A SCENE IN REAL LIFE. (continued 2)

Bryant was scrupulously silent on the subject of Charles' absence or his neglect, suffering it to produce its own effects. Yet Eliza loved him not. But since she had loosed her hold on Charles, she seemed to be out on the boundless sea—without a spot on which to cast hope's anchor; and woman must love something—she loves to love. And yielding to the importunities, the frequent suggestions of her father, who thought it would be a very prudent match, and a very agreeable one with a little exertion on her part—she determined to hazard the throw, and granted Mr. Bryant her hand. Would that parents grown prudent with age, and thinking only of wealth, would recall for a moment their own youthful sentiments, and not urge their children into engagements against which every feeling revolts—for however small the defect objected to, or how groundless soever each little prejudice, yet they may produce jars and schisms the most disagreeable and painful, and for which no splendor of equipage or name can ever compensate. The nuptials of Eliza and Bryant were celebrated the fall before Charles' return, with considerable eclat for that quiet settlement. And though the bride seemed calm and contented, yet she had lost her former gaiety and buoyancy of spirits. With the exception of a slight ebullition of anger, occasionally, things had glided on smoothly till Charles' return, and thus they stood at that time.

Slowly and gradually Claiborne recovered his senses and health. After three months close confinement he was so far improved as to be able to ride a little on horseback, or take short excursions upon the river in the sail boat. The presence of old scenes revived his memory, and seemed to strengthen his other faculties. Though pensive ever, yet his alienation returned not. After he had fairly recovered, for the first time, he inquired, if they had never heard from him. When told never, he said it was mysterious, as he had written hundreds of times, and first from Fort Washington itself. He said a black deed might yet develope itself. And when informed that Eliza had kindly waited on him, until prohibited by her husband, he exclaimed, "deception! I am satisfied. But let me not stay where every scene sends a dagger to my heart." All preparations were soon made and the unhappy Claiborne left his home, his weeping friends, the haunts of his early youth, and the theatre of his only blissful hours, for the territory of Mississippi, where he practised law. He soon became popular throughout the whole country, and was finally elevated to the Chief Magistracy of the state. After having filled his term of office with distinguished honor, he retired to private life; and soon after sunk to an early grave, "unregretting—regretted by all." Like the meteor flash, his career was brilliant, but transient. With his health he never regained his natural gay and lightsome temperament. Gloomy and melancholy he shunned the abodes of pleasure or merriment—lived in retirement, and cherished within his bosom an unextinguishable flame, that "finally corroded each vital part," and sunk him to the tomb.

Not long after Claiborne's departure, Bryant went upon a trading expedition, and for the first time left his keys with his wife, with the charge, that if a certain person called for some money, to let him have it out of his desk. While there for that purpose, her curiosity—I might say her suspicions—led her to examine the contents of the drawers, when in one, oh! blackest deed on memory's record! oh! most base and villainous deception! She met with a large packet of letters addressed to herself and Claiborne's father. Pale and motionless she stood, struck with amazement and horror. She saw herself the wife of a vile hypocrite—the author of all her own misery and sorrow—the demon of the desolation and blight of happiness she had witnessed in an excellent family—the injurer and almost murderer of the noble and generous Charles Claiborne. The idea froze the blood in her very heart. She read Claiborne's repeated declarations of increasing affection in every letter—the irksomeness of all his pursuits uncheered by her smiles,—his kind but touching reproofs for not writing—his marked effort in every line to please and delight—they were all unsealed and had been read by this cool-blooded villain. The blackness of the deed was aggravated by the deliberation with which it was done, and that too, while he perceived the anxiety and painful suspense of the dearest friends of one, whom he was thus so deeply injuring. The poor Eliza had borne up under all but this; and now that she saw her husband a fiend at heart—her anguish was insupportable—her bosom was racked with every conflicting emotion—her eyes swam—her bewildered brain whirled, and she sank to the floor. How long she lay in this state she knew not; but when she recovered, she replaced every thing carefully, and retired. Ten thousand agonizing reflections inflicted their torments upon her mind. She soon resolved upon her course. Erring on the better side, she determined to endure every suffering, to preserve her husband from ignominy, but to cherish her sorrows, which she hoped would very soon wear out the little of life that remained—

But life's strange principle will often lie, Deepest in those who long the most to die.

