Transcriber's Note: The following Table of Contents has been added for the convenience of the reader.

[SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE AND ANTIQUITIES.]
[ANACREONTIC.]
[THE AMERICAN WILD ROSE.]
[EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD.]
[THE SONG OF THE SHIP.]
[MARK!]
[NATURE.]
[FRANCIS MITFORD.]
[SERENADE.]
[MOHEGAN LANGUAGE AND GEOGRAPHICAL NAMES.]
[A FAREWELL.]
[WILSON CONWORTH.]
[THE RED MAN.]
[A MOTHER'S GRIEF.]
[EYES AND LIPS.]
[AN ALBUM FRAGMENT.]
[SONNETS: BY 'QUINCE.']
[A FEW THOUGHTS ON FUNERALS.]
[YESTERDAY.]
[EDITING AND OTHER MATTERS.]
[THE SEA-ROVER.]
[RANDOM PASSAGES]
[LAY.]
[THE CHIEF OF HIS TRIBE.]
[DEATH-BED REMORSE.]
[LITERARY NOTICES.]
[EDITORS' TABLE.]

THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Vol. X. SEPTEMBER, 1837. No. 3.

[SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE AND ANTIQUITIES.]

NUMBER ONE.

The predominant taste for the study of ancient literature, and the investigation of antiquity, has been the means of bringing to light a vast quantity of matter, which, if written in modern times, would hardly be regarded of sufficient value to preserve beyond the age in which it was written. Elegance of style and composition is not the distinguishing trait in all the Grecian and Roman authors which have come down to us; nor are the subjects of sufficient importance to merit a preservation of twenty centuries; although it may be safe to say, that these qualities in general constitute the beauty and value of these writings; for we know that the ancients appreciated the works of their great men, as well as we; and to this we must owe their preservation. The philosophy of Plato and Socrates—the histories of Herodotus and Livy—the poetry of Homer and Virgil—the metaphysics of Aristotle—the geometry of Euclid, and the eloquence of Cicero and Demosthenes, are not regarded now with more esteem than they were in the period in which they were produced, although the great mass of the people were far behind us in knowledge. Poetry and eloquence are as attractive to the senses of a savage, as to him who is civilized; and to this circumstance must be attributed the preservation and transmission of many poems, of people who have left no other memento of their existence.

The wisdom of the ancient writers above named, was in advance of the age in which they lived, yet they were appreciated; and although kingdoms have risen and fallen, nations have been scattered and annihilated, and language itself become corrupted or lost, these memorials of learning and genius have been preserved, amid the general devastation, and still appear in all their original beauty and grandeur, more imperishable than the sculptured column or trophied urn; models for nations yet unborn, and drawing forth the admiration of the most accomplished scholars and profound philosophers.

In addition to these, we possess many valuable histories, learned dissertations, poetical effusions, specimens of the early drama, etc., which, although they may rank lower in their style of composition, are valuable from the light they throw upon the manners and customs of the age in which they were penned, and make us better acquainted with the private life, the tastes and occupations, of the ancients.

Thus much may be said of the Greek and Roman people. Their origin, their history, and their literature, are known in all civilized parts of the world; and from the downfall of their respective kingdoms to the present time, we are tolerably well acquainted with the leading events of the history of their descendants, in the modern nations of the south of Europe. Not so with the Teutonic people, who occupy the middle and northern parts of that continent. The glory of their ancestors has never been immortalized; no poet or historian arose to transmit to posterity an account of their origin, or the fame of their deeds, as letters were first known to the Goths in A. D., 360. It is not the intention, in the present essay, to illustrate the literature of the Germanic nations, but to take up that portion embraced in the general term of Scandinavian, which embraces the literature of Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Iceland. It is also known by the term Old-Northern or Norse, and as Icelandic literature. It is embodied in the Eddas and Historical Sagas as they are called, in the countries of the north. The former consists of collections of Icelandic poems, written upon parchment, or skins, in the language of that country; and the latter, which include the most important part, are relations of historical events which have occurred in Iceland and other countries of the north, including Great Britain and Ireland. They also extend to the affairs of Greenland, which we know was colonized by the Scandinavians at an early period, and to accounts of voyages made by them to an unknown land, called Vinland—supposed to be America—and to various parts of Europe.

Such are the sources of Scandinavian literature. But before we attempt to examine these treasures, which form the subject of our remarks, it may be well to ask the question, which naturally arises here: Who were this ancient people, who, from the earliest period, have occupied the north of Europe? Whence came they? And to what nation of more remote antiquity is their origin to be traced?

To answer these questions satisfactorily, would be a task as easily accomplished, as that of stating with accuracy the origin of the Egyptians. Several learned writers, of ancient as well as modern times, have investigated the subject, without arriving at conclusions which would agree in the most important points; and strange as it may appear, it is not the less true, that we are better able, after a lapse of ten or fifteen centuries, to determine the origin of the people by whom Europe was populated, about the period of the commencement of the Christian era, than writers were who flourished ten centuries ago. At that period, the most noble of inventions had not been brought to light, to treasure up passing events, and what had been preserved by tradition. Letters were not cultivated in Europe, and the intercourse between nations of kindred origin was not sufficiently close, to have promoted such an inquiry.

The cultivation and advancement of the science of philology, or system of universal grammar, has furnished us with a more unerring guide by which to trace the origin of the nations of antiquity, where sufficient of their languages remain, than history itself; for the latter, being in a great degree traditionary, cannot be relied upon, when treating of the origin of nations. The primitive history of the Scandinavians, Romans, Greeks, Egyptians, and Hindoos, are so interwoven with their mythology, that it is extremely difficult to separate truth from fiction. In analyzing the various European languages, on the principles adopted by philologists, we are enabled to trace the affinities existing between them; and by a similarity of grammatical structure, correspondence of words and phrases, and analogies in the conjugations of verbs and declensions of nouns, to classify the various languages, and ascertain from what family or stock they are derived. All the living languages of Europe, with the exception of the Biscayan, or Basque, and the Gaëlic, have been traced to Asia, and to languages which were spoken by the most ancient people of which we have any record. It is now conceded, that the Celts were one, if not the principal, of the primitive nations of Europe, distinguished by different names in different countries. The earliest historians of Europe agree, that they were, in a remote period, settled in various parts of that continent—in the mountainous regions of the Alps, and throughout Gaul, whence they migrated to Great Britain and Ireland, and to the central and western regions of Spain. At a later period, they inundated Italy, Thrace, and Asia Minor. 'The Hibernians,' says Malte Brun, 'are an old branch of the same people; and, according to some authors, the Highlanders of Scotland are a colony of the native Irish. The Erse, or Gaëlic, is the only authentic monument of the Celtic language; but it may be readily admitted, that a nation so widely extended must have been incorporated with many states whose dialects are at present extinct.'[1]

Another primitive nation was the ancestors of the Basques, a people now dwindled to a few thousands, and confined to the western base of the Pyrenees. They were closely allied to the Iberians, who occupied eastern and southern Spain, and a part of Gaul. In the remnant of this people is preserved one of the most remarkable languages that philologists have ever yet investigated, exhibiting undoubted marks of originality. 'It is preserved in a corner of Europe, the sole remaining fragment of perhaps a hundred dialects, constructed on the same plan, which probably existed, and were universally spoken, at a remote period, in that quarter of the globe. Like the bones of the mammoth, and the shells of unknown fishes, the races of which have perished, it remains a frightful monument of the immense destruction produced by a succession of ages. There it stands, single and alone, of its kind, surrounded by idioms whose modern construction bears no kind of analogy to it.'[2]

The south of Europe was occupied by the Etruscans, or Etrurians, whose splendid monuments alone remain to perpetuate their existence; also by the Ausonians, and the Osci. In the east of Europe, we know of no other primitive people than the Thracians, which, however, may have included others of less note. They are spoken of by all the early historians, but of their language, no traces are known to exist.

The north of Europe now alone remains. This part of the continent which embraces Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and the north of Germany, was originally inhabited by the Goths or Scandinavians; some writers using the former, and others the latter, to distinguish them. Under whatever name they have been known, they have filled so important a place in history, that they deserve more than a passing notice.

'In the beginning of the sixth century,' says Gibbon, 'and after the conquest of Italy, the Goths, in the possession of present greatness, very naturally indulged themselves in the prospect of past and future glory. They wished to preserve the memory of their ancestors, and to transmit to posterity their own achievements. The principal minister of the Court of Ravenna, the learned Cassiodorus, qualified the inclination of the conquerors in a Gothic history, which consisted of twelve books, now reduced to the imperfect abridgment of Jornandes. These writers passed, with the most artful conciseness, over the misfortunes of the nation, celebrated its success, and adorned the triumph with many Asiatic trophies, that more properly belonged to the people of Scythia. On the faith of ancient songs, the uncertain but the only memorials of barbarians, they deduced the first origin of the Goths from the vast island or peninsula of Scandinavia.'[3]

No dependence, of course, can be placed on this history, obtained in such a manner, and by a people unacquainted with letters. Commencing on historic ground, as early as the Christian era, and as late as the Antonines, the Goths were established toward the mouth of the Vistula, and in that fertile province where the commercial cities of Thorn, Elbing, Köningsberg, and Dantzic, were long afterward founded. In the reign of Antonines, the Goths were still seated in Prussia. About the reign of Alexander Severus, the Roman province of Dacia had already experienced their proximity, by frequent and destructive inroads. In this interval, therefore, of about seventy years, Gibbon places the second migration of the Goths from the Baltic to the Euxine.

Another, and perhaps a more plausible theory, for the origin of the Goths, is that of identifying them with the Thracians. This theory is strongly advocated by Vans Kennedy, who adduces many and conclusive arguments in favor of his hypothesis. Then to identify the Scandinavians with the Goths, and their origin is settled. From the time of Herodotus, until the general prevalence of the name of Goths, it is undeniable, that the Thracians remained unconquered, and that they extended themselves from Macedonia to the Dniester, and from the Euxine Sea to the confines of Germany. For, as the Getæ are identified by ancient writers with the Thracians, and as neither proof nor probability supports the assumption that Thracia was ever occupied by either Scythians or Scandinavians, it must necessarily follow, that whatever is predicated of the Getæ, must equally apply to the Thracians; and, consequently, if the Getæ were Goths, the Goths were also Thracians. To determine, therefore, the identity of the Getæ and Goths, it may be remarked, that from Strabo, it appears that the country immediately to the south of the Elbe was inhabited by the Suevi; then succeeded the country of the Getæ, which extended along the southern bank of the Danube, and also to the north of that river, as far as the Dniester. The Mœsi, likewise, dwelt on both banks of the Danube, and were equally with the Getæ considered by the Greeks to be a Thracian people. The Dacians, also, were a Thracian people.'[4]

It will be necessary, in the next place, to identify the other nations which occupied the interior of Europe from the second to the fifth century, with one of the great nations before alluded to, in order to arrive at the point in question. The incursions made by the barbarians, as they were called, from the North into Italy, which eventuated in the overthrow of the Roman empire, have generally been attributed to people who crossed the Baltic into Denmark, thence into Germany, where, uniting with other tribes, they concentrated their power, and established an empire between the Euxine and Adriatic, on both sides of the Danube. The most distinguished of these German nations, as they were called, were the Goths, Vandals, Visigoths, and Gepidæ. 'In ancient times,' says Procopius, 'they were called Sauromatæ and Melanchlæri, and by some the Gætic nation. They thus differ from each other in name, but in nothing else; for they are all fair, yellow-haired, and good-looking; they observe the same institutions, and worship the same God, as they are all of the Arian sect; and they use the same language, which is called Gothic. It therefore appears to me, that they were all originally the same nation.'[5]

The affinities of language which are so apparent in the languages of the north of Europe and Germany, as well as in Great Britain, do not require any evidence to prove their identity of origin; and if their language was the same, the natural conclusion is, that the people were the same. Gibbon states, that the German nations originally emigrated from Scandinavia; but his authority was Jornandes, who abridged the history of the Goths, as written by Cassiodorus, before alluded to, which is considered as indifferent authority.

Acknowledging the Goths and Scandinavians to be the same, one originated in the other, or each, migrating from the parent stock, must have taken a different course to reach their respective countries. The latter must necessarily have passed around the Gulf of Bothnia to reach Sweden and Norway, or must have passed to the south of the Baltic, through the country of the Goths. The former course is altogether improbable, and the latter makes them a branch of the Gothic nation, which is far the most probable. After quoting numerous authors on this subject, Vans Kennedy comes to the conclusion, that from the Hellespont the Thracians gradually extended themselves to the shores of the Baltic, and thence to Scandinavia. This hypothesis is far the most reasonable, inasmuch as it has support from the analogies of languages; from a close resemblance in the complexion, color of hair, eyes, etc., and from the testimony of history itself. The Thracians, as before observed, were one of the primitive nations of Europe. They are repeatedly noticed by Homer, who speaks of them as a numerous and hardy race. Alluding to their country, he says:

'To where the Mysians prove their martial force,
And hardy Thracians tame the savage horse;
And where the far-famed Hippomolgian strays,
Renown'd for justice and for length of days;
Thrice happy race!'

