and the stab there, in that galvanic battery; and as I look forward with eager eye, and ear open to the faintest whisper of the dim to-morrow, it is not as the stars shiver from excess of light, but with a shudder at the heart from the cooler blood of —— Good night, my kindEditor: that sentence is quite too long already, and there are some things too personal to tell.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .'P. S.—Whoop! hurrah! Light is upon the world again! Where are you, my dear friend? I say, Sir, I was an ass—do you hear?—anass, premature, wise before my time, a brute, a blockhead! Did I talk of dust and ashes? O Sir! I lied multitudinously.Every nerve, every muscle that didn't try to strangle me in that utterance,lied. No, Sir; let me tell you it's a great world; glorious—magnificent; a world that can't be beat! Talk of the stars and a better world, but don't invite me there yet. Make my regrets, my apology toDeath, but say that I can't come; 'positive engagement; happy some other time, but not now.' Oh! no; this morning is quite too beautiful to leave; and beside, I would rather stay, if only to thank God a little longer for this glorious light, this pure air that can echo back my loudest hurrah. And then, my boy——But haven't I told you? Why, Sir, I've got a boy!—aboy! ha, ha! I shout it out to you—aBoy; a ten-pounder, and the mother a great dealbetterthan could be expected! And, I say, my old friend, it'smine! Hurrah and hallelujah forever! O Sir! such legs, and such arms, and such a head!—andhe has his mother's lips! I can kiss them forever! And then, Sir, look at his feet, his hands, his chin, his eyes, his every thing, in fact—so perfect! Give me joy, Sir: no you needn't either, I am full now; I run over; and they say that I ran over a number of old women, half-killed the mother, pulled the doctor by the nose, and upset a 'pothecary shop in the corner; and then didn't I ring the tea-bell? Didn't I blow the horn? Didn't I dance, shout, laugh, and cry altogether? The women say they had to tie me up. I don't believethat; but who is going to shut his mouth up when he has a live baby? You should have heard his lungs, Sir, at the first mouthful of fresh air; such a burst! A little tone in his voice, but not pain; excess of joy, Sir, from too great sensation. The air-bath was so sudden, you know. Think of all his beautiful machinery starting off at once in full motion; all his thousand outside feelers answering to the touch of the cool air; the flutter and crash at the ear; and that curious contrivance the eye, looking out wonderingly and bewildered upon the great world, so glorious and dazzling to his unworn perceptions; his net-work of nerves, his wheels and pulleys, his air-pumps and valves, his engines and reservoirs; and within all, that beautiful fountain, with its jets and running streams dashing and coursing through the whole length and breadth, without either stint or pause—making altogether, Sir, exactly ten pounds avoirdupois!'Did I ever talk brown to you, Sir, or blue, or any other of the devil's colors? You say I have. Beg your pardon, Sir, but you—are mistaken in the individual. I am this day, Sir, multiplied by two. I am duplicate. I am number one of an indefinite series, and there's my continuation. And you observe, it is not a block, nor a block-head, nor a painting, nor a bust, nor a fragment of any thing, however beautiful; but a combination ofallthe arts and sciences in one; painting, sculpture, music, (hear him cry,) mineralogy, chemistry, mechanics, (see him kick,) geography, and the use of the globes, (see him nurse;) and withal, he is a perpetual motion—a time-piece that will never run down! And who wound it up? But words, Sir, are but a mouthing and a mockery.'When a man is nearly crushed under obligations, it is presumed that he is unable to speak; but he may bend over very carefully, for fear of falling, nod in a small way, and say nothing; and then, if he have sufficient presence of mind to lay a hand upon his heart, and look down at an angle of forty-five degrees, with a motion of the lips, unuttered poetry, showing the wish and the inability, it will be (well done) very gracefully expressive. With my boy in his first integuments, I assume that position, make the small nod aforesaid, and leave you the poetry unuttered.'