And she did live, to be chained yet longer to one she could but hate—she lived to receive the abuse of one who by a hell-engendered artifice seduced her from the sheltering, peaceful roof of her father—she lived to see him a beastly slave to intoxication—she lived to see her whole family reduced to want and misery by becoming sureties for this now unprincipled spendthrift—she lived to see the just retribution of heaven poured out upon the defenceless head, of this serpent, which wound his way into Paradise and brought its inmates to shame and poverty—she lived to see him die in want and disgrace, raving with the agonies of despair. And she herself survived but a short time, a pensioner upon the bounty of a few friends, who received her into their houses, to cheer, if possible, the approaching close of her painful and wretched existence;—which blind, presumptuous man, ignorant of the wise designs of Providence would fain pronounce too severe a fate, for a flower so tender and beautiful in its first buddings.

Lovingston, Virginia, March 25, 1835.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE OF A NOSE.

BY PERTINAX PLACID. I had a dream, which was not all a dream.—Byron.

The story which I am about to relate may by some be considered extravagant. I shall not argue the point; but content myself with the reflection that mankind have never yet been unanimous in their opinions in relation to any subject which admitted of a question. There are two special merits which I claim for my story, viz: that it is brief, and that it has a moral. Such as it is I offer it to the consideration of the reader.

It was a beautiful night in July.—The noble steamer "Dewitt Clinton" was speeding her way through the moonlit waters of the Hudson, thronged with passengers. We had left Albany late in the afternoon; already we had passed the majestic Cattskill, and were entering among those gorgeous scenes of nature which have been celebrated by an hundred pens.—Julia and myself had escaped from the crowd below, to the upper "round house" or roofing of the boat, which commanded an unobstructed view of the objects on either side of the river, and where we were secure from interruption, the myriads below being too busily engaged in contending for berths, and preparing for their night's lodging, to seek out our retreat or participate in the enjoyment of the beauties we were contemplating.

After paying due homage to the magnificent scenery around us, our conversation took a more common-place turn, and, as we had met that day after a long separation, during which Julia had paid a visit to some of our old friends in the north, she detailed to me the many happy meetings and amusing incidents of her excursion. She had gone through a long narration of the sayings and doings of aunts and cousins, and had given me a full list of new members of several families which we remembered in their simple elements, when the fathers and mothers were girls and boys, innocent of all thoughts of matrimony, and ignorant of its joys and sorrows. She enumerated the births, deaths and marriages of a whole village, in each individual resident of which we had felt more or less interest in our early years, and detailed their various changes of fortune and situation. In fact she brought up many years' arrearages of information, to me of more importance than the result of the Kentucky election, or the fate of the prime match on the Union Course between the best horses of the north and south. The private history of the old associates of my youth, as thus narrated to me, might have afforded a moral to adorn a tale of much higher interest than this I am now writing.

"And you saw my Aunt Deborah," said I. "Pray how does she look, and what did she say? I remember the eccentric old soul, as if the ten long years since I have seen her had been but as many months. Many a lecture did she utter on the extravagance, the impetuosity, and the recklessness of my boyhood; and much did she preach to me of prudence and moderation, I fear, in vain. Does she still remember my wild pranks?"

"Oh yes—but her censure of your wildness was so mingled with praises of your good qualities, that I doubt whether she would have permitted another person to speak ill, even of those points in your character which she blamed the most."

"Kind old woman! It was so when I was a boy. She was perpetually lecturing, and yet she was most kind to me. And somehow, in spite of her irksome admonitions, for which I had then no great relish, I soon discovered that I was a favorite with her."

"On one point she was particularly urgent. She questioned me whether you had as yet learned the value of money, observing, that in your younger days you had been a good-for-nothing little spendthrift."

"I hope you did not deceive the good old lady. It would be but fair that she should know that the prudence with which I was not born, has failed as yet of obtaining a lodgment in my head. It would have been a pity to deprive her of the glorious consolation of knowing that her predictions of my improvidence have been fully realized."

"Well, I did not think it necessary to inform her of the full extent of your delinquency; but I admitted to her that you had not the gift of saving, which she admires so much."

"She often told me that I would never acquire it."

"Oh, now I remember, she charged me to deliver to you a renewed admonition to prudence and economy. 'Tell E——,' said she, with great solemnity, made still more solemn by the huge pinch of snuff which she disposed of at the moment, 'that he must look forward to the future, and now, while he is prosperous, prepare for a less plentiful time, which may come. Tell him that, unless he studies prudence and economy, sooner or later, his nose must come to the grindstone.' I hope you will profit by the exhortation."

"I wish I could, I hope I may," said I, with something like a sigh interrupting for a moment the laugh, which I could not resist, at the expense of my good-hearted aunt Deborah.

Some further conversation occupied us for a short time, when we were admonished by the comparative quiet which had taken place of the bustle below, that it was time to seek such rest as we might find among the crowd.