Iliad, b. xiii., v. 1, p. 13.

They are afterward spoken of by Herodotus, and subsequently by Procopius, from the latter of which we have quoted. As a nation, the Thracians have long been extinct. Even of their language there remains no vestige, except what is seen in the Teutonic languages at the North; those of the South, of Pelargic origin, are by some philologists derived from the Thracian, inasmuch as the affinities of the languages of the north and south of Europe are sufficient to deduce them from some earlier language, all traces of which are extinct.

This subject might be carried much farther, by tracing the analogies of language which exist between the German and Sanscrit, or between the English and Sanscrit, and of the affinity between the Persian and the two European languages named. They are all so striking as to place it beyond a doubt that some connexion existed at a very remote period of antiquity, between the people by whom these languages are spoken. On this point, the great philologist Adelung observes, that it has excited the greatest wonder and astonishment. 'The fact is undeniable; and the German found in Persian consists not only of a remarkable number of radical words, but also in particles, and is even observable in the grammatical structure. This circumstance will admit of two explanations, either from a later intermingling of the two languages, after they were completely formed, or from their both being derived from the same mother tongue.'[6]

Having thus traced the Scandinavians to the Thracians, which latter people, from their proximity to Asia, must have preserved parts of their mother tongue, particularly if that was the Persian or Zend, and noticed the remarkable affinity existing, even in our day, in the languages of Teutonic people (of which the Scandinavians are one) and the Persian, the antiquity of the former, and their descent from one of the original nations of Asia, will be sufficiently apparent, to take up the subject which heads this article.

The early history of the North was traditionary, until the introduction of Christianity, with which Roman letters were also introduced. These were easily adapted to express the various sounds of their languages; and being much more convenient and applicable to reduce their songs, tales, and histories into, than the characters heretofore used, they were soon after embodied in them. The letters in use, previous to the introduction of the Roman alphabet, were Runic. This alphabet consisted of sixteen letters, which are said to be Phœnician in their origin, and to have been introduced by Odin. They were used to sculpture important events on rocks and monuments, many of which are still found in various parts of the North, as well as in Great Britain. In another place, a more particular account will be given of these Runes, as they are called, accompanied by translations.

It does not appear that the Runic letters had ever been employed to much extent, on parchment, to record passing events, or to preserve the lays, which memory alone had transmitted from generation to generation. Like all other people of antiquity, the Scandinavians had their bards, synonymous with the rhapsodists of Greece. They were known by the name of Skalds, and were both poets and historians. 'They were the companions and chroniclers of kings, who liberally rewarded their genius, and sometimes entered the lists with them in trials of skill in their own art. A regular succession of this order of men was perpetuated—a list of two hundred and thirty in number, of the most distinguished in the three kingdoms of Norway, Denmark, and Sweden, among whom are several crowned heads, and distinguished warriors of the heroic age. Canute the Great retained several Skalds at his court, among whom was one from Iceland, 'who,' says Snorre Sturleson, 'having composed a short poem on Canute, went, for the purpose of reciting it, to the king, who was just rising from table, and thronged with suitors. The impatient poet craved an audience from the king for his lay, assuring him that it was very short. The wrath of Canute was kindled, and he answered the Skald with a stern look: 'Are you not ashamed to do what none but yourself has dared—to write a short poem upon me? Unless, by the hour of dinner to-morrow, you produce a drapa, above thirty strophes long, on the same subject, your life shall pay the penalty.' The inventive genius of the poet did not desert him. He produced the required poem, and was liberally rewarded by the king with fifty marks of silver.[7] The improvisatores of modern times forcibly remind us of the northern Skalds, who, without the genial skies and classic land of Italy to excite their imagination, produced their lays with equal facility, and expressed their ideas, which correspond with the wildness and rigidity of the North, as the Italian bards assimilate their effusions with the mildness of their climate, and the delightful landscapes with which they were surrounded. Southey thus alludes to them:

——'Wild the Runic faith,
And wild the realms where Scandinavian chiefs
And Skalds arose, and hence the Skald's strong verse
Partook the savage wildness.'

The most important part of Old Northern, or Icelandic literature, is that contained in the Sagas. Of these there are vast quantities still in a high state of preservation, not less than two thousand of them being in the collection of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries. They are written upon skins, in dialects of the Scandinavian languages. The greater portion, however, are in the Icelandic text; others are in the Faroe, Orkney, and Norwegian dialects. One of the most noble and praiseworthy undertakings of the present day, is that of the society alluded to, which contemplates the examination, elucidation, and immediate publication, of these valuable manuscripts. They have already advanced to a considerable extent in the accomplishment of their object. The first and most important collection of the Saga manuscripts, was that made by Arne Magnusen, a learned Icelander, who died in 1730. He collected one thousand five hundred and fifty-four of them, and by his will bequeathed a large sum for their publication. This fund led Professor Rafn, in connection with Brynjulfon, Egilson, and Gudmunsson, of Iceland, to found a society for the publication of the old Norse manuscripts, which society is the one referred to, having the King of Denmark for its patron and founder, and embracing among its members most of the learned men of the north of Europe. In addition to the bequest of Arne Magnusen, a large fund has been formed, contributed by the king and other noble and public-spirited individuals of Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Germany, Great Britain, and Iceland, for the further prosecution and investigation of old northern Archaeology, and Scandinavian antiquities generally. 'The ancient literature of the North,' to quote the language of a letter from the society, 'in point of extent, has not without reason been compared to the literary remains of Greece and Latium, and which is indisputably of decided importance to the antiquarians, historians, lawyers, and philologists of Europe and America.' It is gratifying to observe, that this enterprise has already begun to excite an interest, not only within the limited territory of Denmark, or of Scandinavia, where the resources for so extensive an undertaking are too scanty, but also in several countries beyond the limits of northern Europe, whose scholars share with us in the sentiment, that such literary undertakings ought not to be confined within political boundaries, but, on account of their extensive tendency, have also a claim to active participation from other countries; since without it they cannot meet with the requisite development, nor become of that utility to literature and science for which they are intended, and of which they are susceptible. In order more fully to carry into effect the plans of this society, the cöoperation of several of the most eminent antiquarians and literary men of Great Britain and the United States has been solicited, to which they will, no doubt, readily accede.

The Saga literature, which was cultivated to so great an extent in that distant and isolated spot, while all Europe was in a state of darkness, had a great influence in civilizing and promoting the cultivation of letters throughout the north of Europe. The Icelanders were a maritime people, inheriting their love of commerce and adventure from the hardy Scandinavians who planted their colony. Their continued intercourse with the coast of Norway led them to seek adventures elsewhere. The Faroe Islands, the Orkneys, Great Britain, and Ireland, were visited, and a continued trade kept up between them. The two former were Scandinavian colonies, and spoke a dialect of the ancient language.

With the introduction of Christianity into the North, the later Latins, Gothic characters of the Anglo-Saxons, came into general use; and to this we owe the transcripts, made chiefly in Ireland, of the sagas and poetry of the pagan times of the North, and also of the northern history during the middle ages. These sagas are divided into four classes, the mythic, mythico-historical, historical, and romantic.

The volumes already published, are the following: Foramanna Sögur, eleven volumes; Oldnordiske Sagær, eleven volumes; Scripita Historica Islandorum, six volumes. These contain historical sagas, recording events which transpired on the continent; a history of the Norwegian kings from Olaf Fryggvuson to Magnus, Lagabæta, embracing a long period of years, and terminating in the year 1274; the history of the Danish kings, from Harold Bluetooth to Canute VI., or the period between the middle of the tenth and the commencement of the thirteenth centuries, with critical notes and commentaries on the narrations and sagas of several northern writers.

Iselendinga Sögur, two volumes, contains the historical sagas, recording events which have transpired in Iceland; giving also a particular account of the first colonization of the island, in Icelandic.

Faëreyinga Saga, or the History of the Inhabitants of the Faroe Islands; in Icelandic, the Faroe-dialect, and Danish. Fornaldar Sögur Nordrlanda, three volumes; Nordiske Fortids Sagær, three volumes. The latter six volumes comprise all the mytho-historical sagas, recording events in the North, assignable to the period anterior to the colonization of Iceland, or the era of authentic history; in Icelandic and Danish.

Krakumal sive Epicedium Ragnaris Lodbroci, or Ode on the Heroic Deeds and Death of the Danish King, Ragnar Lodbrok, in England; in Icelandic, Danish, Latin, and French.

These publications will give some idea of the extent, variety, and interest, of the manuscripts in the possession of this society, and of the light which, in all probability, many of them will throw upon the hitherto unsettled points of English, Scottish, and Irish history.

[ANACREONTIC.]

I.

Wilt thou then leave me, ere the hurrying hours
Have yet gone by, when sleepless souls should meet?
Wilt thou then leave me, when in these still bowers,
Time lingers, wrapt in joys so wildly sweet?
Oh, break not thus away, with trembling spirit,
Nor deem a converse so delightful, wrong;
Ah me! the hours of joy we now inherit,
Have never yet been known to linger long.

II.

Haste not away so soon—a while remaining,
Some newer bliss, unknown, shall touch the heart;
Ah me! thy own unto my bosom straining,
If like me thou didst love, we should not part.
Thou still wouldst pause, and with a fond affection,
Re-clasp the hands, unite the lips that burn,
And when in fear thou break'st the sweet connection,
Return and linger, linger and return.

G. B. Singleton.

[THE AMERICAN WILD ROSE.]

A recent English writer says: 'The rose is a flower entirely unknown to the new world.'

Fair flower! the opening of whose breast
Of fragrance, on the soft south-west,
Speaks sweet to me, in mem'ries dear—
All that calls up affection's tear;
I love thy heart-leaf'd single cup,
Soft blushing with the hue of morn;
I kiss each essenced dew-drop up,
That trembles on thy thorn:
For thou upon my path hast grown
Since childhood—womanhood, I own.
First on a Pennsylvanian bank,
Where fair my native creek flow'd by,
The breathings of thine heart I drank,
And gazed into thy golden eye.

Where'er I wander, still dost thou
Ever upon my pathway bow;
The field, the cliff—my children's tomb,
To garland with spontaneous bloom.
Where'er a mossy rock hath place,
Thou wavest there in modest grace;
Guarding beneath thy blushing vest,
Midst tufted grass, the partridge-nest.
Where'er o'er mountain path I toil,
Thou spring'st to bless the grav'ly soil;
Where straggling fence-row gives thee room,
Thou fling'st a garland, and perfume;
And oft thy dying odors play,
Mingled in swathe of fragrant hay.
Though thou dost love the woodland shade,
Still for the sun-beam wert thou made.
Stealing from copse to open sky—
Greeting from far the traveller's eye:
Thou wert not 'born to blush unseen,'
Sweet wilding rose; the meadow's queen!

I love thy leaf's indented green;
The tinge of red upon thy stalk;
Thy pointed buds, so neatly furl'd:
O, who hath said this western world
Was to thy smile unknown!
Come, let him take one morning walk,
When May has well nigh flown;
In dell or dingle, chiefly where
A thicket meets the open air;
Or where a gurgling streamlet takes
Its sparkling leap through rocky brakes;
O'er fence-row, to the tassel'd corn,
The smiling rose nods from her thorn:
O! ever, rose! smile thus to me,
Memento of my childhood's glee.
In warmer Greece, thou may'st repay,
With richer glow, the softer day;
At eve, as from the bul-bul's throat,
Love's fabled breathings o'er thee float;
Or England's gardens may enhance,
By florist's art, thy trebled flower;
But here thou'rt free; thy ev'ry glance
Speaks but our nation's dower.

Free as the foot of Pilgrim, set
On Plymouth-rock by salt sea wet;
Free as the soil on which he trod,
Free as the pray'r he breath'd to God;
Free as the untam'd Indian's eye,
That tracks the foe none else can spy;
Free as the arrow from his bow—
Free as the dark Missouri's flow;
Free as the forest's untam'd herds;
Free as the lake's migrating birds.

Wild rose, and sweet! still grace the soil,
Won by our fathers' sacred toil;
Still cheer the labors of the plough—
The harvest rose, still flourish thou!
Gayer may blow in Persian loom,
Richer may breathe in Turk's perfume:
But purer, sweeter, never hung
The rocks, the paths, the fields among;
I love thee, for thou dost for me
Garland the country of the free!

W.

[EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD.]