'There is something very pitiable in these humors; indeed very laughable, if your mouth is shaped to that effect; but as it happens with me to-night, my mouth refuses to twitch except in one direction. Its corners have the 'downward tendencies.' Perhaps it is because this is with me the anniversary of a day upon the events of which are hanging the movements of all after-life; it may be this, and there may be thereto added the coloring of a winter's day. The wind howls about the house-tops, and the air pierces like needles; even the stars, when they look down in thousands, as the rack goes by, seem to shiver in their high places; yet perhaps there is nothing so personal in all that, considering that just so the wind howled last night, and may for a month to come; but oh! as I am a nervous man, and look back upon the circling months, and feel the sting here and the stab there, in that galvanic battery; and as I look forward with eager eye, and ear open to the faintest whisper of the dim to-morrow, it is not as the stars shiver from excess of light, but with a shudder at the heart from the cooler blood of —— Good night, my kindEditor: that sentence is quite too long already, and there are some things too personal to tell.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'P. S.—Whoop! hurrah! Light is upon the world again! Where are you, my dear friend? I say, Sir, I was an ass—do you hear?—anass, premature, wise before my time, a brute, a blockhead! Did I talk of dust and ashes? O Sir! I lied multitudinously.Every nerve, every muscle that didn't try to strangle me in that utterance,lied. No, Sir; let me tell you it's a great world; glorious—magnificent; a world that can't be beat! Talk of the stars and a better world, but don't invite me there yet. Make my regrets, my apology toDeath, but say that I can't come; 'positive engagement; happy some other time, but not now.' Oh! no; this morning is quite too beautiful to leave; and beside, I would rather stay, if only to thank God a little longer for this glorious light, this pure air that can echo back my loudest hurrah. And then, my boy——But haven't I told you? Why, Sir, I've got a boy!—aboy! ha, ha! I shout it out to you—aBoy; a ten-pounder, and the mother a great dealbetterthan could be expected! And, I say, my old friend, it'smine! Hurrah and hallelujah forever! O Sir! such legs, and such arms, and such a head!—andhe has his mother's lips! I can kiss them forever! And then, Sir, look at his feet, his hands, his chin, his eyes, his every thing, in fact—so perfect! Give me joy, Sir: no you needn't either, I am full now; I run over; and they say that I ran over a number of old women, half-killed the mother, pulled the doctor by the nose, and upset a 'pothecary shop in the corner; and then didn't I ring the tea-bell? Didn't I blow the horn? Didn't I dance, shout, laugh, and cry altogether? The women say they had to tie me up. I don't believethat; but who is going to shut his mouth up when he has a live baby? You should have heard his lungs, Sir, at the first mouthful of fresh air; such a burst! A little tone in his voice, but not pain; excess of joy, Sir, from too great sensation. The air-bath was so sudden, you know. Think of all his beautiful machinery starting off at once in full motion; all his thousand outside feelers answering to the touch of the cool air; the flutter and crash at the ear; and that curious contrivance the eye, looking out wonderingly and bewildered upon the great world, so glorious and dazzling to his unworn perceptions; his net-work of nerves, his wheels and pulleys, his air-pumps and valves, his engines and reservoirs; and within all, that beautiful fountain, with its jets and running streams dashing and coursing through the whole length and breadth, without either stint or pause—making altogether, Sir, exactly ten pounds avoirdupois!

'Did I ever talk brown to you, Sir, or blue, or any other of the devil's colors? You say I have. Beg your pardon, Sir, but you—are mistaken in the individual. I am this day, Sir, multiplied by two. I am duplicate. I am number one of an indefinite series, and there's my continuation. And you observe, it is not a block, nor a block-head, nor a painting, nor a bust, nor a fragment of any thing, however beautiful; but a combination ofallthe arts and sciences in one; painting, sculpture, music, (hear him cry,) mineralogy, chemistry, mechanics, (see him kick,) geography, and the use of the globes, (see him nurse;) and withal, he is a perpetual motion—a time-piece that will never run down! And who wound it up? But words, Sir, are but a mouthing and a mockery.

'When a man is nearly crushed under obligations, it is presumed that he is unable to speak; but he may bend over very carefully, for fear of falling, nod in a small way, and say nothing; and then, if he have sufficient presence of mind to lay a hand upon his heart, and look down at an angle of forty-five degrees, with a motion of the lips, unuttered poetry, showing the wish and the inability, it will be (well done) very gracefully expressive. With my boy in his first integuments, I assume that position, make the small nod aforesaid, and leave you the poetry unuttered.'

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