Those persons who have not travelled in a "night-boat," as a steamer is called which performs its trips during the night, are probably not aware of the kind of lodgings which it affords when the number of passengers is large. The disposal of five hundred lodgers on board a steam boat is no trifling task. The berths are of course limited in number, and when crowded, the floors of the cabins are covered with sleeping contrivances of various descriptions. Settees, cots, and a kind of oblong box, having thin mattresses spread over them, with a sheet and blanket perhaps, are wedged together, each calculated to hold the body of a human being, by the most scanty and economical measurement. The berths are first exhausted by those who are most prompt in looking after their own comfort; and then comes the scramble for the cots, settees, &c. In this contest high words often occur, and in some instances I have heard of serious conflicts for the possession of one of these miserable dormitories.

On this occasion I had enlisted the good offices of the younger Captain Sherman, who promised to secure me a lodging, and when I entered the cabin it was pointed out to me. Numbers had been less fortunate, and unable to procure a place of rest below, had accommodated themselves upon benches, chairs, &c. above,—or wrapped in cloaks, had stretched themselves on the deck. Clambering over those who had already retired, I stretched myself on my pallet. In doing so I awoke my next neighbor, a gigantic Kentuckian, who lay cramped up in his scanty cot, like a stranded leviathan among a shoal of porpoises.

He cast his eyes upon me, and with an ineffectual attempt to extend his limbs, muttered, "Close stowing this, stranger."

I assented to the truth of his remark; but he seemed in no mood for conversation, and was soon fast asleep. The heat was suffocating from the effusions of so many human bodies lying in rows, almost touching each other,

"Thick as the autumnal leaves which strow the brooks In Vallombrosa."

I found it impossible to sleep. The feverish state of the atmosphere, and the tumult around me, scared the drowsy god from my pillow—[I had no pillow by the way, but made my great coat serve as a substitute for one.] The thundering and crashing of the engine,—the dashing of the paddles in the water—the stamping of feet above our heads—the uproar of many voices, heard at intervals when some order was given to the crew—the banging of the wood upon the planks, at it was transferred from the pile to the engine-room—the rumbling of ballast-boxes, as they were occasionally transferred from side to side, for the purpose of trimming the steamer—the harsh rattling of the tackle, as a boat was lowered, to land or take off passengers by a tow line,¹ and the simultaneous rush to the gangway of those who were to go on shore, while the subtile fluid which gave motion to our floating caravan, being partially restrained, emitted a wheezing and uncomfortable sound.

¹ This method of landing and taking off passengers was practised for many years on the Hudson, but finally abolished by law, on account of its risks, several fatal accidents having been caused by it. The steamer was not brought to during the operation; but a tow line attached to the small boat, was out from the steamer, and drawn in by the machinery with great velocity.

But who shall describe the varied and terrific music of the steam engine? I do not attempt it, not doubting that in the march of improvement, the poet will hereafter make it a special theme; and that some American Mayerbeer or Mozart, will consider the composition of a passage by steam from Albany to New York, as affording facilities for expression and contrast, equally sublime with the March in Saul or the Battle of Prague.—Occasionally we came to a dead stop at some principal landing place. For a moment the engine was hushed, as silent as death; then a feeble whistle was heard from the steam pipe, (sweet, shrill and almost plaintive,) followed by a roar of the imprisoned element, fiercely exulting at its recovered liberty, as it was let off from the engine, and rushing forth with such gigantic impulse as to shake every timber in the vessel.—Gradually the roar subsides; slowly, slowly, until a humming sound succeeds, as though all the bees of Hybla were swarming around our heads. Suddenly it ceases, and for a moment the steam is silent. Then again, the hoarse thunder of the machinery commences, the paddles dash the water from beneath them, with giant strides, and the motion of the vessel is distinctly felt, as she rushes onward in her course.