There is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy, than, while gazing at a figure of melancholy age, to re-create its youth, and, without entirely obliterating the identity of form and features, to restore those graces which time has snatched away. Some old people, especially women, so age-worn and woful are they, seem never to have been young and gay. It is easier to conceive that such gloomy phantoms were sent into the world as withered and decrepit as we beheld them now, with sympathies only for pain and grief, to watch at death-beds, and weep at funerals. Even the sable garments of their widowhood appear essential to their existence; all their attributes combine to render them darksome shadows, creeping strangely amid the sunshine of human life. Yet it is no unprofitable task, to take one of these doleful creatures, and set fancy resolutely at work to brighten the dim eye, and darken the silvery locks, and paint the ashen-cheek with rose-color, and repair the shrunken and crazy form, till a dewy maiden shall be seen in the old matron's elbow-chair. The miracle being wrought, then let the years roll back again, each sadder than the last, and the whole weight of age and sorrow settle down upon the youthful figure. Wrinkles and furrows, the hand-writing of Time, may thus be deciphered, and found to contain deep lessons of thought and feeling. Such profit might be derived, by a skilful observer, from my much-respected friend, the Widow Ingersoll, a nurse of great repute, who has breathed the atmosphere of sick-chambers and dying-breaths, these forty years.

See! she sits cowering over her lonesome hearth, with her gown and upper petticoat drawn upward, gathering thriftily into her person the whole warmth of the fire, which, now at nightfall, begins to dissipate the autumnal chill of her chamber. The blaze quivers capriciously in front, alternately glimmering into the deepest chasms of her wrinkled visage, and then permitting a ghostly dimness to mar the outlines of her venerable figure. And Nurse Ingersoll holds a tea-spoon in her right hand, with which to stir up the contents of a tumbler in her left, whence steams a vapory fragrance, abhorred of temperance societies. Now she sips—now stirs—now sips again. Her sad old heart has need to be revived by the rich infusion of Geneva, which is mixed half-and-half with hot water, in the tumbler. All day long she has been sitting by a death-pillow, and quitted it for her home, only when the spirit of her patient left the clay, and went homeward too. But now are her melancholy meditations cheered, and her torpid blood warmed, and her shoulders lightened of at least twenty ponderous years, by a draught from the true Fountain of Youth, in a case-bottle. It is strange that men should deem that fount a fable, when its liquor fills more bottles than the congress-water! Sip it again, good nurse, and see whether a second draught will not take off another score of years, and perhaps ten more, and show us, in your high-backed chair, the blooming damsel who plighted troths with Edward Fane. Get you gone, Age and Widowhood! Come back, unwedded Youth! But, alas! the charm will not work. In spite of fancy's most potent spell, I can see only an old dame cowering over the fire, a picture of decay and desolation, while the November blast roars at her in the chimney, and fitful showers rush suddenly against the window.

Yet there was a time when Rose Grafton—such was the pretty maiden-name of Nurse Ingersoll—possessed beauty that would have gladdened this dim and dismal chamber, as with sunshine. It won for her the heart of Edward Fane, who has since made so great a figure in the world, and is now a grand old gentleman, with powdered hair, and as gouty as a lord. These early lovers thought to have walked hand in hand through life. They had wept together for Edward's little sister Mary, whom Rose tended in her sickness, partly because she was the sweetest child that ever lived or died, but more for love of him. She was but three years old. Being such an infant, Death could not embody his terrors in her little corpse; nor did Rose fear to touch the dead child's brow, though chill, as she curled the silken hair around it, nor to take her tiny hand, and clasp a flower within its fingers. Afterward, when she looked through the pane of glass in the coffin-lid, and beheld Mary's face, it seemed not so much like death, or life, as like a wax-work, wrought into the perfect image of a child asleep, and dreaming of its mother's smile. Rose thought her too fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and wondered that an angel did not snatch up little Mary's coffin, and bear the slumbering babe to heaven, and bid her wake immortal. But when the sods were laid on little Mary, the heart of Rose was troubled. She shuddered at the fantasy, that, in grasping the child's cold fingers, her virgin hand had exchanged a first greeting with mortality, and could never lose the earthy taint. How many a greeting since! But as yet, she was a fair young girl, with the dew-drops of fresh feeling in her bosom; and instead of Rose, which seemed too mature a name for her half-opened beauty, her lover called her Rosebud.

The rosebud was destined never to bloom for Edward Fane. His mother was a rich and haughty dame, with all the aristocratic prejudices of colonial times. She scorned Rose Grafton's humble parentage, and caused her son to break his faith, though, had she let him choose, he would have prized his Rosebud above the richest diamond. The lovers parted, and have seldom met again. Both may have visited the same mansions, but not at the same time; for one was bidden to the festal hall, and the other to the sick-chamber; he was the guest of Pleasure and Prosperity, and she of Anguish. Rose, after their separation, was long secluded within the dwelling of Mr. Ingersoll, whom she married with the revengeful hope of breaking her false lover's heart. She went to her bridegroom's arms with bitterer tears, they say, than young girls ought to shed, at the threshold of the bridal chamber. Yet, though her husband's head was getting gray, and his heart had been chilled with an autumnal frost, Rose soon began to love him, and wondered at her own conjugal affection. He was all she had to love; there were no children.

In a year or two, poor Mr. Ingersoll was visited with a wearisome infirmity, which settled in his joints, and made him weaker than a child. He crept forth about his business, and came home at dinnertime and eventide, not with the manly tread that gladdens a wife's heart, but slowly—feebly—jotting down each dull footstep with a melancholy dub of his staff. We must pardon his pretty wife, if she sometimes blushed to own him. Her visitors, when they heard him coming, looked for the appearance of some old, old man; but he dragged his nerveless limbs into the parlor—and there was Mr. Ingersoll! The disease increasing, he never went into the sunshine, save with a staff in his right hand, and his left on his wife's shoulder, bearing heavily downward, like a dead man's hand. Thus, a slender woman, still looking maiden-like, she supported his tall, broad-chested frame along the pathway of their little garden, and plucked the roses for her gray-haired husband, and spoke soothingly, as to an infant. His mind was palsied with his body; its utmost energy was peevishness. In a few months more, she helped him up the staircase, with a pause at every step, and a longer one upon the landing-place, and a heavy glance behind, as he crossed the threshold of his chamber. He knew, poor man, that the precincts of those four walls would thenceforth be his world—his world, his home, his tomb—at once a dwelling and a burial-place, till he were borne to a darker and a narrower one. But Rose was with him in the tomb. He leaned upon her, in his daily passage from the bed to the chair by the fireside, and back again from the weary chair to the joyless bed—his bed and hers—their marriage-bed; till even this short journey ceased, and his head lay all day upon the pillow, and hers all night beside it. How long poor Mr. Ingersoll was kept in misery! Death seemed to draw near the door, and often to lift the latch, and sometimes to thrust his ugly skull into the chamber, nodding to Rose, and pointing at her husband, but still delayed to enter. 'This bed-ridden wretch cannot escape me!' quoth Death. 'I will go forth, and run a race with the swift, and fight a battle with the strong, and come back for Ingersoll at my leisure!' Oh, when the deliverer came so near, in the dull anguish of her worn-out sympathies, did she never long to cry, 'Death, come in!'

But, no! We have no right to ascribe such a wish to our friend Rose. She never failed in a wife's duty to her poor sick husband. She murmured not, though a glimpse of the sunny sky was as strange to her as him, nor answered peevishly, though his complaining accents roused her from her sweetest dream, only to share his wretchedness. He knew her faith, yet nourished a cankered jealousy; and when the slow disease had chilled all his heart, save one lukewarm spot, which Death's frozen fingers were searching for, his last words were: 'What would my Rose have done for her first love, if she has been so true and kind to a sick old man like me!' And then his poor soul crept away, and left the body lifeless, though hardly more so than for years before, and Rose a widow, though in truth it was the wedding night that widowed her. She felt glad, it must be owned, when Mr. Ingersoll was buried, because his corpse had retained such a likeness to the man half alive, that she hearkened for the sad murmur of his voice, bidding her shift his pillow. But all through the next winter, though the grave had held him many a month, she fancied him calling from that cold bed, 'Rose! Rose! come put a blanket on my feet!'

So now the Rosebud was the Widow Ingersoll. Her troubles had come early, and, tedious as they seemed, had passed before all her bloom was fled. She was still fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or, with a widow's cheerful gravity, she might have won a widower, stealing into his heart in the very guise of his dead wife. But the Widow Ingersoll had no such projects. By her watchings and continual cares, her heart had become knit to her first husband with a constancy which changed its very nature, and made her love him for his infirmities, and infirmity for his sake. When the palsied old man was gone, even her early lover could not have supplied his place. She had dwelt in a sick-chamber, and been the companion of a half-dead wretch, till she should scarcely breathe in a free air, and felt ill at ease with the healthy and the happy. She missed the fragrance of the doctor's stuff. She walked the chamber with a noiseless footfall. If visitors came in, she spoke in soft and soothing accents, and was startled and shocked by their loud voices. Often, in the lonesome evening, she looked timorously from the fireside to the bed, with almost a hope of recognising a ghastly face upon the pillow. Then went her thoughts sadly to her husband's grave. If one impatient throb had wronged him in his lifetime—if she had secretly repined, because her buoyant youth was imprisoned with his torpid age—if ever, while slumbering beside him, a treacherous dream had admitted another into her heart—yet the sick man had been preparing a revenge, which the dead now claimed. On his painful pillow, he had cast a spell around her; his groans and misery had proved more captivating charms than gayety and youthful grace; in his semblance, Disease itself had won the Rosebud for a bride; nor could his death dissolve the nuptials. By that indissoluble bond she had gained a home in every sick-chamber, and nowhere else; there were her brethren and sisters; thither her husband summoned her, with that voice which had seemed to issue from the grave of Ingersoll. At length she recognised her destiny.

We have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the widow; now we see her in a separate and insulated character: she was, in all her attributes, Nurse Ingersoll. And Nurse Ingersoll alone, with her own shrivelled lips, could make known her experience in that capacity. What a history might she record of the great sicknesses, in which she has gone hand in hand with the exterminating angel! She remembers when the small-pox hoisted a red-banner on almost every house along the street. She has witnessed when the typhus fever swept off a whole household, young and old, all but a lonely mother, who vainly shrieked to follow her last loved one. Where would be Death's triumph, if none lived to weep! She can speak of strange maladies that have broken out, as if spontaneously, but were found to have been imported from foreign lands, with rich silks and other merchandise, the costliest portion of the cargo. And once, she recollects, the people died of what was considered a new pestilence, till the doctors traced it to the ancient grave of a young girl, who thus caused many deaths a hundred years after her own burial. Strange that such black mischief should lurk in a maiden's grave! She loves to tell how strong men fight with fiëry fevers, utterly refusing to give up their breath; and how consumptive virgins fade out of the world, scarcely reluctant, as if their lovers were wooing them to a far country. Tell us, thou fearful woman! tell us the death-secrets! Fain would I search out the meaning of words, faintly gasped with intermingled sobs, and broken sentences, half-audibly spoken between earth and the judgment-seat!

An awful woman! She is the patron-saint of young physicians, and the bosom friend of old ones. In the mansions where she enters, the inmates provide themselves black garments; the coffin-maker follows her; and the bell tolls as she comes away from the threshold. Death himself has met her at so many a bed-side, that he puts forth his bony hand to greet Nurse Ingersoll. She is an awful woman! And, oh! is it conceivable, that this handmaid of human infirmity and affliction—so darkly stained, so thoroughly imbued with all that is saddest in the doom of mortals—can ever again be bright and gladsome, even though bathed in the sunshine of eternity? By her long communion with wo, has she not forfeited her inheritance of immortal joy? Does any germ of bliss survive within her?

Hark! an eager knocking at Nurse Ingersoll's door. She starts from her drowsy reverie, sets aside the empty tumbler and tea-spoon, and lights a lamp at the dim embers of the fire. Rap, rap, rap! again; and she hurries adown the staircase, wondering which of her friends can be at death's door now, since there is such an earnest messenger at Nurse Ingersoll's. Again the peal resounds, just as her hand is on the lock. 'Be quick, Nurse Ingersoll!' cries a man on the door-step; 'old Colonel Fane is taken with the gout in his stomach, and has sent for you to watch by his death-bed. Make haste, for there is no time to lose!' 'Fane! Edward Fane! And has he sent for me at last? I am ready! I will get on my cloak and begone. So,' adds the sable-gowned, ashen-visaged, funereal old figure, 'Edward Fane remembers his Rosebud!'

Our question is answered. There is a germ of bliss within her. Her long-hoarded constancy—her memory of the bliss that was—remaining amid the gloom of her after life, like a sweet-smelling flower in a coffin, is a symbol that all may be renewed. In some happier clime, the Rosebud may revive again, with all the dew-drops in its bosom.

[THE SONG OF THE SHIP.]

'I've a long stout bill, like the condor bird, and a cloak of canvass white,
And walking sticks, full two or three, that sport a banner bright;
I carry an anchor on my bows, and cannon in my sides,
And a compass true, that night and day my course unerring guides.

