6. PRIEST: (Anglo-Sax. priost, preost, Germ. and Dutch priester, Iceland prestr, Dan. and Swed. praest; also old Fr. prestre, Fr. pretre, Portug. presbytero, Span. presbitero, Ital. prete, Latin presbyter, Gr. [Greek: presbyteros], comparative of [Greek: presbys], old;) one who officiates in sacred offices.

7. RICKETS: (Fr. rachitis, Portug. rachitis, Span. raquitis, Lat. rachitis, Gr. [Greek: rhachitis], from [Greek: rhachis], the back or spine;) a disease of children.

8. SCIATICA: (Fr. sciatique, Portug. sciatica, ciatica, Span. ciatica, Ital. sciatica, Lat. ischias, gen. adis, Gr. [Greek: ischias], gen. [Greek: ados], from [Greek: ischion], the hip;) the hip-gout.

9. SUCH: (Anglo-Sax. swilc, Meso-Goth. swaleiks, old Germ. solih, Germ. solcher; composed of swa or so, the ancient modal case of the demonstrative pronoun, and the ancient form of Eng. like;) a demonstrative adjective of quality, denoting of that kind or sort.

10. WHICH: (Anglo-Sax. hulic, hwylc, hwilc, hwelc, Meso-Goth. hweleiks, or hwileiks, old Germ. huelih, Germ. welcher; composed of hwe or hwin, the ancient modal case of the interrogative pronoun, and the ancient form of Eng. like;) properly an interrogative adjective of quality, denoting of what kind or sort? but in use an interrogative partitive adjective.

11. WIG: a mutilation of the word periwig; see periwig above.



NEW-ENGLAND'S SABBATH BELLS.

I.

How sweet upon the morning air, the chime of Sabbath-bells, As full and clear upon the ear the solemn music swells! From many a church in sunny vale, and on the green hill side, The jewels of New-England's crown, her glory and her pride.

II.

The busy hum of busy men, this morn forgets to wake, In quiet deep the hushed winds sleep, as fearful they shall break The holy silence which o'erspreads all nature like a spell, With which in music sweet accords the Sabbath-morning bell.

III.

Those Sabbath-bells—they call us not to piles of mossy stone, Temples of yore, with age now hoar, and ivy overgrown, Through whose stained windows softly creeps a dim religious light, Seeming as it were sanctified unto the Christian's sight.

IV.

Nor do they tell of royal courts, in which to worship GOD, Where nobles gay in bright array bend to their monarch's nod; No costly paintings please the eye, nor trappings rich and rare, To draw the humble Christian's heart from sacred praise and prayer.

V.

But to the simple, hallowed fane, we turn our willing feet, Where, rank unknown, the free alone in humble worship meet; While 'Holiness unto the LORD' upon the walls we read, No other ornament than this, no other record need.

New-Haven, May 10, 1844. A.



A PASSAGE

FROM A LEGEND OF THE SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.

While the veteran Taric was making his wide circuit through the land, an expedition under Magued the renegado proceeded against the city of Cordova. The inhabitants of that ancient place had beheld the great army of Don Roderick spreading like an inundation over the plain of the Guadalquiver, and had felt confident that it must sweep the infidel invaders from the land. What then was their dismay, when scattered fugitives, wild with horror and affright, brought them tidings of the entire overthrow of that mighty host, and the disappearance of the king? In the midst of their consternation, the Gothic noble, Pelistes, arrived at their gates, haggard with fatigue of body and anguish of mind, and leading a remnant of his devoted cavaliers, who had survived the dreadful battle of the Guadalete. The people of Cordova knew the valiant and steadfast spirit of Pelistes, and rallied round him as a last hope. 'Roderick is fallen,' cried they, 'and we have neither king nor captain: be unto us as a sovereign; take command of our city, and protect us in this hour of peril!'

The heart of Pelistes was free from ambition, and was too much broken by grief to be flattered by the offer of command; but he felt above everything for the woes of his country, and was ready to assume any desperate service in her cause. 'Your city,' said he, 'is surrounded by walls and towers, and may yet check the progress of the foe. Promise to stand by me to the last, and I will undertake your defence.' The inhabitants all promised implicit obedience and devoted zeal: for what will not the inhabitants of a wealthy city promise and profess in a moment of alarm? The instant, however, that they heard of the approach of the Moslem troops, the wealthier citizens packed up their effects and fled to the mountains, or to the distant city of Toledo. Even the monks collected the riches of their convents and churches, and fled. Pelistes, though he saw himself thus deserted by those who had the greatest interest in the safety of the city, yet determined not to abandon its defence. He had still his faithful though scanty band of cavaliers, and a number of fugitives of the army; in all amounting to about four hundred men. He stationed guards, therefore, at the gates and in the towers, and made every preparation for a desperate resistance.

In the mean time, the army of Moslems and apostate Christians advanced, under the command of the Greek renegado, Magued, and guided by the traitor Julian. While they were yet at some distance from the city, their scouts brought to them a shepherd, whom they had surprised on the banks of the Guadalquiver. The trembling hind was an inhabitant of Cordova, and revealed to them the state of the place, and the weakness of its garrison.

'And the walls and gates,' said Magued, 'are they strong and well guarded?'

'The walls are high, and of wondrous strength,' replied the shepherd; 'and soldiers hold watch at the gates by day and night. But there is one place where the city may be secretly entered. In a part of the wall, not far from the bridge, the battlements are broken, and there is a breach at some height from the ground. Hard by stands a fig tree, by the aid of which the wall may easily be scaled.'

Having received this information, Magued halted with his army, and sent forward several renegado Christians, partizans of Count Julian, who entered Cordova as if flying before the enemy. On a dark and tempestuous night, the Moslems approached to the end of the bridge which crosses the Guadalquiver, and remained in ambush. Magued took a small party of chosen men, and, guided by the shepherd, forded the stream, and groped silently along the wall to the place where stood the fig tree. The traitors, who had fraudulently entered the city, were ready on the wall to render assistance. Magued ordered his followers to make use of the long folds of their turbans instead of cords, and succeeded without difficulty in clambering into the breach.

Drawing their scimitars, they now hastened to the gate which opened toward the bridge; the guards, suspecting no assault from within, were taken by surprise, and easily overpowered; the gate was thrown open, and the army that had remained in ambush rushed over the bridge, and entered without opposition.

The alarm had by this time spread throughout the city; but already a torrent of armed men was pouring through the streets. Pelistes sallied forth with his cavaliers and such of the soldiery as he could collect, and endeavored to repel the foe; but every effort was in vain. The Christians were slowly driven from street to street, and square to square, disputing every inch of ground; until, finding another body of the enemy approaching to attack them in the rear, they took refuge in a convent, and succeeded in throwing to and barring the ponderous doors. The Moors attempted to force the gates, but were assailed with such showers of missiles from the windows and battlements that they were obliged to retire. Pelistes examined the convent, and found it admirably calculated for defence. It was of great extent, with spacious courts and cloisters. The gates were massive, and secured with bolts and bars; the walls were of great thickness; the windows high and grated; there was a great tank or cistern of water, and the friars, who had fled from the city, had left behind a good supply of provisions. Here, then, Pelistes proposed to make a stand, and to endeavor to hold out until succor should arrive from some other city. His proposition was received with shouts by his loyal cavaliers; not one of whom but was ready to lay down his life in the service of his commander.

For three long and anxious months did the good knight Pelistes and his cavaliers defend their sacred asylum against the repeated assaults of the infidels. The standard of the true faith was constantly displayed from the loftiest tower, and a fire blazed there throughout the night, as signals of distress to the surrounding country. The watchman from his turret kept a wary look out over the land, hoping in every cloud of dust to descry the glittering helms of Christian warriors. The country, however, was forlorn and abandoned, or if perchance a human being was perceived, it was some Arab horseman, careering the plain of the Guadalquiver as fearlessly as if it were his native desert.

By degrees the provisions of the convent were consumed, and the cavaliers had to slay their horses, one by one, for food. They suffered the wasting miseries of famine without a murmur, and always met their commander with a smile. Pelistes, however, read their sufferings in their wan and emaciated countenances, and felt more for them than for himself. He was grieved at heart that such loyalty and valor should only lead to slavery or death, and resolved to make one desperate attempt for their deliverance. Assembling them one day in the court of the convent, he disclosed to them his purpose.

'Comrades and brothers in arms,' said he, 'it is needless to conceal danger from brave men. Our case is desperate: our countrymen either know not or heed not our situation, or have not the means to help us. There is but one chance of escape; it is full of peril, and, as your leader, I claim the right to brave it. To-morrow at break of day I will sally forth and make for the city gates at the moment of their being opened; no one will suspect a solitary horseman; I shall be taken for one of those recreant Christians who have basely mingled with the enemy. If I succeed in getting out of the city, I will hasten to Toledo for assistance. In all events I shall be back in less than twenty days. Keep a vigilant look out toward the nearest mountain. If you behold five lights blazing upon its summit, be assured I am at hand with succor, and prepare yourselves to sally forth upon the city as I attack the gates. Should I fail in obtaining aid, I will return to die with you.'