Such were the sounds above which afforded to the hundreds of sleepers a discordant lullaby, sufficiently hostile to repose, one would think, to drive slumber from the eyelids of Somnus himself. But all this "mortal pudder o'er our heads," was less distracting than the concert of discords which was in a coarse of performance immediately around me, comparatively, it is true, in a minor key.—One hundred and fifty wind instruments of various constructions and dimensions, were playing ad-libitum, in every diversity of tone and time, concertos, fantasias and airs, which breathed of any thing but heaven. Here could be heard the mournful strain of a proboscis which seemed attuned to melancholy—there, the fierce blast of a nostril which emulated the magic horn of the wild huntsman; while in ludicrous contrast, hard-by were heard the stifled eruptions of a snout, which might have been taken for the rehearsals of an inexperienced porker. One drew in his breath with a painful squeel and a low whistle, and puffed it forth as he would have done in extinguishing a candle—another, began in a gentle strain, "like the sweet south, breathing upon a bed of violets"—gradually rising to a full and manly tone—still gaining strength as it advanced—now louder and more rapid—dashing onward with alarming impetuosity—louder, louder still; and now, the very brink of this musical cataract having been reached—a crash ensues, like the termination of that terrific passage in the overture to Der Freyschutz, which almost freezes the blood. The explosion past, this fantastic nose commenced again its tender strains, and again rose to its climax. Another rolled forth a heavy bass, deep, solemn and monotonous, like the muttering of distant thunder, or the roar of the vexed ocean heaving its waves on the shore after a storm. Another, with teeth compressed, seemed to draw in breath repeatedly without respiration, and suddenly to disembogue this over supply of air with a single emphatic snort, which threw his mouth open to its full extent. Some squeeled continuously; some groaned; and others whistled through their mouths in drawing in breath, and through their noses, in respiring it.

It will not be wondered that I could not sleep, yet my fellow travellers seemed unannoyed. I fell into a train of profound thought upon the causes of the various cadences of different noses, and puzzled myself upon the shapes and dimensions suitable to produce certain simple or compound tones in the concert. In following out these reflections, I wondered what description of music I must make myself, and could not but wish to hear myself snore—(a thing I believe impossible.) I could not avoid handling my own nose, to fix according to my imperfect theory, the extent and character of its musical capacity. By an association of ideas, the consideration of this question brought back to my mind the prophecy of aunt Deborah. I pondered upon it until the reflections which it suggested became painful. I endeavored to banish it from my thoughts, but could not entirely succeed. After a considerable time, I fell into a kind of snooze—a state which was neither absolute sleeping or waking—a kind of conscious unconsciousness, partaking of both in nearly equal degrees. Visions of imaginary objects glanced before me, which seemed to partake of or to be blended with the scene and sounds around me. Dim figures came and went between me and the lamp, hanging at the extremity of the cabin, on which my eye was fixed. Among these beings my aunt Deborah two or three times made her appearance; her starch'd cap, peaked nose, and keen grey eye, were not to be mistaken. I could identify even her tortoise snuff-box, which seemed as new as when I saw it ten years ago. Her look was rigid and menacing, and seemed to bode me no good—for I dreaded a lecture. These objects were the materials of dreams:—active thought and volition had nothing to do with their production. Yet my eyes were open,—my senses were awake. I could see and mark the motion of the red curtains, swinging to and fro—I still heard the unwearied nasal minstrelsey to which I have alluded, as distinctly as before.

The philosophers, I believe, have explained this contradictory state of the body and mind. I fear I have not described it so as to make myself clearly understood; but I am no philosopher, unless it be a laughing one. Those who have experienced a visitation of the "night mare," will I presume, comprehend my meaning.—I am not aware that this state of things had ceased, but believe the combat between real and unreal impressions was still going on in my mind, when I plainly perceived two large, gaunt blackamoors (whom I well remembered to have seen when at home in Richmond, pursuing their daily toil in Myers's tobacco factory,) descend the cabin stairs, and approach the spot where I lay. The obstacles of a crowded room did not seem to impede them; and I soon felt their iron grasp on my limbs. I was lifted by them from my pallet, and borne, I know not how, up the stairs, past the engine, to the forward deck. I endeavored from the moment they laid hands on me, to struggle with them; but my limbs were powerless: I endeavored to call out, and awaken my fellow lodgers; but my voice had lost its sound, my tongue seemed paralyzed: I could not articulate a syllable. The cold sweat of terror stood upon my brow. I had a presentiment that some awful fate awaited me, but I could form no conception what it was to be.

At the place where they halted in their progress, I saw a huge grindstone, from behind which a little black urchin leaped up, and seizing the handle, commenced turning it with surprising velocity, looking into my face and laughing with that hearty glee so peculiar to the cachinations of his race. I knew the imp too well, for I had seen him in his tatters an hundred times, hopping the gutters in front of the Eagle Hotel. A horrible consciousness of my fate now flashed upon me. The prophesy of my aunt Deborah came into my mind, and I felt that it was to be fulfilled. I cast my eyes around me in despair, when they fell upon the figure of the old lady herself, standing upon the prow of the vessel. Her look was severe and reproachful. The finger of her right hand was uplifted, as if she would have said, "I have warned you in vain!"—while her left hand conveyed a pinch of snuff to her nostrils, which they received with an inspiration so keen that it hissed in my ears like hot iron. My glance at this figure was but momentary. Scarce had the imp commenced turning the instrument upon which I had now become aware that I was to be tortured, when the Titans in whose gripe I was held, forced my head downward, until my proboscis rested upon the revolving stone, and I felt its horrid inroads upon that sensitive member. The first excoriation was severe. I writhed and struggled to free myself, but the power which held me was indomitable. Gradually the urchin relaxed in the rapidity of his motions—the stone revolved slowly, and I saw that my torment was to be a lingering one.