'My way is on the stormy deep, and the tempest as it blows,
But rocks my darling sons to sleep, who laugh at human woes;
I bear a nation's arms abroad, where nations without me
Could never speak in sovereign power—I'm mistress of the sea!

'When night comes on, I light a lamp, when storms, I trim a sail,
My hardy boys are e'er alert, with hearts that never fail;
I rove in might the dark blue deep—I draw a golden chain,
That causes man on man to smile, and rivets main to main.

'Wealth follows where my canvass flies, and power attends my roar,
I dance upon the bounding sea, and smile beside the shore;
If art and nature both be taxed, they all are found a-lee,
Compared, in might and glory, to a noble ship at sea.'

Here ceased the ship to speak, the while she proudly dashed her way,
When thus a meek and lowly man took up the broken lay:
'Ah! thus,' he cried, 'shall all be borne, and thus shall all be blest,
Who put their trust in Alohim, and in Messiah rest.'

Michilimackinack, August, 1837.H. R S.

[MARK!]

BY PATER ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA.

IN TWO PARTS—PART ONE.

A writer in Blackwood, in reviewing the poems of Bishop Corbet, of facetious memory, insists that the church has been more distinguished for wit and humor, than any other of the learned professions. This may not hold true in these refined days, and especially with us, where the strength of a man's principles is apt to be measured by the length of his face, and where a large portion of the community seem to think that

'To laugh were want of goodness, and grimace.'

But it was not so in the time of Corbet, of South, of Swift, and of Sterne. Even in the present day, the name of Sydney Smith is identical with a grin, and evangelical old Rowland Hill himself could not keep down the busy devil of fun within him. But these are only exceptions. The taste of the age has declared itself, rightly enough, perhaps, against the mixture of things sacred and jocose; and the clergyman who is so unfortunate as to possess a fund of wit, must seek some other field for its display than the desk, happy if he be allowed to indulge it even in private, without a brotherly hint from that benevolent class of individuals, whose chief business in life is to attend to the foibles of their neighbors. To the student, however, it is a treat, to turn aside from the staid formality and correct dulness of the present age, to the times when it was permitted to a man to follow the bent of his genius, however devious; when illiterate audiences, more filled with the spirit of faith than with that of criticism, were as much edified by their preacher's jokes as by his homilies; and when even the good man, dreaming as little as Shakspeare himself that his tragi-comedy would fall under the ban of posterity, went on, firing off alternately the heavy ordnance of learned denunciation, and the lighter artillery of jest and jibe, at the head of the conscience-stricken sinner.

Our business, however, is not with the English worthies of this school, with whose merits and defects we are sufficiently familiar, but to introduce the reader to another genius of the same stamp, who flourished at Vienna, where he held no less a station than that of preacher at the emperor's court.

Pater Abraham a Sancta Clara, if we regard only his quaintness, his queerness, his bad puns, and his jokes, lugged in, like Sancho's proverbs, in season and out of season, was a lineal descendant of those worthy travelling friars, whom Schiller has immortalized by the Capuchin's Sermon, in the introduction to Wallenstein. But in learning, in fervor, in rough and rude but stirring eloquence, he is far above the herd of hedge-preachers. 'Though it appear a little out of fashion,' there is much that is sterling in him. Few court preachers ever spake so freely and fearlessly, or applied the lash of satire so unsparingly to every rank and condition. Had he lived in a more refined age, when cultivation might have chastened without destroying his fancy, he would have stood high among popular orators.

His name is probably new to most of our readers; for few of our German scholars ever peep into those ponderous folios in which earlier days delighted, or trace up the stream of German literature higher than Wieland or Klopstock. To such, it would be idle to expatiate on the crabbed beauties which adorn the Nibelungen-lied, the Minnesingers, old Hans Sachs, or Abraham a Sancta Clara. We trust, however, that in the latter they will find enough of oddity, at least, to render some slight acquaintance acceptable. His true name was Ulrich Megerle, and he was born in Suabia, (the Ireland of Germany,) in 1642. At the age of twenty, he became a bare-footed monk, of the Augustine order, and in 1669, was invited to Vienna, in the capacity of court preacher, an office he filled till his death, in 1709; preaching and writing the while with untiring zeal and industry. At a future time, we may brush the learned dust off some other volumes of his works: at present, we will take up one of his choicest bits of quaintness, the discourse called 'Mark!' composed of a series of warnings to the people of Vienna, written soon after the plague, which swept off seventy thousand inhabitants in six months. We have been obliged, of course, to take some few liberties in our version. Where one of his bad German puns proved utterly untranslateable, we have endeavored to fill its place with an English one, equally as bad, and as near the original as possible. It will be seen that here and there he varies the steady progress of his prose, and breaks into a rhyming pace, something between a canter and a hobble; showing that the amphibious measure adopted by the 'wondrous boy that wrote Alroy,' is not altogether original. Without farther preface, we shall proceed to our extracts. Thus, then, discourseth our reverend friend, in his exordium, of the signs that, as usual, preceded the pestilence:

'Signs in the heavens were furnished by the baleful and malevolent aspects of the planets. Signs in air are usually changeful weather, and heavy rains. Clouds, too, are so deemed; but in my poor judgment, the plague was caused, not only by unwholesome nebulæ, but by wicked nebulones. Signs of water are, abundance of fishes cast on shore, crabs, frogs, and toads; and it is certain, when sharks are found plying round courts of justice, when honesty sidles off like a crab, and when toadies are found in the high places, that God commonly sends a pestilence. Signs of earth, are, when idle, noxious weeds and herbs infest the ground; and of a surety, when such plants as sanguinary, dandy-lions, mushrooms, and painted-ladies, grow plentifully, it is easy to see what is meant thereby!' * * *

'Death began his career in Leopoldstadt, (the suburbs,) and there destroyed the people for a time, but in moderation. Afterward the pestilence crossed the Danube to the other suburbs; and it seemed at first as though Death ventured not to enter the capital, but would content himself with the suburbs, and the dark corners, and dirty spots thereof; so that men began wickedly to surmise, that he only wanted to pick out the refuse, to rummage beggars' wallets, and still his hunger with coarse crumbs; and that noble palaces, and rich houses, were safe from his scythe. 'Holla!' said Death, 'to let you know that no fortress is too strong for me, if girt with a fosse that could swallow the ocean, I will, spite of you all, conquer the city!' And he actually did in July.

'In the days of the dictator, Cæsar, an ox spoke; in the days of the prophet Balaam, an ass spoke; in the time of the Emperor Maurice, a metal image spoke; in the time of Beda, the stones spoke; but at this time, in Vienna, when a sick man lay here in one corner, a dying man groaned there in the other; a few steps off lay one already dead, and the bodies choked the way of the passers-by; in Vienna, the very stones spake, and warned the people to repentance. 'Up, and awake, ye sinners! The axe is laid to the root of the tree! God's anger is at the threshold; the voice of the Almighty is calling you to eternity; the archangel Michael holds the balance, to weigh your life! Up! up! and repent, for this is the only prop to which to hold fast in the day of destruction! The penitent knockings of your heart, be sure, can alone open the door of heaven; your hearty sighs are the only music that please the ear of God.' Thus spake all the streets and alleys, and the plastermen trod on, warned them to seek a plaster for the wounds of their conscience.

'Taverns are wont to be the abode of joy and license; for it is no secret, that when the blessed Virgin came to Bethlehem with Joseph, she had to take shelter in a broken stall, for there was no room for her in the tavern; and it is a truth, that God seldom finds any room in such houses, because all things evil lodge there. For a lamb to become a hog, an eagle a crow, and a horse an ass, is no great miracle; for do we not see daily, that men drink like hogs at the 'White Lamb;' that the 'Golden Eagle' makes gallows-birds, and the 'Red-Horse' asses? But in these days, the reverse happened; and the waiters were not so busy in counting up the drinks, as the drinkers, who lay dead by the door the next morning. Their floors were sprinkled, not with water, but with tears. Instead of shouting, was sighing, and—wonderful to say!—there was more whining in them than wine.'

After discoursing in this manner concerning the plague and its incidents, by way of prologue, he proceeds to his practical deductions, addressed to all classes: and first, he invokes mankind generally, heading the invocation,

'MARK—MAN!'

''Tis not for nothing, that the word live, spelled backward, readeth evil. 'Tis like a cloud, that fantastic child of the summer, which is no sooner born, than the rays of the sun menace to make an end of him. Just so our life, vix orimur morimur! Our first breath is a sigh on the way to death, and the very rocking of the cradle warns us how tottering is our existence.' * * * 'Summer comes after spring; Saturday comes after Friday; four comes after three, and death comes after life.

'Life and glass, they shake and they break;
Life and grass, how soon they pass!
Life and a hare, how fleet they are!

'Life is certain only in uncertainty, and is like a leaf on the tree, a foam on the sea, a wave on the strand, a house on the sand.'

'Stop me not, while I sing my song before thy door. To-day red, to-morrow dead; to-day your grace, to-morrow, 'God be gracious;' to-day, a comfort to all, to-morrow, under the pall; to-day, dear, to-morrow, the bier; to-day hurra, to-morrow, psha!

'Omnes morimur! I have seen that we must all die; I have seen that death is a player, and a roguish one, for he bowls the men down and setteth them not up again, and attacketh not the pawn alone, but the king; I have seen, that were I to gather together the limbs of a dead emperor, and mix them up with water, they would not be of size enough to stop the mouth of sneering Michal, when she opened it to laugh at David her lord.

'Joshua, the hero, before he stormed the city of Jericho, made a vow to the Lord that none of his army should plunder aught. God knows, it's hard for soldiers to keep from it; and though they have little to do with schools, they know wondrous well, that in default of the dativus, they must take to the ablativus. Yet, spite of the ordinance, a soldier named Achan crooked his fingers, and helped himself to the booty. And lo! when he was caught, and brought before the aforesaid hero, what answered he: 'Abstuli, abscondi in terrâ, et fossam humo aperui.' Such is the answer of Death, the great robber and plunderer of all things. Tell me, Death, where are Matthias the Emperor, and Matathias, the prophet? Where are Eleazer and Eliezer? Where are Leo and Leontius, Maximus and Maximinus? 'Abstuti et abscondi in terrâ,' says Death!'

The Pater next takes up the religious world, commencing, as usual, 'Mark! Sir Priest!' and dilateth on the importance of the office, as follows:

'What is worthier than pious and spiritual men, who have turned their backs on the world, knowing that world and wild are words that differ little in name, and none in fact. For what is this world, but a garden full of thistles; a sugared poison, a gilded dung-hill; a sack full of holes; a silver hook, a shop full of fool's-caps; a drug-store, full of nauseous purges; a flowery deceit? The apostles likened the kingdom of God to a grain of mustard-seed, not to a sugar-plum; to sour leaven, and not to sweet-meats.'

After reminding us that Peter, in the fulness of his zeal, smote off the high priest's servant's ear, and was reproved therefor, he goes on to give a reason for it, which we do not recollect to have met in any of the commentators: 'If he had been the footman of any nobleman, or lady, merely,' says he, 'the Lord would perhaps have winked at it, had he cut off his whole head; but the servant of a high priest was to be respected.'[8]

We leave the divines for the present, and turn to his next 'mark,' which is addressed to the learned, whereon he expatiates with a fellow-feeling, and makes some displays of learning, which will certainly excite astonishment, if not admiration. His introduction is as follows:

'MARK—LEARNED MAN!'

'Tis well known, that Lot's wife was changed by God's decree into a pillar of salt, because, contrary to the divine command, she looked back; but why she was changed into a pillar of salt, and not into a thorn-bush, which is as curious and sharp as she was herself, is because when she entertained the angels who visited her husband, she put no salt to the meats, that she might be free of these frequent visitors. Salt has ever been held the symbol of science and wisdom, as is shown, not only by its being the first syllable in the name of King Solomon, but inasmuch as Christ says to his disciples, 'Ye are the salt of the earth.' As meat without salt, so is man without knowledge. As the poet saith:

'A table without a dish,
A pond without a fish,
A soup without bread,
A tailor without thread,
A horse without a tether,
A cobbler without leather,
A ship without a sail,
A pitcher without ale,
And a man without wit,
Do well together fit.'

'I have, with especial care, examined Holy Writ, and find that therein the word husbandman occurs thirty-six times; the word field, three hundred and fourteen times; the word sow, twenty times; the word grow, five hundred times; the word corn, fifty-seven times; the word reap, fifty-two times; the word barn, twenty-one times; the word thresh, fifteen times; the word hay, forty-eight times; but the word straw, only once,[9] and that with no great commendation, where Rachel sat upon it to hide the golden images from her father Laban. Since, therefore, the word straw occurs but once, I am free to conclude, that it was holden for something most contemptible. And as worthless as straw is, so is a man of straw,[10] without learning.'