When he had finished, his warriors would fain have severally undertaken the enterprise, and they remonstrated against his exposing himself to such peril; but he was not to be shaken from his purpose. On the following morning, ere the break of day, his horse was led forth, caparisoned, into the court of the convent, and Pelistes appeared in complete armor. Assembling his cavaliers in tie chapel, he prayed with them for some time before the altar of the holy Virgin. Then rising, and standing in the midst of them, 'God knows, my companions,' said he, 'whether we have any longer a country; if not, better were we in our graves. Loyal and true have ye been to me, and loyal have ye been to my son, even to the hour of his death; and grieved am I that I have no other means of proving my love for you, than by adventuring my worthless life for your deliverance. All I ask of you before I go, is a solemn promise to defend yourselves to the last like brave men and Christian cavaliers, and never to renounce your faith, or throw yourselves on the mercy of the renegado Magued, or the traitor Julian.' They all pledged their words, and took a solemn oath to the same effect before the altar.

Pelistes then embraced them one by one, and gave them his benediction, and as he did so his heart yearned over them, for he felt towards them, not merely as a companion in arms and as a commander, but as a father; and he took leave of them as if he had been going to his death. The warriors, on their part, crowded round him in silence, kissing his hands and the hem of his surcoat, and many of the sternest shed tears.

The gray of the dawning had just streaked the east, when Pelistes took lance in hand, hung his shield about his neck, and, mounting his steed, issued quietly forth from a postern of the convent. He paced slowly through the vacant streets, and the tramp of his steed echoed afar in that silent hour; but no one suspected a warrior, moving thus singly and tranquilly in an armed city, to be an enemy. He arrived at the gate just at the hour of opening; a foraging party was entering with cattle and with beasts of burthen, and he passed unheeded through the throng. As soon as he was out of sight of the soldiers who guarded the gate, he quickened his pace, and at length, galloping at full speed, succeeded in gaining the mountains. Here he paused, and alighted at a solitary farm-house to breathe his panting steed; but had scarce put foot to ground when he heard the distant sound of pursuit, and beheld a horseman spurring up the mountain.

Throwing himself again upon his steed, he abandoned the road and galloped across the rugged heights. The deep dry channel of a torrent checked his career, and his horse, stumbling upon the margin, rolled with his rider to the bottom. Pelistes was sorely bruised by the fall, and his whole visage was bathed in blood. His horse, too, was maimed and unable to stand, so that there was no hope of escape. The enemy drew near, and proved to be no other than Magued, the renegado general, who had perceived him as he issued forth from the city, and had followed singly in pursuit. 'Well met, senor alcayde!' exclaimed he, 'and overtaken in good time. Surrender yourself my prisoner.'

Pelistes made no other reply than by drawing his sword, bracing his shield, and preparing for defence. Magued, though an apostate, and a fierce warrior, possessed some sparks of knightly magnanimity. Seeing his adversary dismounted, he disdained to take him at a disadvantage, but alighting, tied his horse to a tree.

The conflict that ensued was desperate and doubtful, for seldom had two warriors met so well matched or of equal prowess. Their shields were hacked to pieces, the ground was strewed with fragments of their armor, and stained with their blood. They paused repeatedly to take breath; regarding each other with wonder and admiration. Pelistes, however, had been previously injured by his fall, and fought to great disadvantage. The renegado perceived it, and sought not to slay him, but to take him alive. Shifting his ground continually, he wearied his antagonist, who was growing weaker and weaker from the loss of blood. At length Pelistes seemed to summon up all his remaining strength to make a signal blow; it was skilfully parried and he fell prostrate upon the ground. The renegado ran up, and, putting his foot upon his sword, and the point of his scimitar to his throat, called upon him to ask his life; but Pelistes lay without sense, and as one dead. Magued then unlaced the helmet of his vanquished enemy and seated himself on a rock beside him, to recover breath. In this situation the warriors were found by certain Moorish cavaliers, who marvelled much at the traces of that stern and bloody combat.

Finding there was yet life in the Christian knight, they laid him upon one of their horses, and, aiding Magued to remount his steed, proceeded slowly to the city. As the convoy passed by the convent, the cavaliers looked forth and beheld their commander borne along bleeding and a captive. Furious at the sight, they sallied forth to the rescue, but were repulsed by a superior force, and driven back to the great portal of the church. The enemy entered pell mell with them, fighting from aisle to aisle, from altar to altar, and in the courts and cloisters of the convent. The greater part of the cavaliers died bravely, sword in hand; the rest were disabled with wounds and made prisoners. The convent, which was lately their castle, was now made their prison, and in after-times, in commemoration of this event, was consecrated by the name of St. George of the Captives.

The loyalty and the prowess of the good knight Pelistes had gained him the reverence even of his enemies. He was for a long time disabled by his wounds, during which he was kindly treated by the Arab chieftains, who strove by every courteous means to cheer his sadness and make him forget that he was a captive. When he was recovered from his wounds they gave him a magnificent banquet to testify their admiration of his virtues.

Pelistes appeared at the banquet clad in sable armor, and with a countenance pale and dejected; for the ills of his country evermore preyed upon his heart. Among the assembled guests was Count Julian, who held a high command in the Moslem army, and was arrayed in garments of mingled Christian and Morisco fashion. Pelistes had been a close and bosom friend of Julian in former times, and had served with him in the wars in Africa; but when the count advanced to accost him with his wonted amity, he turned away in silence, and deigned not to notice him; neither during the whole of the repast did he address to him ever a word, but treated him as one unknown.

When the banquet was nearly at a close, the discourse turned upon the events of the war; and the Moslem chieftains, in great courtesy, dwelt upon the merits of many of the Christian cavaliers who had fallen in battle, and all extolled the valor of those who had recently perished in the defence of the convent. Pelistes remained silent for a time, and checked the grief which swelled within his bosom as he thought of his devoted cavaliers. At length, lifting up his voice, 'Happy are the dead,' said he, 'for they rest in peace, and are gone to receive the reward of their piety and valor! I could mourn over the loss of my companions in arms, but they have fallen with honor, and are spared the wretchedness I feel in witnessing the thraldom of my country. I have seen my only son, the pride and hope of my age, cut down at my side; I have beheld kindred friends and followers falling one by one around me, and have become so seasoned to those losses that I have ceased to weep. Yet there is one man over whose loss I will never cease to grieve. He was the loved companion of my youth, and the steadfast associate of my graver years. He was one of the most loyal of Christian knights. As a friend he was loving and sincere; as a warrior his achievements were above all praise. What has become of him, alas! I know not. If fallen in battle, and I knew where his bones were laid, whether bleaching on the plains of Xeres, or buried in the waters of the Gaudalete, I would seek them out and enshrine them as the relics of a sainted patriot. Or if, like many of his companions in arms, he should be driven to wander in foreign lands, I would join him in his hapless exile, and we would mourn together over the desolation of our country!'

Even the hearts of the Arab warriors were touched by the lament of the good Pelistes, and they said: 'Who was this peerless friend, in whose praise thou art so fervent?'

'His name,' replied Pelistes, 'was Count Julian.'

The Moslem warriors stared with surprise. 'Noble cavalier,' exclaimed they, 'has grief disordered thy senses? Behold thy friend, living and standing before thee, and yet thou dost not know him! This, this is Count Julian!'

Upon this, Pelistes turned his eyes upon the count, and regarded him for a time, with a lofty and stern demeanor; and the countenance of Julian darkened, and was troubled, and his eye sank beneath the regard of that loyal and honorable cavalier. And Pelistes said, 'In the name of God, I charge thee, man unknown! to answer. Dost thou presume to call thyself Count Julian?'

The count reddened with anger at these words. 'Pelistes,' said he, 'what means this mockery? Thou knowest me well; thou knowest me for Count Julian?'

'I know thee for a base imposter!' cried Pelistes. 'Count Julian was a noble Gothic knight; but thou appearest in mongrel Moorish garb. Count Julian was a Christian, faithful and devout; but I behold in thee a renegado and an infidel. Count Julian was ever loyal to his king, and foremost in his country's cause: were he living, he would be the first to put shield on neck and lance in rest, to clear the land of her invaders: but thou art a hoary traitor! thy hands are stained with the royal blood of the Goths, and thou hast betrayed thy country and thy God. Therefore, I again repeat, man unknown! if thou sayest thou art Count Julian, thou liest! My friend, alas! is dead; and thou art some fiend from hell, which has taken possession of his body to dishonor his memory and render him an abhorrence among men!' So saying, Pelistes turned his back upon the traitor, and went forth from the banquet; leaving Count Julian overwhelmed with confusion, and an object of scorn to all the Moslem cavaliers.



ON SEEING A LADY WEEP OVER A NOSEGAY.

Though plucked from off the parent stems, The flow'rs forget to die, When Beauty all their leaves begems With tears from her sweet eye.