In the midst of their task the inhuman wretches began to chaunt songs and incantations adapted to the horrid ceremony. I remember some snatches of the ballads they sung. Never shall I forget them, for the cruel mockery of their fiendish merriment was more galling than the pain I endured, or the awful reflection that I must pass the rest of my days the noseless object of pity and contempt. One of the stanzas ran thus:

De man who hold he nose too high Mus' be brought low: Put him on de grinstone And grind him off slow. Wheel about, and turn about, And wheel about slow; And every time he wheel about De nose must go.

I was at no loss to recognize in this a parody on a popular ballad by James Crow, Esquire, very skilfully arranged for the piano-forte by Mr. Zephaniah Coon; and I despised my tormentors the more for their plagiarism and want of originality. At the end of each refrain, the barbarians sent forth as a kind of supplementary chorus, shouts of laughter, which seemed to come from their very souls. It was none of your civilized ha ha's—nor your modish he he's—but the hearty, pectoral yeoh yeoh yeoh of the unsophisticated "nigger."

All this time my nose was gradually diminishing. The imp at the handle turned it slowly but steadily; the grasp upon my shoulders was firm, and the pressure upon my head was so heavy, that the inexorable stone was fast penetrating flesh, cartilage and bone, and reducing to a level the inequalities of my visage. This could not last forever; and at length I felt that the sacrifice had been consummated—the friction of the stone upon my cheeks, gave fearful evidence that what had been a nose, existed no longer, and brought the horrid reflection that I was noseless! That the pride of my countenance was gone, and forever!

The awful consciousness of my bereavement made me desperate, and strung up my sinews to a gigantic effort for freedom and revenge.—Suddenly the grasp upon my body was loosened, and as suddenly the agents and the instrument of my torment vanished.

I awoke, covered with perspiration and in a mortal tremor. The cabin was dark, and but for the snoring of my neighbors, I should not have known where I was. My nose was still suffering a most uncomfortable sensation, and I breathed with difficulty from some unknown obstruction. Although instantly aware that, to use the language of Molly Brown, I had merely "dreampt a dream," I instinctively lifted my hand to my face to reassure myself that my nose remained in undiminished amplitude and longitude. In searching for that interesting feature, I found that it was eclipsed and borne down by some weighty substance, which the sense of feeling soon informed me was the ponderous fist of my Kentucky neighbor, who had in shifting his position during his slumbers, unceremoniously thrust it into my face. I was cramped for room, and tugged to rid myself of the incumbrance, when its owner awoke.

"Halloo stranger!" said he, "you kick about like an eel out of water."

I explained to him the cause of my uneasiness, for which he briefly asked my pardon; and re-adjusting himself, again fell asleep. I could not follow his example, my mind being occupied in recalling the incidents and sensations of my dream, which fully engaged my thoughts until I was made aware, by the shouting and scampering upon deck, that we had reached New York.

And now for the moral which I promised my readers. It is this—Do not think too much of your nose—or hold it too high,—lest it should be brought to the grindstone in good earnest; and moreover, never sleep in a steam boat cabin, where men are planted, like Indian corn, in rows—if you can avoid it.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MORELLA—A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

Auto kath' auto meth' autou, mono eides aei ou. Itself—alone by itself—eternally one and single.

Plato. Sympos.

With a feeling of deep but most singular affection I regarded my friend Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul, from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never known—but the fires were not of Eros—and bitter and tormenting to my eager spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner define their unusual meaning, or regulate their vague intensity. Yet we met; and Fate bound us together at the altar: and I never spoke of love, or thought of passion. She, however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone, rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder. It is a happiness to dream.

Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents were of no common order—her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this, and in many matters became her pupil. I soon, however, found that Morella, perhaps on account of her Presburg education, laid before me a number of those mystical writings which are usually considered the mere dross of the early German literature. These, for what reasons I could not imagine, were her favorite and constant study: and that in process of time they became my own, should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence of habit and example.