And again:

'Jesus, our infant Lord, had to lie in a manger at Bethlehem, he whose abode is the starry heaven; and when his precious body shivered with cold, and was warmed only by his inward love to us, he to whom all the hosts of heaven minister, had no attendants, save an ox and an ass. St. Vincent remarketh, that the ox stood at the babe's head, and the ass at his feet; whereby he wished to show, that asses, and such as have no knowledge, should keep in the background, and those only who have wisdom, stand in the high places.'

What is more lovely than knowledge? He who hath it, cuts the 'gordian knot' better than the Macedonian monarch, and can answer all the puzzling questions about which other men busy their brains in vain. As thus: Why doth a man who hath eaten his fill, till his body is stuffed like a travelling journeyman's knapsack, weigh less than before? The philosopher knoweth the reason. Why doth he who has drank too much wine, commonly fall over forward, while he who hath drank too much beer, generally falleth over backward? The philosopher knoweth the reason.'

And again he discusseth learnedly of lawyers:

'In the Old Testament, there was a wondrous drink for women, which many a one had to swallow, albeit she did not complain of thirst. For whenever a man conjectured that his spouse was faithless, he led her to the priest at the altar, who handed her a liquor mixed with a thousand curses, the which, were she wrongfully accused, harmed her not; but were she really guilty, lo! she was incontinently filled therewith, and swelled up like a sack of Bohemian hops, and pined away; and thus they cunningly learned who was innocent and who guilty. 'Well,' saith one, 'why happeneth not the same now-a-days? 'Tis as necessary as in those times, and men would crowd to buy such a drink, at whatsoever price.' To this I answer, that such miracles are no longer needful; for the lawyers, with their citationes, notationes, protestationes, connotationes, replicationes, contestationes, appellationes, acceptilationes, certiorationes, confirmationes, and the like, make guilt or innocence as clear as day.' But mark we how Death treats all this choice Latinity: 'What kind of tongue,' saith Death, 'is this, wherein the Latinists address me? By my life, I understand not Latin! My father, the Devil, a substantial man, and my mother, Sin, a notable dame as any, to save expense, gave me no learning; therefore I care not a fig for your Latinists. The Almighty has truly taught me somewhat, but I find my studies differ mainly from yours; for in my grammar, mors is generis communis; in my syntax, the verb vivo has no infinitivum.'

He next addresses soldiers, whom he comforts with the thought that they need not despair of eternal life, bad as their calling is; for, saith he:

'St. John, the angel of the apocalypse, tells us, in his description of the heavenly Jerusalem, how he saw in his trance, that this metropolis of God was built four-square, and each side garnished with three doors; whence we can safely conclude, as St. Dionysius hath it, that from all quarters and parts of the world, there is access to heaven.

'St. Athanasius wisely observeth of the people of Israel, that when they entered on a campaign, the ark of the covenant, wherein were stored the laws of Moses and the ten commandments, was carried before the host, that the warriors might have God's law continually before their eyes. Hear this, ye Christian soldiers! The ten commandments were the avant-guard of the army of Israel; with you, God help us! they too commonly are sent to the rear.'

'Who's there?' 'No friend!' 'Who is no friend?' 'I,' says Death. 'Holla there! Guard, turn out!' 'My loving friends,' replieth Death, 'I cannot laugh in my sleeve, for I have none; but I can't help grinning, at finding you think to frighten my scythe with your pikes and halberts. That would be a joke! How many of the Jews have I not destroyed? The sum total, as Holy Writ testifieth, 854,002,067! And now shall I be afraid of you? No, no! Order arms! Albeit your leader, Mars, and I, Mors, are kinsmen in name, I cannot abide neutral, but declare open war on you! Let him who doubts my power, go to Vienna, and ask of the first sentinel he meets!' Inasmuch as Vienna is a rampart of all Germany against the Turk, it is girt with thick walls, and strong towers. The heavenly city, Jerusalem, is described by the chronicle as having twelve great gates; now as Vienna hath six, it may justly be called half a heaven. It hath always been the wont of the soldiery at Vienna to keep their main force in the city, and a guard at St. Peter's church-yard; but this time, Death, against the officers' will, changed their ordering, and almost all the troops were bidden to lie at ease in the church-yard, while Death went the rounds, from post to post, on the walls.'

Let us quote the conclusion of this branch of his address:

'Let the body die, then, be it in fire or in water, on earth or in air—what matters it! Let it die, this dung-hill, this nest of worms, this lump of filth, this dying worm, this clod of earth; let it die, this perishing rottenness, this tricked-out decay, this painted sepulchre, this congregation of diseases, this bundle of rags, this six feet of nothing! Let it die!—let it perish! Let it decay, this living hospital, this sport of chance, this little heap of earth—when, how, where it may—it matters not! But I beseech thee, by thy soul's salvation—I sound it in thine ears, with uplifted hands, let not the SOUL perish! This curious and precious handiwork and image of God—this priceless and unfading jewel of eternity—this pure and peaceful sister of the spirits made blessed—oh let not this perish by sin, for this is the only death that is terrible indeed!'

There are passages like the above, scattered here and there, which will show that our author was something more than a mere pulpit-joker, and that he had within him all the elements of high eloquence. Our conscience, indeed, reproaches us, at times, that we are not doing the old worthy justice, but picking out his knotty points and excrescences, to amuse our contemporaries with their odd twists and turns, and air of hoar antiquity, rather than laying open the sound core and pith that lie beneath them. But our object—and we hope it as an excusable one, in these trying times—is rather to beguile the reader into a smile, than edify him by serious discourse, a plenty whereof is to be found at every corner, without going back for it to Pater Abraham a Sancta Clara.

For the present, we leave our 'man of mark,' reserving his homily to maidens, his advice to parents, touching the use of the rod; his counsels to the rich, etc., for another number.

[NATURE.]

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF MATTHISON.

I.

Illum'd by reddening skies, stands glittering
On tender blade the dew;
And undulates the landscape of the spring
Upon the clear stream's blue.

II.

Fair is the rocky rill, the blossom'd tree,
The grove with gold that gleams;
Fair is the star of eve, which close we see
To yonder purple gleams.

III.

Fair is the meadow's green, the dale's thick bush,
The hill's bright robe of flowers;
The alder-stream, the pond's surrounding rush,
And lilies' snowy showers.

IV.

Oh! how the host of beings are made one
By Love's enduring band!
The glow-worm, and the fiëry flood of sun,
Spring from one Father's hand.

V.

Thou beckonest, Almighty, if the tree
Lose but a bud that's blown;
Thou beckonest, if in immensity
One sun is sunk and gone!

[FRANCIS MITFORD.]

NUMBER THREE.

We spake of Brummell's opinions of Canada. 'Canada,' said he, 'is a mere incubus on the already bloated back of England. The profits derived from the trade of that colony scarcely defray the enormous expenses of her establishments. Nor is this the worst. The question of her boundary will one day involve us in a most bloody and expensive war, demanded, perhaps, by national pride, but repugnant to our most vital interests; a war, too, with a nation of brothers, with whom we ought to have but one common view; that of peaceably extending our laws, language, and commerce, over the most distant part of the globe. Should there be a war, whether England emerges from that contest vanquished or triumphant, the consequences must be equally fatal. Alienation of the present strong and growing friendship will result, which must tend, more or less, to restrict the extensive commerce between the two countries, to the great injury of Great Britain; for though the United States may easily obtain from other countries the manufactures which she now obtains from us, at, in the first instance, a triflingly-enhanced price, yet the grand staple article of cotton cannot be purchased any where so good, or on such advantageous terms, as in the United States. The necessity imposed by war on that country of procuring manufactured commodities elsewhere, would, no doubt, continue in a great measure, by choice, after peace. The best thing England can do with Canada, is to present her (with her own consent) to the United States, or to manumit her from all colonial trammels, and declare her independent. Thus, by enlisting the pride of the Canadians on the side of a separate government, she may perhaps succeed in preventing a junction between this colony and the United States—if indeed England can be said to have any real interest in the hindrance of such a junction. Fifty thousand men sent over to Canada, in case of war with the United States, at the expense of twenty-five millions, will not suffice to keep Canada from being overrun by her powerful neighbours; all military speculations on the subject, to the contrary notwithstanding.'

Where is the mortal who has expatriated himself, without feeling a yearning after home? Home! magical word! bringing with it vivid recollections of the sweetest scenes of childhood, and those days of youth, when the mind, freed from care, bounds with joy at the slightest favorable event! Every man, in considering his home, looks only to the most pleasing events which occurred during his residence there, and is apt to consider all the disagreeable circumstances of his existence as receiving a still darker tinge from his stay abroad. Mitford was no exception to the general rule. He determined to return to London, at all hazards.

This resolve was confirmed by another motive. He had long loved—ardently loved. The life of dissipation, and even of riot, which he had led, had not been able to efface the holy passion from his soul. There it burned, at once a safeguard to, and a promoter of, other virtues. The fair Marguerite was lovely, rich, and constant in her attachment to him. Neither the sneers of friends, nor the ill reports of enemies, were able to efface his image from her mind. Friendship may be dissolved; fortune may desert us; but woman's love blossoms in eternal spring, and only blooms the more, amid the wintry blasts of adversity.

A late correspondence apprized him that her hand and fortune awaited him. This determined his movements, and he found himself in London. But the necessary preparatives for a marriage, however fortunate, require money—without which the wings of Cupid are clogged; and though Mitford might have relieved himself by an application to his lady-love, whose purse was at her own disposal, yet he could not bear to owe a favor before marriage.

He bethought himself of an expedient. Whenever a man wants money in London, the surest way to obtain it, is by offering to lend it, or by offering some great prospective advantage for the sum required. Many a man parts with what he has, to one whom he thinks will increase his store when he requires it; but no man parts with his money to one whom he thinks has none.

A dashing advertisement graced the pages of the 'Post' and 'Herald' newspapers:

'Extraordinary Facility.—The advertiser, possessing great influence in a certain high quarter, would feel disposed to promote the interest of any gentleman of standing and talent, who has a thousand pounds at his disposal. Address 'A. M.,' Standish's Rooms, Regent-street.

'N. B. No indiscretion need be apprehended.'

We need scarcely say, that our hero answered to the initials of 'A. M.' The applications were numerous. Mitford made a special appointment with one whom he thought likely to answer his purpose. He had chambers for the occasion in Lincoln's Inn.

The applicant had recently arrived from the East Indies, and had some property. The idea of obtaining a respectable post, with a good salary, at once to increase his income and employ his leisure, attracted him. Our hero received him in a dimly-lighted apartment. His back was toward the window. When you are afflicted with a diffidence, over which you have no control, on important occasions, always turn the dorsal vertebræ toward the light.

The business was soon opened. The applicant was anxious to embrace the ideal advantage offered.

'But, my dear Sir,' said Mitford, 'it will be necessary to have some security in hand, before you are inducted. Without at all doubting your punctuality, you are aware that in matters of business, particularity is necessary: beside, I must consult the wishes of my principal.

The stranger paused! He slowly drew forth his pocket-book, took out a post bill for £1000, and handed it to Mitford.

How may not a man, by false sophistry, tame his mind to the commission of a tortuous act! Honesty in man, is like virtue in woman. The possibility of violating it must not for a moment enter the imagination. In either case, deliberation is destruction.

Mitford, who would not for any consideration have omitted the payment of a debt of honor; who would have resisted the slightest imputation on his character unto death; thus reasoned with himself: 'I am on the point of marrying a fortune; why should I hesitate to appropriate this money, for a few days, when I shall have ample means to repay it? To be sure, I must endorse the note; but then the certainty of refunding the amount takes away any moral obliquity that might otherwise attach to the act.'

Thus soliliquized Mitford; and, endorsing the note, he committed forgery.

A splendid party had assembled at Sidmouth-Terrace, to celebrate a bridal festival. Lights beamed far into the park, illuminating all around. Revelry and joy breathed throughout.

Mitford was there. The sanction of the church was about to seal the happiness of our hero for ever, when suddenly three officers interrupted the bridal ceremonies, and seizing Mitford on a warrant for forgery, conducted him to prison.

To describe the distress of the bride—the confusion of the guests—would be impossible. We leave it to the imagination of our readers.

The process of the law was rapid. The day of trial arrived. Mitford pleaded not guilty.

All that the most able counsel could effect, was done for him. The witnesses were brow-beaten; the jury harangued; but he was found guilty.

The judge passed sentence of death.

'La!' said Mrs. Minikin, the haberdasher's wife, 'to-morrow is the day when that there gen'leman is to be hung for forgery. Let's go see him.'

'My dear,' said Mr. Minikin, 'you know I never likes them there sort of things. If it was a reg'lar mill, then I might go; but I never likes to see no one tucked up.'