There is a heart which throb'd to-day To see thee weep alone. And longed to wipe those drops away, Or make that grief its own.

PLUTARCH SHAW: 1844.



LITERARY NOTICES.

LITERARY REMAINS OF THE LATE WILLIS GAYLORD CLARKE. Parts Three and Four. New-York: BURGESS, STRINGER AND COMPANY.

The reception given to our notice of this serial work in our last number, has emboldened us to refer to the issues which have since appeared, containing a copious variety of matter which will be new to great numbers of our readers. One of the best evidences of the naturalness and ease of our author's writings, is to be found in the ready appreciation of them by all classes of readers. Whether the vein be a serious one, or the theme turn upon the humorous or the burlesque, it is not too much, we think, to say that the writer takes always with him the heart or the fancy of the reader. Without however pausing to characterize productions which bid fair to become very widely and favorably known, we shall venture, under favor of the reader, to present a few more extracts, 'which it is hoped may please.' The following illustration of a night-scene at the Kaatskill Mountain-House, on the evening of the Fourth of July, we can aver to be a faithful Daguerreotype sketch, for we saw it with the writer:

'Take my arm, and step forth with me from the piazza of the Mountain-House. It is night. A few stars are peering from a dim azure field of western sky; the high-soaring breeze, the breath of heaven, makes a stilly music in the neighboring pines; the meek crest of Dian rolls along the blue depths of ether, tinting with silver lines the half dun, half fleecy clouds; they who are in the parlors make 'considerable' noise; there is an individual at the end of the portico discussing his quadruple julep, and another devotedly sucking the end of a cane, as if it were full of mother's milk; he hummeth also an air from Il Pirata, and wonders, in the simplicity of his heart, 'why the devil that there steam-boat from Albany doesn't begin to show its lights down on the Hudson.' His companion of the glass, however, is intent on the renewal thereof. Calling to him the chief 'help' of the place, he says: 'Is that other antifogmatic ready?'

'No, Sir.'

'Well, now, person, what's the reason? What was my last observation? Says I to you, says I, 'Make me a fourth of them beverages;' and moreover, I added, 'Just you keep doing so; be constantly making them, till the order is countermanded.' Give us another; go! vanish!—'disappear and appear!''

'The obsequious servant went; and returning with the desired draught, observed, probably for the thousandth time: 'There! that's what I call the true currency; them's the ginooyne mint-drops; HA—ha—ha!'—these separate divisions of his laughter coming out of his mouth at intervals of about half a minute each.

* * * * *

'There is a bench near the verge of the Platform, where, when you sit at evening, the hollow-sounding air comes up from the vast vale below, like the restless murmurs of the ocean. Anchor yourself here for a while, reader, with me. It being the evening of the national anniversary, a few patriotic individuals are extremely busy in piling up a huge pyramid of dried pine branches, barrels covered with tar, and kegs of spirits, to a height of some fifteen or twenty feet—perhaps higher. A bonfire is premeditated. You shall see anon, how the flames will rise. The preparations are completed; the fire is applied. Hear how it crackles and hisses! Slowly but spitefully it mounts from limb to limb, and from one combustible to another, until the whole welkin is a-blaze, and shaking as with thunder! It is a beautiful sight. The gush of unwonted radiance rolls in effulgent surges adown the vale. How the owl hoots with surprise at the interrupting light! Bird of wisdom, it is the Fourth! and you may well add your voice to swell the choral honors of the time. How the tall old pines, withered by the biting scathe of Eld, rise to the view, afar and near; white shafts, bottomed in darkness, and standing like the serried spears of an innumerable army! The groups around the beacon are gathered together, but are forced to enlarge the circle of their acquaintance, by the growing intensity of the increasing blaze. Some of them, being ladies, their white robes waving in the mountain breeze, and the light shining full upon them, present, you observe, a beautiful appearance. The pale pillars of the portico flash fitfully into view, now seen and gone, like columns of mist. The swarthy African who kindled the fire regards it with perspiring face and grinning ivories; and lo! the man who hath mastered the quintupled glass of metamorphosed eau-de-vie, standing by the towering pile of flame, and, reaching his hand on high, he smiteth therewith his sinister pap, with a most hollow sound; the knell, as it were of his departing reason. In short, he is making an oration!

'Listen to those voiceful currents of air, traversing the vast profound below the Platform! What a mighty circumference do they sweep! Over how many towns, and dwellings, and streams, and incommunicable woods! Murmurs of the dark, sources and awakeners of sublime imagination, swell from afar. You have thoughts of eternity and power here, which shall haunt you evermore. But we must be early stirrers in the morning. Let us to bed.

* * * * *

'You can lie on your pillow at the Kaatskill House, and see the god of day look upon you from behind the pinnacles of the White Mountains in New Hampshire, hundreds of miles away. Noble prospect! As the great orb heaves up in ineffable grandeur, he seems rising from beneath you, and you fancy that you have attained an elevation where may be seen the motion of the world. No intervening land to limit the view, you seem suspended in mid-air, without one obstacle to check the eye. The scene is indescribable. The chequered and interminable vale, sprinkled with groves, and lakes, and towns, and streams; the mountains afar off, swelling tumultuously heavenward, like waves of the ocean, some incarnadined with radiance, others purpled in shade; all these, to use the language of an auctioneer's advertisement, 'are too tedious to mention, but may be seen on the premises.' I know of but one picture which will give the reader an idea of this etherial spot. It was the view which the angel Michael was polite enough, one summer morning, to point out to Adam, from the highest hill of Paradise.'

Many and many a young father will recognize, in the following, his own emotions, as he looks in moments of thoughtfulness upon the little 'olive-branches' around him, in whom he lives over again his own earliest years:

'To those who are disposed to glean philosophy from the mayhap less noticeable objects of this busy world, there are few sights more lovely than childhood. The little cherub who now sits at my knee, and tries, with tiny effort, to clutch the quill with which I am playing for you, good reader; whose capricious taste, varying from ink-stand to paper, and from that to books, and every other portable thing—all 'moveables that I could tell you of'—he has in his little person those elements which constitute both the freshness of our sublunary mortality, and that glorious immortality which the mortal shall yet put on. Gazing upon his fair young brow, his peach-like cheek, and the depths of those violet eyes, I feel myself rejuvenated. That which bothered Nicodemus, is no marvel to me. I feel that I have a new existence; nor can I dispel the illusion. It is harder, indeed, to believe that he will ever be what I am, than that I am otherwise than he is now. I can not imagine that he will ever become a pilous adult, with harvests for the razor on that downy chin. Will those golden locks become the brown auburn? Will that forehead rise as a varied and shade-changing record of pleasure or care? Will the classic little lips, now colored as by the radiance of a ruby, ever be fitfully bitten in the glow of literary composition!—and will those sun-bright locks, which hang about his temples like the soft lining of a summer cloud, become meshes where hurried fingers shall thread themselves in play? By the mass, I can not tell. But this I know. That which hath been, shall be: the lot of manhood, if he live, will be upon him; the charm, the obstacle, the triumphant fever; the glory, the success, the far-reaching thoughts,

'That make them eagle wings To pierce the unborn years.'

The 'Ollapodiana' papers are concluded in the third number, and a portion of the issue is devoted to the commencement of the 'Miscellaneous Prose Papers' of the writer, which are both numerous and various, 'A Chapter on Cats' records an amusing story, replete with incident, which turns upon the deplorable consequences, in one sad instance at least, of cat-killing. An illustrative although not satisfactory passage is subjoined:

'I am subject, in summer, to restlessness. Thick-coming fancies mar my rest, and my ear is peculiarly sensitive to the least inappropriate sound. One sultry evening in July, I returned home later than usual, from an arbitration, wherein I lost a cause on which I had counted certainly to win. I suspect I bored the arbitrators with too long a plea, and too voluminous quotations of precedents; for when I finished, two were asleep, and most of the others yawning. They decided against my client, and I came home mad with chagrin, and crept into bed, longing for speedy oblivion in the arms of Sleep.

'But that calm sister of Death would not be won to my embrace. I lay tossing for a long time in 'restless ecstacy,' until vexed and overwearied nature at last sunk to repose. I could not have slumbered over ten minutes, before I was awakened by the most outrageous caterwauling that ever stung the human ear. I arose in a fury, and looked out of the window. All was still. The cause for outcry appeared to have ceased. Now and then there was a low gutteral wail, between a suppressed grunt and a squeal; but it was so faint that nothing could have lived 'twixt that and silence. After a listening probation of a few minutes, I slunk back into my sheets.

'I had scarcely dozed a quarter of an hour, when the obnoxious vociferations arose again. They were fierce, ill-natured, and shrill. I arose again, vexed beyond endurance. All was quiet in a moment. I am not given to profanity; I deem it foolish and wicked; but on this occasion, after stretching my body like a sheeted ghost, half out of the window, and gazing into the shadows of the garden to discover the object of my annoyance, I exclaimed in a loud and spiteful voice, which expressed my concentrated hate:

——'D—n that cat!'