In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My convictions, or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by my imagination, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read, to be discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or in my thoughts. Feeling deeply persuaded of this I abandoned myself more implicitly to the guidance of my wife, and entered with a bolder spirit into the intricacy of her studies. And then—then, when poring over forbidden pages I felt the spirit kindle within me, would Morella place her cold hand upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some low singular words, whose strange meaning burnt themselves in upon my memory: and then hour after hour would I linger by her side, and dwell upon the music of her thrilling voice, until at length its melody was tinged with terror and fell like a shadow upon my soul, and I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones—and thus Joy suddenly faded into Horror, and the most beautiful became the most hideous, as Hinnon became Ge-Henna.

It is unnecessary to state the exact character of these disquisitions, which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so long a time, almost the sole conversation of Morella and myself. By the learned in what might be termed theological morality they will be readily conceived, and by the unlearned they would, at all events, be little understood. The wild Pantheism of Fitche—the modified [Greek: Palingenesia] of the Pythagoreans—and, above all, the doctrines of Identity as urged by Schelling were generally the points of discussion presenting the most of beauty to the imaginative Morella. That Identity which is not improperly called Personal, I think Mr. Locke truly defines to consist in the sameness of a rational being. And since by person we understand an intelligent essence having reason, and since there is a consciousness which always accompanies thinking, it is this which makes us all to be that which we call ourselves—thereby distinguishing us from other beings that think, and giving us our personal identity. But the Principium Individuationis—the notion of that Identity which at death is, or is not lost forever, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest, not more from the mystical and exciting nature of its consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which Morella mentioned them.

But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my wife's manner oppressed me like a spell. I could no longer bear the touch of her wan fingers, nor the low tone of her musical language, nor the lustre of her melancholy eyes. And she knew all this but did not upbraid. She seemed conscious of my weakness, or my folly—and, smiling, called it Fate. She seemed also conscious of a cause, to me unknown, for the gradual alienation of my regard; but she gave me no hint or token of its nature. Yet was she woman, and pined away daily. In time the crimson spot settled steadily upon the cheek, and the blue veins upon the pale forehead became prominent: and one instant my nature melted into pity, but in the next I met the glance of her meaning eyes, and my soul sickened and became giddy with the giddiness of one who gazes downward into some dreary and fathomless abyss.

Shall I then say that I long'd with an earnest and consuming desire for the moment of Morella's decease? I did. But the fragile spirit clung to its tenement of clay for many days—for many weeks and irksome months—until my tortured nerves obtained the mastery over my mind, and I grew furious with delay, and with the heart of a fiend I cursed the days, and the hours, and the bitter moments which seemed to lengthen, and lengthen as her gentle life declined—like shadows in the dying of the day.

But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay still in Heaven, Morella called me to her side. There was a dim mist over all the earth, and a warm glow upon the waters, and amid the rich October leaves of the forest a rainbow from the firmament had surely fallen. As I came, she was murmuring in a low under-tone, which trembled with fervor, the words of a Catholic hymn:

Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes Upon the sinner's sacrifice Of fervent prayer, and humble love, From thy holy throne above. At morn, at noon, at twilight dim, Maria! thou hast heard my hymn. In joy and wo, in good and ill, Mother of God! be with me still. When my hours flew gently by, And no storms were in the sky, My soul, lest it should truant be, Thy love did guide to thine and thee. Now, when clouds of Fate o'ercast All my Present, and my Past, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine.

'It is a day of days'—said Morella—'a day of all days either to live or die. It is a fair day for the sons of Earth and Life—ah! more fair for the daughters of Heaven and Death.'

I turned towards her, and she continued.

'I am dying—yet shall I live. Therefore for me, Morella, thy wife, hath the charnel house no terrors—mark me!—not even the terrors of the worm. The days have never been when thou couldst love me; but her whom in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore.'

'Morella!'

'I repeat that I am dying. But within me is a pledge of that affection—ah, how little! which you felt for me, Morella. And when my spirit departs shall the child live—thy child and mine, Morella's. But thy days shall be days of sorrow—that sorrow which is the most lasting of impressions, as the cypress is the most enduring of trees. For the hours of thy happiness are over, and Joy is not gathered twice in a life, as the roses of Pæstum twice in a year. Thou shalt not, then, play the Teian with Time, but, being ignorant of the myrtle and the vine, thou shalt bear about with thee thy shroud on earth, like the Moslemin at Mecca.'

'Morella!'—I cried—'Morella! how knowest thou this?'——but she turned away her face upon the pillow, and, a slight tremor coming over her limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice no more.