'Oh, but, my dear,' said the gentle Mrs. Minikin, 'it is not entertaining, I grant, to see them there riff-raffs which is usually hung; but this is a gen'leman. Only consider,' said she, in her most endearing manner, 'how delightful to see one of them there 'igh-flyers hung!' And the pliant Mr. Minikin consented.

Let us now turn to the dungeon which contained this ill-fated man. There, on a scanty supply of straw, a dim light glimmering through the bars of his cell, rendering the interior still more desolate, by revealing its wretchedness, lay Mitford—pale, emaciated, and bearing on his countenance the conviction, that the world and himself were now disjointed. Ever and anon the echoing wheels of some patrician chariot conveyed to his ear the mirth and gayety that reigned without. But what was all this to him? His heart was never more to beat at the sight of beauty; ambition could no longer convey elevation to his mind. A few short hours, and he must be brought forth to satisfy the stern severity of the law, and furnish food to the gaping curiosity of thousands. And was this to be the termination of his career? Was it for this a mother's holy tears had blessed his advent to the world?—that a father's toil had left him reposing amid the luxuries of wealth? All, all was now shortly to terminate in the scaffold's terrors, and worse than the scaffold's terrors, in the scaffold's shame.

While these thoughts passed through his mind, scalding tears coursed down his cheeks, moistening the straw on which he lay; not tears extracted by craven fear, but holy drops of penitence.

From this state of mind he was soon awakened by the reverend clergyman, whose duty it was to prepare him for his approaching awful change. He whispered to him the hope of divine mercy, so unquenchable that the most heinous offences failed to suppress it; that it was true he must suffer a public punishment, at once as an example, and an earthly atonement for his crime; but the benign Saviour of mankind had passed through all the ignominy of a public execution, with a resigned spirit, as an offering for the sins of others; and in virtue of that offering, he must himself hope for forgiveness, and suffer with resignation.

The holy man left Mitford more collected in mind, and resolved to submit to his inevitable fate with piety and courage.

The morning dawned. The fatal bell had struck; the scaffold had been erected; the gaping multitude, anxious for some horrid show to awaken their morbid sensibilities, clogged up in thousands every avenue to the sacrificial altar. Those whom the doom of the law had fixed that morning to be their last, stood upon the scaffold; but Mitford was not there; and the great unwashed, who had that day gone to enjoy the luxury of seeing a gentleman hung, returned disappointed of half the show.

The mystery must be solved. The betrothed of Mitford had forwarded a petition to the king, and another to the queen, requesting a commutation of punishment; but these documents had to pass through so many avenues of the palace, that they never reached the royal eye. Receiving no answer, and almost despairing of success, she flew to the Secretary of State.

Sir Robert Peel then filled the responsible situation of the Home Department. And here let us pause, to do justice to one of the greatest men of modern times; to one who, at no distant day, is destined to fill a large space in the world's eye. His father, sprung from the canaille, by the aid of the spinning-jenny, left his son in possession of one of the most ample fortunes, even in the wealthiest country in the world. The father, of rank tory principles, was farther recommended to royal notice, by the gift of twenty thousand pounds to carry on a war, which, however unpopular with the nation, a profligate ministry had induced that nation to believe its honor interested in prosecuting. The son was thus introduced to royal favor; and it is well known, that George the Third entertained great personal partiality for him. He commenced life as a statesman, having, in the outset of his political career, been inducted into the office of Under Secretary of State. His whole public life has been a life of office. His experience is thus greater than that of any man now living. Unfortunately, having commenced his career as an advocate for tory principles, his party have always pursued his leaning toward more liberal principles as a crime, while the more liberal party have always looked with suspicion on his aid, and viewed him as an enemy in their camp. As a debater, he is unrivalled; and if many surpass him in those burning and flowery sentences by which eloquence is distinguished, none equal him as a ready and always a sensible debater. But in our times, it unfortunately happens, that if a man commences his life by advocating bad principles, consistency forces him to adhere to them. The present world of politics, unlike the divine world to come, admits of no repentance. Once take your course in evil, you must adhere to it, if you wish to preserve your reputation. To change for the better, is certain perdition. Thus because Sir Robert Peel advocated Catholic emancipation, which he had all his previous life opposed, every contumelious epithet that rancor could invent, was hurled at him by his old friends; while the advocates of that measure viewed his accession to their ranks, not merely with distrust, as but a late convert, but with jealousy, as tending to rob them of some portion of the merit of carrying it on the very point of their success. And John Bull refused, from the hands of Sir Robert Peel and his colleagues, a greater measure of reform and retrenchment than even the original advocates held forth. Thus it is, a thief may reform, or become a useful member of society, if he will only amend; but a politician must look to nothing but consistency.

The fair Marguerite found no difficulty in gaining access to Sir Robert. Her beauty, her distress, her tale at once simple and affecting, all conspired to move him. He laid her petition and her woes at the foot of the throne. Majesty was pleased to find extenuating circumstances in Mitford's case, and a reprieve was granted to him.

The bitter draught of grief had been too much for the gentle Marguerite. Her faculties had been too nervously awakened. While her lover required her aid, reason had kept its throne. His safety insured, she became a maniac, and the inmate of a mad-house.

Still farther mercy awaited our hero. After some detention in prison, he was liberated, on condition that he should leave the kingdom, never to return.

Years had now elapsed. Mitford's error and his shame had alike been forgotten; and it was supposed he was dead. It was not until the tempest of a new revolution awoke regenerated France to a sense of the wrongs endeavored to be inflicted on her by a Bourbon, whose family a million of foreign bayonets had seated on the throne, and until Paris taught all the capitals of Europe how easily a large city could resist a well-appointed army, that a ray of light was shed upon his fate.

The barriers of the Rue Richelieu had been erected by the people, and were furiously attacked by squadrons of infantry and cavalry. The Parisians, led by a most intrepid young man, evidently a foreigner, defended it to the very utmost. Three charges had been made, and successfully repulsed. A fourth threatened to carry the barriers. Some of the pickets were overthrown; and already had a few of the light cavalry penetrated within. A few stout hearts strove hand to hand with the military, but numbers had given way. In this emergency, the gallant leader of the people, waving his tri-colored flag, sprang in front of the wavering multitude. His gestures, his example, rëanimated them. Again they pressed forward, and bearing with them the tide of victory, they successfully repulsed the military; but their leader had sealed his conquest with his life. He fell, fighting hand to hand and foot to foot with the leader of the hostile soldiery, and their bodies lay close together, in the sleep of death.

The strife of the three days past, honorable interment was awarded the fallen and patriotic brave. Among the latter was not forgotten the youthful stranger, who had so well defended the barriers of the Rue Richelieu. The papers on his person proved him to be an Englishman. That Englishman was Francis Mitford.

[SERENADE.]

FROM THE GERMAN OF BÜRGER.—BY J. J. CAMPBELL.

I.

With song and lyre let sleep now fly;
To song and lyre take bounden heed!
The wakeful minstrel, that am I,
Fair sweetheart! ever true at need.
O, open thou the clear sunshine
Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!

II.

Through night and gloom I hither tramp,
At hour when spirits are in view;
Long since, there glimmers not a lamp
The hush'd-up cottage-window through:
Long since has rested, sweet and blest,
What love and fond desire let rest.

III.

On his wife's bosom cradled keeps
His weary head, the husband dear;
While to his favorite hen close creeps,
Upon the roost, good chanticleer;
And sparrow on the eaves is eyed,
Couching with true-love by his side.

IV.

Oh! when will these dull times be sped,
Until I too creep close to thee;
Until in sweet repose my head
Upon thy bosom nestled be?
When lead'st thou me unto the side
O, priest! of my sweet little bride?

V.

How would I then so heartily,
So dear, so very dear, thee hold!
How would I, oh! how would then we
Each other in our arms enfold!
Yet patience! time, too, slippeth on—
Be thou but true, my darling one!

VI.

And now, dear soul! good-night once more;
God keep thee with his shelt'ring might!
What God keeps, that is well watch'd o'er,
And kept from danger and affright.
Adieu!—now close the sunny shine
Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!

[MOHEGAN LANGUAGE AND GEOGRAPHICAL NAMES.]

To the Editors of the Knickerbocker:

Michilimackinack, August 2, 1837.

In making some inquiries recently of a party of the Mohegan tribe—the remnant of whom have made their way to this quarter within a few years—I find that they have preserved their traditionary history for the last two centuries, or more, with a degree of accuracy which is not common to the native tribes in this region. It is very well known, from published data, that this ancient tribe occupied Long-Island and the contiguous main land, on the discovery of the country, whence in process of time they withdrew eastwardly into Connecticut, and afterward went west into Massachusetts. They appear, from the first, to have had the means of instruction, which have been continued up to the present time, with perhaps less interruption than among most of the other tribes. This may account in part for the better preservation of their traditions. Many of them being able to read, could refer to some things in printed documents. Others appear to have retained with tenacity that traditionary lore which the aged among the tribes generally employ the leisure of their superannuated days in handing down to the young.

During the long residence of this tribe at Stockbridge, (Mass.,) they were commonly Stockbridges, and after the revolutionary war, when they transferred their residence to Oneida, in western New-York, they naturally retained this name, and finally bore it with them to their present location in Wisconsin territory. I disclaim any intention to sketch their history; and wish no farther to allude to it, than appears to be necessary to bring forward a few facts in the character of their language, and particularly their names for the places of their former residence, on the lower parts of the Hudson. And as this is a matter of which but little is generally known, it has appeared to me of sufficient local interest, to justify the liberty I take in addressing these remarks to you.

The Mohegan is readily recognised as a type of the Algonquin or (as Mr. Gallatin has recently denominated it,) the 'Lenapee-Algonkin' family, and bears a strong resemblance, both in sound and syntax, to the dialects of some of the existing lake tribes. This affinity is very striking in its grammatical structure, and its primitive words. Derivatives, with all our tribes, are subject to interchange their consonants, or drop them entirely, which creates a necessity of being constantly on the alert to detect these exchanges. Moreover, the accent is uniformly moved, or doubled, often creating primary and secondary accents in the same phrase, which, in an unwritten language, is alone sufficient to account for numerous mutations. But what, more than any other principle, affects the sound of Indian words, in their concrete and derivative states, is the large stock of (so to say) floating particles, which come into these words in the shape of prefixes and suffixes. These are, in their offices, almost as numerous as the purposes of person, tense, number, quality, position, etc., may require. But while their respective office remains precisely the same, in almost any given number of dialects in a mother language, it is found that the several tribes pique themselves in giving these auxiliary particles a sound peculiar to themselves, by which something like nationality is kept up. Thus in two dialects indicating the least change in the primitives or derivatives, to be found among all the tribes, namely, the Chippewa and Ottowa, these particles, which, in the animate class for plural, are denoted by UG, and in the local inflections by ONG, and ING, in the one dialect, are respectively changed to UK, ONK, and INK, in the other.

Similar to this process, seems to have been the result of change between the ancient Algonquin and the Mohegan, the latter, like the Ottowa, constantly substituting K for G, and P for B, etc., but in other respects, it exhibits numerous gutturals, and some aspirates, which are but rarely found in the liquid flow of the Algic. It also embraces the (perhaps) Gothic sound of TH, which is wholly unknown (the Shawnee excepted) to the modern lake dialects.

Geographical terms, with the Indians, are found generally to unite some natural quality in the features or productions of the country with an indication of the locality; so that their names are not, as with us, simple nominatives, but (as in all other cases in these peculiar languages) the quality, action, etc., transfers itself to the object, and is expressed in a consolidated phrase. This is one of the most constant and distinguishing traits of these languages. Their nouns and adjectives, therefore, as well as their verbs, are transitives. Even their prepositions take a transitive character, and link themselves, as with 'hooks of steel,' to the objects to which they are applied. Thus their name for the island from which this letter is dated, is Place of the Gigantic Faëries, or, by another interpretation, Place of the Great Turtle. Detroit is, (literally translated,) Round-ward, or Rounds-by Place, denoting the sinuosities of the river in its approach. Sault St. Marie, 'At the Shallow Water with Rocks.' In another class of derivative words, the union of the substantive and adjective is without a local inflection, as in their name for Lake Superior, which is simply called, The Sea Waters; Mississippi, The Great River; Michigan, The Great Lake, etc.

This principle is found most fully to pervade the Mohegan. I requested one of the chiefs of the party above referred to, to pronounce their name for Long-Island. He replied, Paum-nuk-kah-huk, signifying, Place of the Long Land. The name of the coast opposite to this island, at the mouth of the Hudson, or rather, across the Sound, he pronounced Mon-ah'-ton-uk. Dropping the local inflection UK, meaning place, or land, we have the elements of Manhattan, the latter of which preserves the original quite as well as the generality of Indian names transmitted by English enunciation. Philologists will perceive, farther, that the aspirate H would be very naturally prefixed to the second syllable, while the sound of O, being the sound of O in the French word ton, might be expressed, nearly as well, by some of the modified sounds of A.