''Young gentleman,' said a passing guardian of the night, from the street, 'you had better pop your head in and stop your noise. If you don't, you will rue it; now mind-I-tell-ye.'

''Look here, old Charley,' said I, in return, 'don't be impertinent. It is your business to preserve the peace, and to obviate every evil that looks disgracious in the city's eye. You guard the slumbers of her citizens; and if you expect a dollar from me at Christmas, for the poetry in your next annual address, you will perform what I now request, and what it is your solemn and bounded duty to do. Spring your rattle; comprehend that vagrom cat, and take her to the watch-house, I will appear as plaintiff against the quadruped, before the mayor, in the morning. Her character is bad—her habits are scandalous.'

''Oh, pshaw!' said the watchman, and went clattering up the street, singing 'N'hav p-a-st dwelve o'glock, and a glowdee morn.'

'I reverted to my pillow, and fell into a train of conjectures touching the grimalkin. Possibly it might be the darling old friend of Miss Dillon. Then I thought of others—then I slept.

'I cannot declare to a second how long my fitful slumber lasted, before I was startled from my bed by a yell, which proceeded apparently from a cat in my room. I had just been dreaming of a great mouser, with ears like a jackass, and claws, armed with long 'pickers and stingers,' sitting on my bosom, and sucking away my breath. I sprang at once into the middle of the room. I searched every where—nothing was in the apartment. Then there rushed toward the zenith one universal cat-shriek, which went echoing off on the night-wind like the reverberation of a sharp thunder-peal.

'My blood was now up for vengeance. One hungry and fiery wish to destroy that diabolical caterwauler, took possession of my soul. At that instant the clock struck one. It was the death knell of the feline vocalist. I looked out of the window, and in the light of a stray lot of moonshine, streaming through the tall chimneys to the south-east, I saw Miss Dillon's romantic favorite, alternately cooing and fighting with a large mouser of the neighborhood, that I had seen for several afternoons previous, walking leisurely along the garden wall, as if absorbed in deep meditation, and forming some libertine resolve. In fine, they each seemed saturate with the spirit of the Gnome king, Umbriel, in the drama, when he

——'stalked abroad Urging the wolf to tear the buffalo.'

'The death of one of these noisy belligerents being determined on, I looked round my room for the tools of retribution. Not a moveable thing, however, could I discover, save a new pitcher, which had been sent home that very day, and to which my name and address were appended on a bit of card. I clutched it with desperate fury, and pouring into my bowl the water contained in it, I poised it in my hand for the deadly heave. I had been a member of a quoit club in the country, and the principles of a clever throw were familiar to me. I resolved to make the vessel describe what is called in philosophy a parabolic curve, so that while it knocked out the brains of one combatant, it should effectually admonish the survivor of the iniquity of his doings. I approached the window—balanced the pitcher—and then drave it home. Its reception was acknowledged by a loud, choking squall—a faint yell of agony, and then a respectful silence. Satisfied that my pitcher had been broken at the fountain of life, and that the silent tabby would not soon tune her pipes again, I retired to bed, and slept with the serenity and comfort of one who is conscious of having performed a virtuous action.

'In the morning, the cat was found 'keeled up' on a bed of pinks, with her head broken in, and her ancient and venerable whiskers dabbled in blood. The shattered pitcher lay by her side. The vessel had done its worst—so had my victim.'

The story proper, upon the consecutive incidents of which we shall not touch, closes with the annexed whimsical anecdote:

'An anonymous wag not long ago, placed an advertisement in each of our city journals, signed by an eminent house on the Delaware wharf, and stating that FIVE HUNDRED CATS were wanted immediately by the firm. The said firm in the meantime knew nothing of the matter.

'On visiting their counting-house the next morning, the partners found the streets literally blocked up with enterprising cat-sellers. Huge negroes were there, each with ten or fifteen sage, grave tabbies tied together with a string. Old market-women had brought thither whole families of the feline genus, from the superannuated Tom, to the blind kitten. The air resounded with the squallings of the quadrupedal multitude. New venders, with their noisy property, were seen thronging to the place from every avenue.

''What'll you guv me for this 'ere lot?' said a tall shad-woman, pressing up toward the counting-room. 'The newspapers says you allows liberal prices. I axes a dollar a piece for the old 'uns, and five levys for the kittens.'

''You have been fooled,' said the chief partner, who appeared with a look of dismay at the door, and was obliged to speak as loud amid the din as a sea-captain in a storm. 'I want no cats. I have no use for them. I could not eat them. I couldn't sell them. I never advertised for them.'

'A decided mendicant, a member of the great family of loafers, with a red, bulgy nose, and bloated cheeks, who had three cats tied to a string in his hand, now mounted a cotton bale, and producing a newspaper, spelt the advertisement through as audibly as he could under the circumstances, demanding of the assembly as he closed, 'if that there advertysement wasn't a true bill?' An unanimous 'Sarting!' echoed through the crowd. Encouraged by the electric response, the loafer proceeded to make a short speech. He touched upon the rights of trade, the liberty of the press, the importance of fair dealing, and the benefits of printing; and concluded by advising his hearers to go the death for their rights, and 'not to stand no humbug.' Such was the effect of his eloquence, that the firm against which he wielded his oratorical thunder found it necessary to compromise matters by treating the entire concourse to a hogshead of wine. 'The company separated at an early hour,' consoled for the loss of their bargains and the emptiness of their pockets by the lightsomeness of their heads and hearts.'

Let us hope that our readers will find, in the entire work from which we quote, ample reasons for the favor which it is receiving at the hands of the public.

MENTAL HYGIENE: OR AN EXAMINATION OF THE INTELLECT AND PASSIONS. Designed to illustrate their Influence on Health and the Duration of Life. By WILLIAM SWEETSER, M. D. In one volume. pp. 270. New-York: J. AND H. G. LANGLEY.

This is a work destined, as we can easily foresee, to produce great good. Its leading design, as its title implies, and as is stated indeed by the author in his preface, is to elucidate the influence of intellect and passion upon the health and endurance of the human organization; an influence which has been but imperfectly understood and appreciated in its character and importance, by mankind at large. The volume under notice is divided into two parts. Under the first are considered the intellectual operations in respect to their influence on the general functions of the body; under the second is embraced a view of the moral feelings or passions, in the relation which they also sustain to our physical nature. Of these a concise definition is offered, with such classification as is necessary to the leading design of the work. Their effects upon the different functions of the animal economy are next noticed; and a description is given of a few of the most important passions belonging to each of the three great classes; namely, pleasurable, painful and mixed, into which they are separated; their physical phenomena and individual influence on the well-being of the human mechanism being closely examined. A forcible exposition is also given of the evil consequences resulting from an ill-regulated imagination (acting through the instrumentality of the passions, morbidly excited by its licentious operation,) to the firmness of the nervous system, and the integrity of the general health. The volume is not addressed to any particular class of readers, and being free from technical expressions, is rendered plain and comprehensive to all. We commend this volume of Mr. SWEETSER cordially to our readers, firmly impressed with the belief that the principles which it advances may be rendered subservient both to the physical and moral welfare of our countrymen.

LIFE IN THE NEW WORLD, BY SEATSFIELD: translated from the German by GUSTAVUS C. HEBBE, LL. D., and JAMES MACKAY, M.A. New-York: J. WINCHESTER, 'New World' Press.

The fourth number of this very remarkable work has been published; and we have had a fair opportunity of testing the merits of the mysterious author. The circumstances must now be generally known, under which these works appear before the public. It appears that MUNDT, a German scholar, who is publishing a continuation of SCHLEGEL'S History of Literature, has in his delineations of character given almost unbounded praise to an American named SEATSFIELD. Among the various works attributed to him are 'Life in the New World,' 'Sea, Sketches,' 'South and North,' 'Virey,' the 'Legitimate,' and others, which are to be issued in rapid succession from the press of WINCHESTER, 'the indefatigable,' as he may well be called; for the rapidity with which he sends out to the world the literary novelties of the day is a theme of public marvel. The German, in which these volumes are written, is said by competent judges, to be very pure and powerful: and indeed we may rest assured that if the case were otherwise, a critic of such high reputation as MUNDT would never have spoken of SEATSFIELD in such enthusiastic terms. The publisher, we understand, obtained several of the works from the library of Columbia College, through the politeness of Professor TELLKAMPT.

The opinion, which some have expressed, that SEATSFIELD'S books are made up of stolen selections from different American writers, is unfounded. We cannot recognize in his style or thought familiar passages; and beside, there does not appear to be any rational inducement for this species of plagiarism. It is evident that the writings are indeed what they appear to be, the genuine productions of an able man. The descriptions of natural scenery are very graphic. 'The first trip on the Red River,' and the description of the trappers, is one of the most animated sketches we have ever read. Our mountains, rivers, cataracts, ocean-lakes, and forests, are described with the most remarkable spirit and truth.' The translation, we are informed by the best judges, is extremely faithful.