Yet, as she had foreseen, her child—to which in dying she had given birth, and which breathed not till the mother breathed no more—her child, a daughter, lived. And she grew strangely in size and intellect, and was the perfect resemblance of her who had departed, and I loved her with a love more fervent and more intense than I believed it possible to feel on earth.

But ere long the Heaven of this pure affection became overcast; and Gloom, and Horror, and Grief came over it in clouds. I said the child grew strangely in stature and intelligence. Strange indeed was her rapid increase in bodily size—but terrible, oh! terrible were the tumultuous thoughts which crowded upon me while watching the development of her mental being. Could it be otherwise, when I daily discovered in the conceptions of the child the adult powers and faculties of the woman?—when the lessons of experience fell from the lips of infancy? and when the wisdom or the passions of maturity I found hourly gleaming from its full and speculative eye? When, I say, all this became evident to my appalled senses—when I could no longer hide it from my soul, nor throw it off from those perceptions which trembled to receive it, is it to be wondered at that suspicions of a nature fearful, and exciting, crept in upon my spirit, or that my thoughts fell back aghast upon the wild tales and thrilling theories of the entombed Morella? I snatched from the scrutiny of the world a being whom Destiny compelled me to adore, and in the rigid seclusion of my ancestral home, I watched with an agonizing anxiety over all which concerned my daughter.

And as years rolled away, and daily I gazed upon her eloquent and mild and holy face, and pored over her maturing form, did I discover new points of resemblance in the child to her mother—the melancholy, and the dead. And hourly grew darker these shadows, as it were, of similitude, and became more full, and more definite, and more perplexing, and to me more terrible in their aspect. For that her smile was like her mother's I could bear—but then I shuddered at its too perfect identity: that her eyes were Morella's own I could endure—but then they looked down too often into the depths of my soul with Morella's intense and bewildering meaning. And in the contour of the high forehead, and in the ringlets of the silken hair, and in the wan fingers which buried themselves therein, and in the musical tones of her speech, and above all—oh! above all, in the phrases and expressions of the dead on the lips of the loved and the living, I found food for consuming thought and horror—for a worm that would not die.

Thus passed away two lustrums of her life, yet my daughter remained nameless upon the earth. 'My child' and 'my love' were the designations usually prompted by a father's affection, and the rigid seclusion of her days precluded all other intercourse. Morella's name died with her at her death. Of the mother I had never spoken to the daughter—it was impossible to speak. Indeed during the brief period of her existence the latter had received no impressions from the outward world but such as might have been afforded by the narrow limits of her privacy. But at length the ceremony of baptism presented to my mind in its unnerved and agitated condition, a present deliverance from the horrors of my destiny. And at the baptismal font I hesitated for a name. And many titles of the wise and beautiful, of antique and modern times, of my own and foreign lands, came thronging to my lips—and many, many fair titles of the gentle, and the happy and the good. What prompted me then to disturb the memory of the buried dead? What demon urged me to breathe that sound, which, in its very recollection, was wont to make ebb and flow the purple blood in tides from the temples to the heart? What fiend spoke from the recesses of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, and in the silence of the night, I shrieked within the ears of the holy man the syllables, Morella? What more than fiend convulsed the features of my child and overspread them with the hues of death, as, starting at that sound, she turned her glassy eyes from the Earth to Heaven, and falling prostrate upon the black slabs of her ancestral vault, responded 'I am here!'

Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct—like a knell of death—horrible, horrible death, sank the eternal sounds within my soul. Years—years may roll away, but the memory of that epoch—never! Now was I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the vine—but the hemlock and the cypress overshadowed me night and day. And I kept no reckoning of time or place, and the stars of my Fate faded from Heaven, and, therefore, my spirit grew dark, and the figures of the earth passed by me like flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only—Morella. The winds of the firmament breathed but one sound within my ears, and the ripples upon the sea murmured evermore—Morella. But she died, and with my own hands I bore her to the tomb, and I laughed, with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the charnel where I laid the second—Morella.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CONTENT'S MISHAP:

A VERITABLE HISTORY.

BY PERTINAX PLACID, ESQUIRE.