Judged by similar means of analysis, Sing-Sing is a corruption of Osin-sink, i. e., Place of Stones, or Rocks; Neversink from Nawaisink, a phrase descriptive of highlands equi-distant between two waters, as Raritan Bay and the Atlantic. Minisink is, literally, Place of the Island. Tappan Sea appears to be a derivative from a band of the Mohegans, who dwelt there, called Taponsees, or rather from the name of their village. After getting through the Highlands, names of Mohawk derivation occur. Poughkeepsie, Warwarsing, and Coxsackie, are, however, clearly of Mohegan origin. So far as I recollect, the ancient name of Albany, Ske-nek-ta-da, is the first term of the Iroquois type of languages, in ascending the Hudson, of which any notice is preserved. In proceeding east, west, or south-west from that point, geographical names of this character universally prevail. But it is to be remarked, that but few sonorous names occur, until reaching the districts of country formerly possessed by the Oneidas, Onondagas, and other western branches of this confederacy.

I am, gentlemen, very respectfully,

Your Obedient Servant,

Henry R. Schoolcraft.

[A FAREWELL.]

Fare thee well!—the word is spoken,
That makes the past a dream to me;
The long delicious spell is broken—
Yet fare thee well, since thou art free!

Yes! thou art free; but oh, how shatter'd
This faithful heart thou couldst not know,
Nor see each crush'd affection scatter'd,
And yet with chilling coldness go!

Perchance unto this bosom's yearning,
Thou'dst answer with some kindred sigh,
Or seek to quell its secret burning,
With one glance from thy pitying eye.

Yet were it so, how would it cherish
That tender look, 'a death in life;'
Oh! better far at once to perish,
Than linger through hope's fever'd strife!

Then fare thee well!—mid others ranging,
Thou carest not to look on me;
Nor heedest the true love, unchanging,
That like a beacon, shines for thee.

Yet when the meteor has departed,
That lur'd thee to the world's caress,
When languid, drooping, broken-hearted,
Thou sinkest back in weariness;

Then come to one, who, though forsaken,
Still loved thee on, through weal and wo;
Nor would one memory awaken,
That o'er thy path a shade could throw.

Yes, come! and like the star of even,
My love shall cheer thine earthly way,
And in the blessed light of heaven,
Shine on, an ever-constant ray!

M. E. L.

[WILSON CONWORTH.]

NUMBER SIX.

'Weak and irresolute is man.' I record a fault of human nature, as well as my own. I resolved and re-resolved, and am the same. Do I not blush while recording this weakness? Alas! I am dead to feeling, as it regards my fellows. I have no communion with the world, now. I pass by, unnoticed and unknown. Still, I have a love for mankind; and I make these confessions, hoping they may prove of use to others. I daily see others in the same predicament as myself, or, if not so far advanced, yet pursuing a course which will inevitably lead them where I now am. Yes! where I am; and what is that state? Solitariness, apathy, disgust, fretfulness, heart-ache; the absence of all the gentle sympathies of life; the death of all domestic affection; the familiarity of the vulgar and low-bred; the sneer of the foolish prosperous man; the contempt of the small thriving gleaner; the neglect of the busy, and the pity of the good. Oh! yes! one comfort yet remains; the prayers of the pious and truly religious.

But to my story. As hope began to fade from the heart of my dear Alice; as she saw I was beyond the influence of her prayers and entreaties; as she began to be acquainted with the real state of my habits; as she began to see, that not even my love for her availed any thing she began to despair. She had involved herself too deeply to retract. Her feelings had acquired the habit of loving me; and indeed, though an idle young man, I do not think it strange that such devotion and tenderness as I sometimes really felt and bestowed upon her, should have awakened some return.

I was well-bred, had a good person, could sing passably well, by myself, write good poetry, and was passionate and hot in my evidences of affection. I was an enthusiast, and women like decided tastes. They feel an assurance, a confidence in your good, quiet, smooth-faced, unexcitable, sensible man, if he be young, especially; but they love life and animation, even though it lead to slight errors. Women know the difficulty of restraining the feelings within the bounds of propriety; they are most open to impressions; the real creatures of feeling, they love feeling in others. They have many struggles with what they wish, and what they ought to do. They estimate in men the ardor of the temptation, as an offset to the fault. Hence they are forgiving.

Women are obliged to keep a constant guard over themselves. They know their own weakness, and self-protection arms them to the task. Many a high-souled woman knows this. When you do find a well-disciplined character in the female form, what a noble one it is! The labor of the undertaking, the education of self-control, has made her great. She is a whole host. Look at her influence in society; see the majesty of her deportment, the easy assurance of her countenance. How common men quail before her! What respect and attention she exacts from the titled profligate, and the talented vicious! She is all that is exalted on earth. There is no beauty to compare with such beauty; no wealth with such charms. She is the nicest workmanship of God; and in her dwells a soul that scatters blessings around her. 'The heart of her husband delighteth in her, and he has no need of spoil.'

Reader, if you are a father, and have seen the son of your hopes, the inheritor of your name, the bearer of your form and features, gradually falling a victim to low vices; if you are a mother, and can trace, in those features now bloated with excess, and in that eye now dimmed with sensuality, the semblance to the babe that drew its earliest food from your pure bosom, and remember that eye upturned to your face as the innocent lay cradled in your arms; if you are a sister, and mourn the ruin of your bed-fellow; or a brother, and seen your playmate in prison, you may form some notion of what the emotions of a fond heart are, when it beholds its stay gone, its prospects blighted, and its love thrown away upon an unworthy object. No! not altogether unworthy, but with just enough of good to keep alive the love, while it mocks all efforts to draw consolation, to answer the chord in her own bosom.

Love wishes its object to be perfect. None can or must compare with its choice. How fondly does woman cheat herself, if she can, into the belief that her choice is fortunate beyond human fortune! I weep—even I, who have not wept for years for my own misfortunes—I weep, as I recall the memory of the tears she shed over my irrevocable ruin. She did know my character, at last, and she predicted, even in spite of her love, all that has happened.

Shall I record that these tears were not a source of pain to me then? They satisfied my vanity. I always reserved reformation to myself, and thought she was mistaken; and these scalding tears, as they coursed down her cheeks, told me that I was beloved. Not even the misery of the object of my affection could prevent a triumph that I had over her—her, the sought-for by many—that I was preferred among a multitude. Is this nature? Was I hard-hearted? Would not any one feel the same? Let the reader examine his own heart, and answer.

CHAPTER XIII.

At this time, and in this very village, there lived a gentleman, in the truest sense of the term, by the name of Edward Lang. He was a man of high family, of aristocratic notions, and thought literature the chief object worthy of pursuit. At the time I saw him, he bore the ills of poverty, the burden of a broken heart, and disappointed hopes. He possessed a well-stored mind, unwearied benevolence, and a Tremaine-like refinement. He had, in the early part of his life, encumbered a large fortune with debts of extravagance, idleness, and folly; and at a subsequent period, lost the remainder in scheming; for he thought that his prëeminence in literature gave him prëeminence in every thing.

Every body applauded his plans; they were upon a large scale; they redounded to the good of the place, and ruined him.

Bred a lawyer, the unfairness of country practice, the low and degraded crowd it brought him in contact with, caused him to throw up his profession. He took to farming; but he only tried experiments, to the advantage of other people, and his own loss. He got up all sorts of useful societies, which cost him his time, and paid him nothing. He bought all the new works for other people to read; subscribed liberally to reading-rooms and schools. He fatted cattle for the agricultural society, at six times their worth in corn and care. Every body in the village improved their own stock by his; but then all this took money from his pocket.

He did not know the state of his affairs, because he hated settlements. He could not bring himself down to the drudgery of life, but did his farming scientifically, in his study, and left the work to hired hands. He failed, and nobody pitied him. He began to be called a 'poor good-for-nothing fellow,' whose chimeras had brought him down. All his neighbors sued him, and he suffered all who owed him to go undunned. He gave up all for lost; sat himself down in wretchedness, disgusted with the world, and tired of himself.

I was quite intimate with this gentleman. Being much my senior, for he was about fifty, and a bachelor, he took it upon himself to give me a word of advice. He had been in love himself, and that desperately; though unfortunate in his love affairs, as well as all others. The father of the lady objected to him, on the score of his being unfit to make money. He possessed hordes of wealth, himself, and could have made two hearts happy. But no; this would not do. His ideas of excellence consisted in the faculty of making money and keeping it. 'As for literature and refinement, he did not care for them. He was not a literary man,' he said, 'and yet he was rich, and respected; a president of a bank; had been an unsuccessful candidate for congress, which was some honor, and had it in his power to fill any office in the town he would accept. No; he preferred a man of business for a son-in-law.'

He found one; a coarse, rough, unlettered country-merchant, whose ideas were bounded by the length and breadth of his counter; whose whole soul was given to traffic. A sloven, except on Sundays and courting-days, and then only clean on the outside. This fair, delicate, daughter of wealth, possessed of a mind and education much beyond her family's comprehension, was wedded to this 'respectable' man. Her heart was broken by this savage act of parental authority. She died during the first year of her wedlock, and Edward Lang was for two years deranged, and woke from this sleep of reason, to find himself without hope, without motive, without sympathy.

He took to his books; he shut out the world, and dwelt upon the beautiful and good in theory; lived in a love for the generous, the exalted, and happy scenes of his imagination. When forced abroad by his friends, he seemed lost and unhappy; he was disturbed from this resting which an unfortunate mind derives from picturing for others what he knows can never be for him.

By the world at large he was said to nourish false views of things, because he had a higher standard than the world generally live by. By these means he unfitted himself for society, and was voted dull, eccentric, and love-sick. Time, however, softened his regrets, and he came out in the scheming life I have referred to, in which, by acting by principle and science, even in the work of agriculture, he lost his all.

When I was introduced to him, he was living with an old aunt, upon his paternal estate. Though poor, they had about them those marks of refinement, which well-educated people will contrive to weave out of common materials. Whether on the farm, in the garden, at his table, in church, or in the street, no one could see Mr. Lang, and not say with certainty that he was a gentleman. The aunt belonged to the old school of ladies, rather prim and stiff; and yet her benevolent face, her self-possession, and quiet dignity, gave her great influence in society. Her reading and good sense, her piety and patience, were proverbial. Every body called her 'madam,' and treated her with marked respect. I was on the most familiar terms at their house; for I believe they felt that I appreciated them. It was the sympathy of people educated in the same way.

This gentleman was of great service to me. From the examination of his own feelings, he had learned much of the nature of passion; from severe suffering, he had become acquainted with misfortune. I used to confide to him all my sorrows, and I told him my struggles. He saw my remorse, and pitied my irresolution.

Alice, too, had confidence in him. They often rode together; and his age and purity of life, and the nice delicacy of his feelings, induced her to open her heart to him. He felt flattered, as well he might, by the trust this noble girl reposed in him. But, beside, he had read so much of love, thought so much of it, and suffered so much for it, that he engaged in the contemplation of our affairs with the goût of an epicure over a favorite dish. He lived over again hours of past endearment of his own. He felt young and ardent, as he listened to the recital of conversations and difficulties which I, with the greenness of a boy, always told him.

Things had arrived at a pass dangerous for both of us; and as yet her parents knew nothing. One of our conversations happened to be heard by the lady's mamma, and papa was informed of all. He was surprised, but affected to treat the matter quite coldly; told me I was too young, too unsettled, to think of matrimony, and very politely forbade me his house; 'as,' he said, 'the sooner we forgot each other the better.'

I ought to confess, here, that my habits had got to be quite irregular. I attended horse-races, tavern-suppers, balls, and sometimes drinking-parties, when the society was by no means the most select; and to drown the mortification, and get to the level of my companions, I ran into excesses that shattered my nerves, and made me unfit, for days, for any calm reflection.

I have always felt the consequences of this mode of life. Even the best minds will become tainted by contact with vulgarity and coarseness. The purest taste will get degraded, in a measure, by constant intercourse with low persons, such as young men who have nothing to do usually meet about taverns, stage-houses, and strolling theatres. We even acquire habits of speaking and pronunciation, and of cant terms, which are beneath a gentleman.

When low-bred men engage in pleasure, 'plenty of stuff to drink' is deemed the first essential. We are getting rid, to be sure, of the character of 'a nation of drunkards;' but when I was a boy, liquors were set out upon all occasions; at weddings, at funerals, dinners, calls, paying money, or dunning-visits. People in the country, of respectability, used to drink at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and at four in the afternoon. That was genteel. The class who drank before breakfast then, now drink only at eleven; and those who drank only at eleven, drink not at all.

It was the custom, too, to drink before meals for an appetite; for appetite was considered a mark of health, however produced. Among very good sort of people, this was a common notion, that a man could work in proportion to the food he took into his stomach; so workmen were swilled with drams for an appetite.