POETRY AND HISTORY OF WYOMING. By WILLIAM L. STONE, Esq. Second edition, enlarged. New-York: MARK H. NEWMAN.

This indefatigable laborer in the mine of Indian history continues to throw off from time to time works upon that subject, which bear the marks of great industry, patient research, and extensive information, and which have deservedly given him a high literary reputation as an historical writer. What has yet appeared we believe is only the beginning of a series of works relating to Indian annals, which are to be completed as soon as the author's health, and the duties of an arduous profession, will allow. From a late honor conferred upon him by one of the remnants of the Six Nations, in electing him one of their chiefs, by the name of SA-GO-SEN-O-TA, it seems plain that they highly approve of his efforts to preserve their history; and it may be considered as endorsing the accuracy of his investigations. In this light, the honor conferred, though coming from those whom civilization is crushing beneath its superior intelligence and power, is valuable and important. The present book takes the poetical share of its title from the fact that the author has prefixed CAMPBELL'S celebrated poem, preceded by a sketch of his life, furnished by WASHINGTON IRVING. 'Gertrude of Wyoming,' though beautiful, and seeming to be a narrative of real incidents in a poetical dress, is nevertheless a fiction, albeit founded upon an actual tragedy, whose horrors can hardly be exaggerated by any pen. It has been the design of our author to record the real history of the section of country which was stained by this tragedy, and which for this reason, has a melancholy interest thrown over its natural charms.

The history of Wyoming does not commence, as many suppose, with the war of the American revolution. Long before, the conflict of human passions in the breast of savage and civilized man had discolored its soil with blood. During this antecedent period, its aboriginal annals are replete with incidents, which were greatly multiplied after the civil wars which disturbed the repose of that secluded valley had begun to be waged between the rival claimants to the territory from Connecticut and Pennsylvania, and which for twelve or thirteen years prior to the revolutionary war present a series of the most stirring events. The author, therefore, in order to render the history complete, has taken it up before the first known visit of the white men; of whom, among the earliest, were the Moravian missionaries. To the honor of these men, be it recorded, that in this instance, as in others, they plunged into the depths of the forest, and labored among the savages with a christian zeal and enterprize which have never been surpassed. The scenes of the revolution, embracing not only the great massacre in July, 1778, with its frightful horrors, but also a number of other bloody forays of the Indians upon the white men, are moreover faithfully described. But after all, perhaps the most interesting portion of the volume is formed of the narrative of the services and sufferings of individuals and families. These latter records are full of those wild and romantic incidents which are peculiar to border warfare; where the steady courage and determined bravery of the European appears in deadly conflict with the wiliness, cunning, and sleepless vengeance of the savage. To say that all this is narrated by the author in the spirit of accurate history, would be far below the meed of praise that is due. He has executed this part of the book in a style of animated and lively description, and with that flowing and finished diction, which can only be attained when the mind of a writer is perfectly familiar with the events, and when, by the force of imagination, he becomes himself as it were an actor instead of a spectator of the scenes which he narrates.

Additional interest is given to this spot, from the fact, which probably is not generally known, except to the professed historian, that the distinguished patriot TIMOTHY PICKERING took up his abode in the valley of Wyoming, attracted no doubt by its unrivalled beauties, to which he was first introduced during a military campaign, but which he afterward contemplated, on the return of peace, with an eye capable of being charmed by the picturesque in nature. The concluding chapter of the book is devoted mainly to a spirited account of the abduction of that gentleman, and his confinement in the wilderness by a gang of ruffians, who, after trying in vain to bend his soldier-like mind to a compliance with their violent designs, gave him an ungracious release, and allowed him to return to his family. Among the papers in the appendix, now first introduced to the public, will be found a deed of purchase, made from the Indians ninety years ago, by the Connecticut Land Company, containing the names of some six hundred of the most wealthy and distinguished people of that State. It is important as a means of showing the valuation of land at that period, and a proof that it was acquired by honest purchase. This edition has been enlarged to the amount of more than one hundred pages of letter-press; an addition found necessary by the discovery of increased materials by the author since the publication of the first edition.

In concluding this brief notice of a work written with decided talent, and designed to fill an important niche in the early history of this country, we are bound to thank the author, and to express the hope that he will be able to finish the historical design which he has sketched, pertaining to that interesting race, of whom it may be truly said, that 'the hour of their destiny has already struck.' This volume shows us, that in our own country may be found topics for literary effort, worthy of employing the gifted pens of America, without going abroad in quest of subjects, in the discussion of which we shall long be surpassed by foreigners, on account of their superior facilities and larger sources of information. As a book entirely American, we commend it to the reading public, confident that it will be received with favor wherever it is read, and be considered a valuable addition to the historical department of every gentleman's library.

A NEW SPIRIT OF THE AGE. By R. H. HORNE. In one volume. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

The Mr. HORNE who stands sponsor for this 'child of many fathers' must not be confounded with Mr. HARTWELL HORNE, who in a literary point of view is quite another person. The author of the volume before us, however, with the aid of sundry fellow litterateurs 'of the secondary formation,' as CARLYLE phrases it, has collected together quite a variety of materials, the whole being intended to form a sort of sequel to HAZLITT'S 'Spirit of the Age,' a brilliant work, to which the present bears slight resemblance. We quite agree with a contemporary, that it manifests little or no independence of judgment or originality of thought. 'It is the result of the labor of many hands, and those not the most skilful or experienced. It consequently wants that homogenousness of style which one would expect in a professed imitation of so excellent a model. The highest degree of merit that can be accorded to it is that of a collection of magazine articles of second rate merit. It is likely to prove popular with the generality of readers who do not trouble themselves to dip beneath the surface of things; but we must caution those who would form a just estimate of the characters and merits of the distinguished writers whose works are analyzed in it, that its premises are not always correct nor its deductions sound.'



EDITOR'S TABLE.

A DAY WITH THE GREAT SEATSFIELD.—The Boston Daily Advertiser recently divulged, with a most curious air of bewilderment, the name of a new, and as it seems hitherto unheard-of, ornament to American literature—the illustrious SEATSFIELD. Illustrious, however, only upon the other side of the water; for it appears that we Yankee cotton-raisers have somewhat else to do than to busy our brains about any letters except letters of credit, or any fame that is not reverberated from abroad. No one, of course, at all conversant with modern German literature, not even the slightest skimmer of their late periodical publications, or the most occasional peruser of the Allgemeine Zeitung or Dresden Bluthundstaglich, can have failed to notice with patriotic pride the gradual but gigantic progress of this new VOLTAIRE to the highest pinnacle of popular renown. But, sooth to say, our western world is so overrun with pretenders; there are so many young gentlemen annually spawned by Yale and Cambridge, who affect to read German without being able to construe the advertisement of a Leipsic bookseller; so numerous are the blue-spectacled nymphs who quote JEAN PAUL betwixt their blanc-mange and oysters, without comprehending even the outermost rind of its in-meaning; so utterly ignorant are our so-called literati of any subject beyond the scope of a newspaper, that the name of SEATSFIELD sounded as strangely in American ears as if he had lately arrived from Herschel or Georgium Sidus in a balloon. It is true that some two or three of our eminent scholars, a few travellers, men of taste, who had wandered by the Rhine, were acquainted with his reputation, and in some degree with his productions. EMERSON doubtless must have been aware of his renown; Professor FELTON of course had read him as often as he has HOMER; JONES, WILKINS, and F. SMITH had studied him with delight. The 'Dial,' a journal of much repute, had even spoken openly, we are told, of his success in Europe. Mr. W. E. CHANNING, the poet, had evidently but perhaps unconsciously imitated his peculiar viscidity of style, and (if we may use such an expression.) extreme flakiness of thought. But in spite of these few exceptions to the general indifference, let it stand recorded, that when the name of SEATSFIELD returned to his own shore, it was an alien and unmeaning word. His own country, so deeply indebted to his powerful pen, absolutely knew him not. The literati stared, and the Boston Advertiser was struck aghast with wonder. What a comment upon the state of letters in America! 'Literary Emporium,' forsooth! 'Western Athens!' Medici of Manhattan! how grossly we Yankees do misapply titles! It was the very 'Literary Emporium' itself that was most astounded at the newly-discovered mine. SEATSFIELD'S name had overspread civilized Europe; his productions had been dramatized at Munich and Bucharest; they had been translated into Russian and Turkish; the Maltese mariner had learned to solace himself with his 'Twilight Helmsman's Hymn,' and the merchants of Syra and Beyrout adorned their mansions with his bust; yet Boston, New-York, and Philadelphia had never heard his name! In the lack of more minute information with regard to this remarkable man, perhaps the following page or two from a traveller's journal may prove acceptable to the public. The absolutely total obscurity of the subject in America, may also, it is hoped, serve as an apology for the openness of detail and apparent breach of etiquette in regard to private intercourse.

* * * * *

'It has been my fortune to spend a day in company with the man who of all men has done the most to illustrate our manners and character; yet who, strange to say, is less known than 'Professor' INGRAHAM. As it was then my fortune to speak with him; I now consider it my duty to speak of him, and to do what little I am able, to extend his name among his compatriots.

'In the spring of the year previous to this, or to be exact, in April, 1843, I found myself at Berlin. My friend, Mr. CARLYLE, of London, had given me a letter to THEODORE MUNDT, and I had learned soon after my arrival that this distinguished man was in town. I had consequently looked over my letters, after dinner, and had selected the one addressed to MUNDT, and laid it under a little plaster bust of SCHILLER that stood just over the stove, in the room where I dined. In the evening I walked into the Ermschlagg Buchzimmer.[2] Several students were making annotations from huge volumes, and many grave, pale gentlemen were turning over the reviews and periodicals of the day. Among these I recognized an Englishman whom I had fallen in with at Cologne but parted with at Heidelberg. He had been in Berlin three days before me, and I was truly glad to meet with an acquaintance even of so recent a date, to whom I could apply for information or advice as to the best way of seeing the lions. While I was whispering to him, a grim-visaged old Teuton looked up at us with a stern frown, and my friend observed, 'We must retire into the Sprechensaale, or conversation-room.' As soon as we had entered this adjoining apartment, to the evident satisfaction of the aforesaid grim Teuton, I observed a tall, thin man, of angular and wiry aspect, see-sawing his body in front of the stove, toward which he had turned his back, as he stood in apparently deep cogitation. 'You don't know who that is,' quoth my friend; 'there is one of the lions, to begin with. I found out his name this morning: that is THEODORE MUNDT.' Struck as I was with the stranger's aspect, which appeared to me altogether American, I stared at him till he suddenly raised his dark eyes, and fixed them on mine. To disembarrass myself from my seeming rudeness as politely as possible, I bowed to his gaze, and said inquiringly: 'I have the honor to address Mr. MUNDT?'

[2] A new public library and reading-room in Berlin.

''You have the luck,' he said, 'but the honor is his.'

''Honors are even, then,' said I, as brusquely as I dared; and of all animals a traveller is the most impudent. 'I have in my pocket,' I continued, 'a letter for you from my friend CARLYLE.' At the name of CARLYLE he raised his hands in surprise, then rubbed them with delight, and began to eulogise his friend.

'All this while I was fumbling in my pocket for my letter, when suddenly it flashed over me that I had put it under the bust in the tavern. I grew confused for a moment, and then as Mynheer MUNDT held out his hand for the letter, I burst into a laugh, and confessed that I had left my letter at home. MUNDT looked very serious, and quoted from Othello, 'That is a fault;' and then from Macbeth, 'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.' I thought there was a little affectation in this; perhaps it was merely complimentary; but the immediate result of our imperfect acquaintance was, that I made bold to introduce my friend to MUNDT, who invited us both to his rooms to supper. On our way thither, as we passed the Brunswik Gasthaus, where I lodged, I stepped in to procure my letter, and MUNDT appeared rejoiced to hear directly from his 'very fine friend' CARLYLE, as he queerly styled him.

'I should feel that I was venturing on forbidden ground were I to reveal more of what passed between us that evening. There was some drawing of corks and some puffing of Hamburg-made Cheroots, which MUNDT declared to be genuine Oriental; there was a ham of Westphalia, and a bit of La Gruyere. But with all this we have nothing to do. I fear that I have already made my preface too long. Enough be it then to say, that MUNDT first revealed to me on this occasion (I am ashamed to own it) the name and talents of our countryman SEATSFIELD. How enthusiastic he was I will not describe; but his enthusiasm could only be equalled by his surprise that I was not familiar with his writings.

'On the next day MUNDT gave me a letter to SEATSFIELD, directed to him at Basle, in Switzerland, near which he owns a beautiful villa. I did not find him at Basle, however, and I proceeded to Milan without delivering my letter. On my return from Italy, I happened to learn that SEATSFIELD was at Graffenburg in Silesia; and although it was forty leagues from my purposed route I encountered the delay, out of mere curiosity of seeing so distinguished a man. This time I was not disappointed. One day only I spent at Graffenburg, but that day was sufficient to fill me with a truly German (I wish I could say American) admiration of my countryman. Graffenburg, it should be remarked, is the famous scene of Doctor PRIESSNITZ'S wonderful hydropathic cures. Being there only for a single day, I did not think it best to submit in all points to the cold water treatment; neither did SEATSFIELD, for I noticed that he mixed two table-spoonfuls of gin with every gill of cold water. SEATSFIELD is a man of about middle-age, with a penetrating eye, and rather a good form, though not unusually muscular. His face bears a remarkable resemblance to the pictures of NUMA POMPILIUS; the benign smile of each is the same. His chin is round and full, although partially concealed by a slight beard; his nose, which is of a truly German outline, is marked by the 'dilated nostril of genius;' and his whole aspect is that of a thorough man of the world. I will continue my reminiscence by extracting verbatim a page or so from my imperfect, though as far as it goes, authentic diary. I am convinced however that his remarks will lose much from the want of his pointed manner of enunciation. His English was faultless, and he spoke as well as if he had never been out of America. Very few Americans indeed, and no British-Islanders, talk so correct and chaste a dialect.

EXTRACT FROM MY JOURNAL.

Graffenburg, July 4, 1844.

'I was very fortunate, they tell me, to find SEATSFIELD in so companionable a mood. He appeared in high spirits, and was exceedingly conversible. The glorious return of our national anniversary had a visible effect upon him. I presented my letter to him last evening, but he was weary, and retired early. When I first met him in the Upper Bath-room Walk, this morning, he congratulated me upon the brightness and brilliancy of the day. 'You have much to be thankful for, Sir,' he observed; 'the day is perfectly American. Just such a sun as this is now dawning upon Broadway and the Battery. The sound of India-crackers and the pleasant smell of lobsters is already perceptible to the senses of the awakening Manhattanese.'

'Boston, too, my native city,' I observed, 'is also alive to the holiday influences. Boston Common I dare say is already white with tents, and the fragrant commerce of the booths is just commencing on the Mall.'

SEATSFIELD: 'Yes, Sir; but Boston and Philadelphia both fail in developing the true character-stamp-work (character-stampfen-werk) of the day. To see the Fourth of July in its glory, one should visit New-York. To my senses, which are uncommonly acute, there is a peculiar smell about the Fourth of July in New-York, which differs in toto from that of any other holiday.'

'In Boston we also have the perfume of lobsters and egg-pop blended with that of orange-peel and pine-apple——'

SEATSFIELD: 'That, Sir, is but a feeble rationale of the New-York savor. I have often, in a jocose mood, amused myself with analyzing this odor. I have resolved it into the following elements: lobsters, gunpowder, trampled-grass, wheel-grease, and cigars. It is mainly to these ingredients, grafted upon the other ordinary city smells, that I attribute the Fourth of July smell.'

'There is one that you have failed to detect; namely, a faint whiff of barn-yards, owing I presume to the strong prevalence of farmers and other rustics from the surrounding country.' SEATSFIELD smiled at this, and acknowledged, in a laughing way, an occasional intimation of manure. 'Graffenburg,' I observed, 'is remarkably free from all strong odors; it is a very clean village.'

SEATSFIELD: 'That, Sir, is owing to the water: depend upon it, wherever water prevails neatness will ensue. Temperance and cleanliness go hand in hand. The ancients were a filthy race, and they were great wine-bibbers. What a condition of personal and mental nastiness is divulged by HORACE in his 'Iter ad Brundusium;' yet HORACE was a choice specimen of a Roman gentleman.'

'Have you had any poets among you here? or is the hydropathic system too repugnant to their art?'

SEATSFIELD: 'Our countryman, LONGFELLOW, was here not long since. I sat at table with him frequently; but never introduced myself to him.'

'Do you think highly of his powers?'

SEATSFIELD: 'As a prolific generator of novel life-images, no; but as a vivid delineator of the inner-thought principle, as an artistical displayer of the higher subjective mood, he is of the very first class. I honor LONGFELLOW.'

'He is perhaps our smoothest versifier, next to HALLECK.'

SEATSFIELD: 'Nay, he is the only one among us who can combine extreme polish and the utmost facility of flow with deep-seated reflection.' SEATSFIELD then quoted, with a sublime energy, from the celebrated 'Psalm of Life:'

''Not enjoyment and not sorrow Is our destined end or way, But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

'In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb driven cattle, Be a hero in the strife.

'Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant, Let the dead Past, bury its dead; Act, act in the glorious Present, Heart within and GOD o'er head.''

'You give the poet a great advantage,' I said, 'in quoting his very finest production, and picking out the choicest stanzas. Beside, his theme here is one of so general a nature, and so familiar to philosophy, that it would be hard for any one to moralize upon it in verse without accidentally hitting upon some sublimity. The commonest intellect has lofty and awful thoughts whenever it gives way to serious meditation upon our mortality.'