It is certainly true, that temperance societies cannot hope for any permanent results in their exertions, unless there is a corresponding movement in other societies. Education societies, peace societies, temperance societies, and religious societies, they all have a common object and common cause, to ameliorate the state of man. They point to a common centre. People will not become temperate, and remain irreligious, and quarrelsome, and ignorant. I have often thought it would be well to turn all our efforts to educating mankind; and I believe all other objects would be protected by the course of events. But it is very questionable whether any benefit can result from taking down names to pledges not to drink spirits, in places where schools are not supported, nor the house of God attended.

In this village, every body drank at times, at parties and balls; and to be a little boosy, was by no means disreputable. Judges, members of congress, lawyers, doctors, mingled in these frolics, for popularity's sake; and the people at large thought, of course, they might go, upon the strength of such examples, to any extent.

If I had, by retirement, escaped the contamination of what are called 'glossed vices' in the city, in the country I contracted habits of a grosser nature. I do not mean to be understood as being a drunkard; but I had frequent 'scrapes;' my selection of associates was less nice; my delicacy less; my sense of honor less accurately defined. I lost, in refinement of feeling, immeasurably.

Taking all these things into view, it is no wonder that my intended father-in-law looked upon me with suspicious eyes. He was a man who had seen the ruin of many a likely young farmer and mechanic, from the same beginnings; and he was by no means pleased with my prospects. So I was forbidden to think of his daughter. She was sent out of town, I could not tell where, and I immediately left the village of N—— for a wider sphere of dissipation.

I returned to the city, coarse in my manners, rough in my appearance—thanks to the country tailor!—with large whiskers, and a swaggering bar-room air. I found, upon comparing myself with city appearances, that I was at least ten years behind the age. I blushed, looked ashamed, and avoided former acquaintances, who would greet me with, 'Well, Conworth, where the devil have you been?' or, 'Where the devil did you get those whiskers?' Mind, reader, I had been sentimental for a year, and when I was with gentlemen, was as stiff as country gentlemen usually are. Think, then, how my feelings must have been shocked at such familiarity, when I was looking as grave as an owl, dressed up in my long-tailed coat, large pantaloons, nicely polished thick boots, and long-napped, broad-brimmed hat, with whiskers covering the sides of my face, and my complexion the color of a coal-heaver.

Tailors and time work wonders; and in a short time my country friends would hardly have known me. I soon settled down into courses of dissolute life. I had no restraints. I imagined myself a martyr to love, and was, indeed, unhappy; persuaded myself that I had no hope, and particularly when about half drunk, I sighed like a furnace.

I spent one year, one precious year, of my youth in this manner. I was desperate; lived away from home, and only visited my friends when I was in want of money.

Sometimes, when my stomach was deranged, and my brain flighty, I meditated self-destruction. I was only at ease when rioting in excitement. I kept all sorts of company, and indulged in all sorts of vices. I cannot imagine a more dissolute young man than I was in conduct, who keeps himself this side of penal crime; though it is worthy of remark, that I never recollect having indulged in any vice, unless under artificial stimulus.

I believe my father thought himself a little in the wrong, by suffering such desertion as I met with from all my friends. He pitied me, and in the most affectionate manner persuaded me to return to his house. A word of kindness was to me like manna in the wilderness. I eagerly acceded to his proposal. He paid me every attention, and actually left his business, and travelled with me for two months, and endeavoured to bring my mind back to pleasant reflections; for I was indeed almost a maniac. This was the balm in Gilead to my sick mind. I came to myself, and with my father's permission I went to spend the remainder of my clerkship at the celebrated law-school at L——.

I have always had the strongest inducements to do well. After all my errors, before I left home, the friends of our family vied in showing me kindness. I was in a constant round of the most refined society. To be sure, I had the éclat of having been disappointed in love with the finest girl in the country; and any thing about love is interesting; and to be crazy or drunk for love, is not so bad as to be so for any other cause.

I was grateful for these favors and attentions; and when I left home for the law lectures, I really believe all my friends were firmly persuaded that I was an instance of wonderful reformation. So credulous and forgiving are our friends for the sake of what they know we can and ought to be!

CHAPTER XIV.

I wish my reader could sympathize with me, upon coming thus far in my history. I am aware that I have written nothing of much importance, so far as incident may be looked for. But, to my view, life is rather a succession of feelings and sentiments, than of actions. It fills me with inexpressible satisfaction, to find that I have mastered my adversaries, idleness and irresolution, in this instance, and have come to this point. It is the longest and most arduous task I have ever performed, for it is a work of continued exertion. I have never flagged from it; and the idea that some good inferences may be drawn from these pages, by the young among my own countrymen, so that my life may not pass away without one useful act, one deed of positive good, has supported me.

Let every idler, if he wishes to enjoy one happy hour, set about doing something, no matter what. Let him undertake to commit a chapter in the Bible to memory, or copy some piece of writing, or to make any intellectual exertion; but let it be definite; not take a walk, or a journey, or any thing that requires movement of the body, but still, continued, uninterrupted study and attention. Idlers are the veriest busy-bodies we know, and always flying about in some shape or other. They are idle with the appearance of industry, and deceive every body but themselves. While the world looks on, and wonders at their diligence, they are passing hours, days, years, of the most insupportable care, the care of finding something to do. I know something of the tedium of this life, and confess, that the hours spent in these records have been the happiest of my life, because I have had an end, an object, constantly in view.

My debts all paid once more, my character again rëinstated, my purse well supplied, my wardrobe in the newest fashion, and abundant as I could pack, behold the rustic of a year's standing, the lover, whose heart was broken, getting into the stage for L——, the place of the celebrated law-school; while Thomas, dressed in the self-same suit in which I had arrived some year before, is packing the trunks on behind. Alas! the association of that event and those pantaloons! Reader, they did put me in mind of the romantic hills and valley of N——, and then of Alice Clair; though to get to these affecting thoughts, I had to pass through the tailor's shop where they were made. There is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and so backward from the ridiculous to the sublime.

But in the height of my satisfaction in being permitted to take a new start in the world, under such favorable auspices, my love-disappointment did not weigh very heavily upon my heart. I had already, as I thought, performed all my promises of being a good student, etc., for I wished to, and I took the will for the deed. I wished it so much, that not a doubt or misgiving disturbed the serenity of my mind. I esteemed it a settled matter, that I was, in the first place, to make myself remarkable as a student; and then, without any trouble, to walk directly to the top of the profession. I was a sanguine——fool!

This confidence inspired my father with golden hopes; and when we parted, he told me he was the happiest man in the city. 'Now, my son,' said he, 'you are old enough (I was twenty) to begin to form a character; all your wild oats are sown; the past is forgotten; you have your destiny in your own hands. Write to me often; tell me all your wishes; and (here the devil jogged his elbow) draw upon me, if you want more money. God bless you, my dear boy!' The tears started in his eyes; mine were wet, too. As I got into the stage, (mark the baseness of my heart!) I dwelt mostly upon the words, 'Draw upon me, if you want more money.' My eyes ceased their weeping. I addressed some gay make-acquaintance remarks to a fellow passenger, and as we rattled over the bridge in the velocipede line of coaches, forgot every thing but the beauty of the morning, and only wondered how long it would be before breakfast.

So contemptible is the spirit of youth, in its blind passion for pleasure. All the higher, nobler feelings sink into insignificance, compared with its own selfish enjoyments. Pleasure, love of pleasure, tramples upon the holy influences of home; it steels the heart to filial affection; it saps the juices of youth; and leaves the young body prematurely cold, and lifeless, and insensible, to the natural action of all those relations and sentiments, that reason is intended to draw its moral food from. The mother 'who watched o'er our childhood' is forgotten; the father disregarded, and the sister's face is crimsoned with shame for us, and we ourselves are lost. And for what? For an hour's amusement; a short-lived enjoyment; an empty sound of revelry, and unmeaning mirth.

What inconsistency! Hardly had I got a step from my father's door; hardly had my fingers lost the affectionate pressure of his hand, when the evil genius stepped in, to scatter the impressions which a moment before seemed so fixed.

Since the time of my mother's death, I never had passed the door of the chamber where she died, without thinking of the evening when I visited her corpse, alone—a pure boy, free from all vice, all contamination—and then drawing the comparison between the present and the past. Such reflections always gave me pain, and summoned up all the resolution I was master of. I am convinced, that, if I had had a mother until my mind had acquired strength and firmness, I should have been a better and a happier man.

A father's love acts upon us later in life, but a mother leads us up to God. She bends and moulds our tender minds to her purposes so gently, that we are hardly aware of the pressure; but the father admires, and praises, and waters the more vigorous branches of our growth.

Our reading, our studies, sermons, nature, observation, tend to give to the mother a poetical interest in our hearts, in after years, when she is dead. She is the nucleus about which gather some of the most beautiful associations of our manhood. When we ourselves have children, we find out what is the nature of parental affection, and we look back with regret that we did not know and estimate it better, so that the homage of our love might have been more devoted, for what is so worthy of being repaid.

[THE RED MAN.]

I love the Indian. Ere the white man came,
And taught him vice, and infamy, and shame,
His soul was noble. In the sun he saw
His God, and worshipped him with trembling awe.
Though rude his life, his bosom never beat
With polished vices, nor with dark deceit.

[A MOTHER'S GRIEF.]

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.—BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.

I.

To mark, the sufferings of the babe
That cannot speak its wo;
To see the infant tears gush forth,
Yet know not why they flow;
To meet the meek, uplifted eye,
That fain would ask relief,
Yet can but tell of agony—
This is a mother's grief.

II.

Through dreary days and darker nights,
To trace the march of death;
To hear the faint and frequent sigh,
The quick and shortened breath;
To watch the last dread strife draw near,
And pray that struggle brief,
Though all be ended with the close—
This is a mother's grief.

III.

To see, in one short hour, decayed
The hope of future years;
To feel how vain a father's prayers,
How vain a mother's tears:
To think the cold grave now must close
O'er what was once the chief
Of all the treasured joys of earth—
This is a mother's grief.

IV.

Yet when the first wild throb is past
Of anguish and despair,
To lift the eye of faith to heaven,
And think 'My child is there!'
This best can dry the gushing tear,
This yields the heart relief,
Until the Christian's pious hope
O'ercomes a mother's grief.

[EYES AND LIPS.]

FROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A WESTERN BACHELOR.

An ingenious friend, who has a saturnine cast of complexion, maintains with great zeal, that dark eyes are indicative of a higher order of intellect than those of other colors. This doctrine meets with great favor from every one whose eyes are black, while those that are blue, hazel, or gray, kindle with indignation at such monstrous absurdity. Our friend borrows a very happy illustration from nature, and says, that as the wildest and most vivid flashes of lightning burst from the blackest clouds, so do the most brilliant emanations of mind glare from the darkest eyes. Whether there be any truth in this doctrine, or not, it must be admitted, that our friend has the authority of the poets on his side. From immemorial time, they have been sonnetizing dark and black eyes, to the almost utter neglect of all others. Your novelists never in painting a heroine, say she has gray eyes; but all their poetical fictions see with those that are large, languishing, lustrous, and dark.

The vividness of an eye's expression is not dependent on its color. The eye is most expressive, whose owner has the most thought and feeling. The eye expresses the language of the mind and heart; and whether light or dark, wherever there is strong emotion, it manifests it. A man is a better reader of the meaning of a woman's eye, than he is of one of his own gender; and a lady discovers more indications in the eyes of the opposite sex, than can the most scrutinizing man.

The eye is the most poetical of features; and ample testimony has been borne, in all time, to its superiority in this particular. There is much poetry in the smile of one we love; but there is more in the gleaming kindness of an eye from which the concentrated rays of feeling, thought, and sentiment, are looking forth. Did you never look into the tranquil depths of an eye, and see the shadows of thoughts winging their flight onward? Did you never read whole chapters about the sympathy of souls in them? If not, your observation has not been acute, nor your love very devout.

The sublime science of astrology, which once commanded the faith of the learned, has been laughed at by the wisdom or scepticism of more modern times. The doctrines and the devotion of those old readers of the stars have been discarded; and to the human eye the only relict of astrology now on earth has been confided. Lovers are the sole inheritors of the romantic doctrines bequeathed by elder astrologers to posterity. They do not cast devout looks toward the bespangled firmament, at night; but to them, the brow of a beloved being is a heaven, and the eye is the star that unfolds to them the shadows of their coming destinies. Their ancestors read the decrees of fate in the glittering watchers of the night-season, and they foresee the mysteries of the future in the expressions which shift and play upon the eye. If the eye of his mistress sparkles at his approach, it is the precursor of after joy. If the murky shadow of a frown rests upon it, it is the foreshadowing of the woe to come. To the lover, the eye of his mistress is ever eloquent, of hope or fear, of triumph or defeat. It is the polar star of his hope, the cynosure of his faith; and the complexion of the future changes, as her eye wanes into shadow, or waxes into the light of day.