SEATSFIELD: 'That is partly true; but LONGFELLOW is not only great upon that ground. His realm is very extensive. No man has the power (had he only the will) of depicting the simplicity of every-day life and objects with more grace or comprehensiveness. There are some touches in his 'Village Blacksmith' inexpressibly beautiful, and worthy of BURNS' 'Cotter's Saturday Night:'

'His hair is crisp and black and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can,' etc.

And then again:

'He goes on Sunday to the Church, And sits among the boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the gallery, And it makes his heart rejoice.'

SEATSFIELD repeated these verses with much emotion; and I observed that a tear stood upon his lids. I therefore turned the conversation upon hydropathy, and introduced a quotation from PINDAR: [Greek: ariston men hydor], etc.

SEATSFIELD: 'PINDAR, Sir, has expressed a great truth; but I think that PIERPONT has expressed it better. In his exquisite 'Ode on the Opening of the Marlborough Temperance-House' how beautifully he says, after speaking in regard to the virtues of cold water:

'Oh! had EVE'S hair Been dressed in gin, Would she have been Reflected fair?'

'And then, after describing the beauty of Eden, with its rills and pellucid brooks bubbling through the fresh meads, he goes on:

'Are not pure springs And chrystal wells The very things For our Hotels?'

'That, Sir, is excellent, and the somewhat homely imagery only enhances in my mind the truth of the sentiment. PIERPONT, Sir, is a very great man.'

'As great as LONGFELLOW?'

SEATSFIELD: 'No, Sir, perhaps not; there is a considerable difference of calibre between them. I should say now that LONGFELLOW was a first-rate artist with a second-rate imagination, and that PIERPONT was only a second-rate artist with a first-rate fancy. There is no mistake in PIERPONT.'

I smiled at SEATSFIELD'S affectation of Americanisms, as if out of compliment to myself, or in honor of the day; and I rejoined: 'There may be no mistake in PIERPONT, but there is one or two in LONGFELLOW.'

SEATSFIELD: 'Grammatical or prosodiacal?'

'Neither; but in the beginning of his 'Psalm of Life,' he says:

'Tell me not in mournful numbers Life is but an empty dream; For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.'

'Here he evidently meant things are what they seem; for in the next stanza he goes on to say:

'Life is real, life is earnest, And the grave is not its goal; 'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,' Was not written of the soul.'

Consequently, if life is real and earnest, and the soul is incapable of mortality, things must be what they seem, and the soul cannot be dead that slumbers. And if the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not really what they seem to be, life is indeed an empty dream.' SEATSFIELD looked puzzled at this.

SEATSFIELD: 'You are somewhat hypercritical. Great thoughts must not be trimmed to the exact dialect of business-men. LONGFELLOW reveals important truths; he utters what is pent within him from the impulse of utterance: he tells us that 'Art is long and Time is fleeting;' now some arts are not long, and time often drags heavily. It will not do to be too precise in poetry.'

'But is that sentiment original? Does not one of the ancients say, 'Ars longa, vita brevis?' and does not that come pretty near to LONGFELLOW'S idea?'

SEATSFIELD: 'Yes, Sir, but that is a little criticism which picks out words. LONGFELLOW, or yourself, or any other man, would have arrived at the same conclusion, even had the ancient author never written it.'

* * * * *

'We were here interrupted by a call to luncheon; and I take advantage of the break in my journal, to bring this article to a close. More of the SEATSFIELDIANA I reserve for another number, provided the public are not already glutted.'

MAGAZINE WRITING.—We know not how we can better evince our appreciation of the kind and flattering comments of a Southern correspondent, who will at once recognize our allusion, than by citing the somewhat kindred remarks of an old and favorite contributor, now passed away from earth. It was a pleasing matter, he said, to sit down with the proper afflatus stirring within him, to write an article for a Magazine. 'If the work has a general prevalence; if its fame is rife on good men's tongues, the inspiration is the stronger. One says to himself, how many friends of mine will overlook these very lucubrations, perceive my initials, and recognize my name? How many pleasing associations will thus be awakened, and peradventure commendatory remarks expressed, concerning my powers? What a quid pro quo for wakeful nights, emendations of phrases, the choosing of words, and toilsome revision! The other day,' he continues, 'while reading the proof-sheet of my article in the last KNICKERBOCKER, I fell into a train of reflection upon the large amount of care and labor which must be entailed upon the publisher and editor of an original Magazine. Some one has observed, that when we listen to an exquisite opera, or any elaborate and intricate piece of music, we think not how vast were the pains and attention bestowed upon every note and cadence; what efforts for perfection in a solo, what panting for a warble, what travail for a trill! Taken separately, and at rehearsals, in disjointed fragments of sound, how different are they from that volume of sweet concords which is produced when they are all breathed forth in order, to the accompaniment of flutes and recorders, in one full gush of melody! This is just like a Magazine. How many minds does it engage! Cherished thoughts and cherished feelings, polished or sublimated, there find utterance, and demand that honor and deference to which they are entitled. In his beautiful Introduction to the Harleian Miscellany, JOHNSON sets forth the necessity and benefit of similar writings, with reasons as conclusive as the language in which they are expressed is chaste and strong. In a country like ours, where the vast population move by common impulse; think promptly, are enlightened with ease, and turn to the best account that knowledge which is received with the greatest facility; are inspired with sacred and patriotic feelings from the bar, the senate, the pulpit, and the press; it is important and just that the readiest methods and means of instructive moral amusement should be the most esteemed and the best supported. I confess I never look into a Magazine, that I do not liken it to a large and pure reservoir of refreshing waters; derived from many streams, and prankt around its borders with the flowers and garniture of poesy; possessing qualities agreeable to every taste—the grave, the solid, the scientific, the light, the gay. It is a map of the higher moods of life. It conveys a sustenance with the relish of pleasure. All who favor it with their productions have different tastes and faculties of mind. Each one endeavors to do the best with his theme. He ornaments it in diction, or tasks his fancy, or explores the secrets of science, or illustrates the events and scenes of his country: he excites broad-mouthed laughter, by salutary jest and pun; he expatiates in pathetic sentences, or murmurs in the mellow cadence of song; or arouses interest by the embellishments wherewith history is refined, and which shed a light over the dim annals of the past, making them to smile,

——'even as the radiant glow, Kindling rich woods, whereon the etherial bow Sleeps lovingly awhile.'

'Now what I thought beside, while looking over my proof, was this: that a 'circulating medium,' through which so many minds communicated their thoughts, produced and clothed with befitting language in solitary labor; smoothed, strengthened, or harmonized by revision, and rendered impressive by those helps and researches of which every readable writer must avail himself; such a medium, I say, merits the esteem and respect of all. It deserves not to be taken up for judgment, at a momentary glance, by the undiscerning eye of careless inquiry. It should be read impartially, and spoken of, in all worthy points, with praise; in faulty ones, with tenderness. Our literature, I take it, is not yet a sufficiently flowery pursuit, to enable any of its votaries to sow its walks with brambles. By its influence, the country is to be mentally illustrated; the clanking shackles of transatlantic humbug are to be thrown off; and the establishment of wholesome feelings, and reliance upon our own intellectual resources, firmly effected. I love to see the general press engaged now and then in cheering onward the laborers in the more unfrequented and toilsome avenues of our literary vineyard. It sends a GOD-speed to the bosoms of those whose travails are more for their country than themselves; and who are content, in anonymous pride, to believe, that it heralds that bright day of mental refinement which will ere long, among the freest and noblest confederacy of nations on earth, irradiate the utmost borders of that holy circumference,

'Our Native Land!'

A THRUST WITH A TWO-EDGED WEAPON.—We rather incline to the opinion that the 'complainant below' is infringing the law which forbids the use of concealed weapons; that are not the less to be guarded against, certainly, when as in the present case they cut both ways. But our readers shall judge: DEAR EDITOR: The country, strange as it may appear, has peculiar and permanent inhabitants; neither dressing in skins, nor wearing their own feathers, but habited after the glimpses of fashion which reach them through their trees. As we have never yet met with a man who was so fortunate as to have no relations, we take it for granted that all city-zens, yourself among the rest, have country-cousins. Think of the countless multitudes that turn their longing eyes in the direction of a metropolis like this, yearning for a visit, and sending off by frequent Opportunities, never by mail, those remarkable epistolary compounds of hopes and wants which no other race of beings can compose in perfection: 'Hope JOHN is well, and BETSEY will come and see us next summer; and want'—LAWSON and STEWART! what do they not want? Every thing; from twenty yards of silk down to a penny's-worth of tape. The letters run somewhat in this guise, though less poetically:

'Cousin John, please to send down to-morrow, At eight, by the Scarborough mail, 'Claudine, or the Victim of Sorrow,' Don Juan, two mops and a pail; Six ounces of Bohea from TWINING'S, A peg-top, a Parmesan cheese, Some rose-colored sarcenet, for linings, A stew-pan, and STEVENSON'S Glees; A song ending 'Hey-noni-noni,' A chair with a cover of chintz, A mummy dug up by BELZONI, A skein of white worsted from FLINT'S.'

Half the things that are sent for, they might buy at their own doors. Again and again we have known them put in commission and procure from an oppressed relative the identical productions of a manufactory within a mile of them. A singular virtue seems to abide in all that comes from the sunny side of Broadway.

'You perhaps may not know what an OPPORTUNITY is. In love affairs you have undoubtedly experienced that it is every thing; but in rural affairs it is more. It is the common-carrier of a village. So soon as an inhabitant has expressed his intention of going to town, he becomes an Opportunity, and like a Chinese, liable to pains and penalties for leaving his native place. From every quarter pour in letters, bundles, and packages, which are to be carried with care and delivered with despatch. No thanks for his trouble, if they should reach their destination, and a general liability for the uncertain value of their contents if they should chance to be lost. So that an Opportunity's advent in town ought to be announced in this way: 'Arrived, HIRAM DOOLITTLE, from Connecticut, with m'dze to LEGION AND COMPANY.' The Opportunity not only transports, but acts as General Agent. Commissions are given him for a return freight. Hats, coats, dresses, are much wanted, which he is expected to select with taste, and to purchase cheap. Even the labyrinth of houses does not protect him from the Argus eyes of his consignees. They seek him out and insist upon his turning himself into a United States' mail and a HARNDEN'S express. It is not a week since we heard a consignee's friend's friend request an Opportunity to carry home a loaf of sugar to his country correspondent.

'Perhaps, Friend KNICK., we are wounding your feelings all this time, tender by reason of many cousins and commissions; but we can assure you that we have an infinite respect for all relationship, and are rather blessed than bored by the requisitions of our own rural branches. We trust, however, that your rustic kith and kin do not come upon your house in the spring, in shoals like the shad. Unhappy editor, if it be so; for until the day predicted by ALPHONSE KARR, when connexions shall be cooked and cotelettes d'oncle a la Bechamel and tetes de cousin en tortue shall smoke lovingly upon the table, there is nothing for you but to submit to your Fates, or to give up your house-keeping. But with country cozens, those provincials who are not bone of your bone, and who nevertheless at every visit to town call upon you with an eager look and covetous smile, as if to say, 'Ask us to dinner, we once invited you to tea,' there is but one method to pursue; the cut—the firm, unwavering, direct cut. Do not pretend not to see them, or to look fixedly in another direction, but give them the vacant, absent stare, as if you saw around them, and through them, and the image before you excited neither attention nor recollection. There are no terms to be kept with them. Their Shibboleth is not yours.

'In the 'Absentee,' a London fashionable lady, Mrs. DAZEVILLE, goes to Ireland, and is hospitably received by Lady CLONBRONY, stays a month at her country-house, and is as intimate with Lady CLONBRONY and her niece Miss NUGENT, as possible; and yet when Lady CLONBRONY comes to London, never takes the least notice of her. At length, meeting at the house of a common friend, Mrs. DAZEVILLE cannot avoid recognizing her, but does it in the least civil manner possible: 'Ah, Lady CLONBRONY! Did not know you were in England! How long shall you stay in town? Hope before you leave England you will give us a day.' Lady CLONBRONY is so astonished at this ingratitude, that she remains silent; but Miss NUGENT answers quite coolly, and with a smile: 'A day? certainly, to you who gave us a month.' Miss EDGEWORTH evidently considers this a capital story; and we have no doubt that many stupid people who have read it consider it an excellent hit; but we can assure them that they know nothing of the woods and fields. It is a great favor to make people in the country a visit. It relieves them from the tiresome monotony of their rose-bushes and chickens; and by the active exertions in planning breakfasts and dinners, and making the one ride through the valley last for three afternoons, infuses if possible a certain degree of mental activity into their lives, which must be far from disagreeable to them. A cit too is in a certain degree a lion. The oldest town-jokes are as new in the country as last year's ribbons; and the neighbors gather together to view with delight a face that they have not seen every Sunday for the last fifty-two weeks, and are only too happy to engage the Novelty at a 'Tea.' But when they come to town, what can you do with them? Who the devil wants to see them? Your friends care little enough for you, still less for your agricultural acquaintances. You cannot bring yourself to go to PEALE'S Museum, or to see the talking-machine; and tickets at the opera are dear, unless you stand up. As we said before, you must cut them, or

'If you are a little man, Not big enough for that,'

you must try to have them arrested as soon as they arrive, as disturbers of domestic peace, and confined in the Tombs during the whole of their intended stay. If the Legislature sat in New-York instead of in a country city, they would pass some law similar to the South Carolina free-black law, confining all rural visitors, or at least making those liable to an indictment for false pretences, who claim acquaintance with the 'people of the whirlpool.'

'If it were only for once, one might ask all his rats des champs to meet one another at a Tea. This might be amusing, if the jest did not grow painful by repetition. There is no reciprocity in your dealings with such invitees. You will probably never again reach their Siberian settlement, whereas they come to town three times a year! It is not fair. It is a base cheat. How can they be so ungenerous and illiberal as to accuse you of neglect and ingratitude for not cultivating them when in the city? They might as well abuse you for not having a green-house! This doctrine of ours is so clearly reasonable, that all people of any breeding admit its truth, and act accordingly. You may stay a week at a country-seat, and need make no acknowledgments of any kind to the owner thereof in his town-house; whereas a dinner in the city is a debt of honor, which must be paid. This is a well settled law. Not that your obligation is by any means cancelled. It is not dead, but dormant. Next summer you will feel deep gratitude for the kindness you received during the last; but no such indebtedness is payable in urbanity. GEORGE SELWYN met in St. James-street, London, a man whom he had known very well in Bath, and passed steadily by him without a look of recognition. His acquaintance followed him, and said: 'Sir, you knew me very well in Bath.' 'Well, Sir,' replied SELWYN, 'in Bath I may possibly know you again.' Farewell.

ANOTHER 'PELLET' FROM JULIAN.—Not a word is necessary by way of introduction to the ensuing passages from an epistle lately received from our esteemed friend and correspondent JULIAN. Happy husband of a happy wife and happier mother! Happy father! may his joy never be less: 'We are in the country! When you write this way, say 'To the care of —— ——, Esq.', for we are designedly three miles from post-offices and newsboys. I have given warning that if any of the latter come within my grounds with his French things, I will souse him in the river, and hold him there till he shall be thoroughly chilled into a dislike of these parts. You will readily imagine why we are here. The excitements and distractions of city life for the last few months were too much for us, and there are some things that can only be enjoyed apart from the world. Here, we subside gradually and gracefully from that high and tense delirium from which I at least made my aerials, always coming back, however, to young JULIAN; who, by the way, is another occasion for country life, as I have great faith in first impressions, and I wish his to be bright and beautiful. Heaven preserve him from all darker colors; from the doubts, the glooms, the moral mistiness of your city atmosphere! Let no fog come between him and the bright sky, till he has well discovered that there is a heaven beyond, where there is neither cloud nor shadow, and up to which not one grain of all this dust and filth of the earth's whirling shall ever reach. It is quite enough that we are in sight and hearing of your great Babels; the jarring of their daily strife and the smoke of their torments. A lively and dashing river rolls between us, going off at a hand-gallop among rocky islands, over which we see their spires pointing up like electric-rods to avert the wrath that might otherwise descend upon them; and mingling with the dash of waters, we hear now and then their petty alarms, their steamers and fire-bells, and the dozen other occasions upon which they see fit to make a great noise in the world; but the travelled sound has a courtliness that is rather pleasant than otherwise; and as a key-note to our mocking-birds, it is quite worthy of the sweet south that brings it up. Whenever there is any sudden ebullition that cannot be pared down to the common air, we are made aware of it by a cannonading that is doubtless very considerable down there, but for any thing so ambitiously meant, it sounds here very miserable; a wretched attempt at notoriety, of which the most noticeable is the smoke of their powder. And so with all their sky-flourishing and rocketing, which we look at as at a falling star; pretty, no doubt, but not in our way. Every morning a railroad train starts out, and approaching within a mile, disappears among the hills with a slight buzzing and squibbing, like the fly on the window; and then after it has gone, as we suppose, there is another squib, very smart and snappish, and we hear nothing more of it till the train comes down, frets a little again as it passes by, and goes on to discharge its contents in the great city. To all these things we say, 'Pass on!' the world is various, and must be amused; but for us, we respectfully withdraw. We have had enough of the intense; we now welcome the trifling, appropriating however as much of the serious as we care to admit in our still life. When the Sabbath comes round, there are seven bells that reach us, each with its separate voice; and these, with falling waters, and the morning incense going up from the hill-sides, are as much of 'mass' as we care to have in our worship. But we have a ready ear for all sweet sounds, and need no glasses to appreciate the beautiful. Sunrise and sunset; the grouping of clouds; the blue haze that now and then lies on the landscape, all one with my cigar-smoke; and the storms and lightnings of the young summer, so spitefully beautiful; all these, with whatever of glory there may be in the still watches of the night, find their place in our picture-gallery; but we leave them as GOD made them, and add no tint to their coloring.