CONTENT once dwelt in humble cot Beside a stream with music flowing, Embower'd in shade—a verdant spot— Woodbines and wild flowers round it growing. There NATURE lavish of her store Breath'd fragrance over plain and mountain; A soft entrancing aspect wore, And sang sweet strains by brook and fountain. Within the cot where dwelt the maid PEACE ever reign'd, with mild dominion, And LOVE, reform'd, no longer stray'd, But loos'd his bow, and furl'd his pinion. There PLENTY crown'd each savory meal With simple food from NATURE'S bounty; And HEALTH contemn'd the boasted skill Of all the Doctors in the county. One morning PRIDE, a city belle, In FASHION'S gaudiest trappings glaring, The fragrant meads for once to smell, That way had driven to take an airing. By chance, a vagrant cloud sent down A shower to cool the sultry weather, When PRIDE protested with a frown, 'Twould spoil her riding-hat and feather. CONTENT'S snug dwelling stood hard by, And thither PRIDE her car directed: Welcomed with homely courtesy, She smiled to find her dress protected. The first brief salutations o'er, PRIDE view'd with scorn the humble cottage, Its narrow rooms, its sanded floor— And turn'd her nose up at the pottage. Then thus, to meek CONTENT she spoke: "I wonder so genteel a maiden Should dwell in this secluded nook, As dull as ever hermit pray'd in. 'Tis shameful such a form and face Should hide themselves in this mean hovel: That so much loveliness and grace Should with such stupid people grovel. How would you grace those splendid halls Where I and PLEASURE lead the million! There you would shine at routes and balls, Queen of the waltz and gay cotillion. These humdrum folks you live with now Are cut by all who aim at fashion: To see you so beset, I vow, It puts me quite into a passion. Here's PEACE, a tiresome, dowdy thing, Fit only for the chimney corner, To listen while the crickets sing, And teach the brats their Jacky Horner. PLENTY is well enough 'tis true, Where hungry peasants gorge their rations; But her rude fare would never do, For FASHION'S delicate collations. And LOVE,—who once was all the rage, And turn'd the heads of half the city, Dealing his shafts on youth and age, As you have learnt from many a ditty— Has long been voted quite a bore, He made so many a sad miscarriage; And now, the part he play'd before, CONVENIENCE takes at every marriage. This rustic-looking, sheepish boy I ne'er should dream was master CUPID,— Whom once I knew so full of joy— He looks so quiet and so stupid. I cannot bear that you should dwell In such a lonely sequestration, When you might reign a city belle, And taste the sweets of admiration. Come then, nor longer tarry here In this retreat so lone and dreary: In PLEASURE'S brilliant throng appear, Where TIME'S bright pinions never weary." The artless nymph, ta'en unawares, Was dazzled by PRIDE'S invitation; But still she fear'd the City's snares, And answer'd with great hesitation. She said a happy life she led, That care had ne'er her bosom enter'd Tho' tenant of an humble shed, Here all the joys she ask'd for centred. But PRIDE protested 'twas a sin, That so perversely she should prattle, When HOPE, (the jade) who just dropp'd in That moment—closed the wordy battle. HOPE whisper'd in the maiden's ear— What 'twas I never could discover,— But from her beaming eye, 'twas clear CONTENT'S resistance all was over. Suffice to say, the car was brought, The ladies in it soon were seated: PRIDE took the reins, and quick as thought, The valley from their vision fleeted. 'Tis true CONTENT some sorrow felt At leaving PEACE and LOVE behind her; But HOPE sat by, and fondly dwelt On all the happiness design'd her. * * * * * Soon by Dame FASHION'S mystic aid CONTENT became another creature; Such art was in her form display'd, She needed not the charms of nature. * * * * * Behold our country maiden now! In PLEASURE'S train a gay attendant; Before her throng'd admirers bow; Her beauty was pronounced transcendent. In every scene where PLEASURE reign'd CONTENT was found, a radiant charmer; And while the novelty remain'd, Her wild career did not alarm her. Months pass'd in one continued round Of parties, balls, and routes and levees, And tired CONTENT at length had found No happiness in PLEASURE'S bevies. Jaded in this unceasing maze, Her eye grew dim, her cheek grew pallid: PRIDE only could her spirits raise, And oft her melancholy rallied. But long even PRIDE could not hold out; Sorely the maid her change repented— Her dreams had all been put to route— CONTENT was sadly discontented. One morning HOPE, who scarce had seen The maiden since she sought the City, To make a flying call, popp'd in,— And saw her alter'd looks with pity. "Ah faithless HOPE!" exclaim'd CONTENT: "Why did you flatter and deceive me— Why urge the step I now repent, And be the first to scorn and leave me. Oh, but for you, deceitful friend, I still had lived untouched by SORROW, Where beauteous flowers their fragrance blend, Nor blushes from cosmetics borrow. I might have dwelt, a happy maid, With PEACE and LOVE, in blest seclusion, Afar from FASHION'S dull parade, Her endless throngs of gay confusion. Fain would I to my cottage fly, But PRIDE resists, and SHAME upbraids me; And PLEASURE, ever hovering nigh With some delusive tale dissuades me." HOPE, with a woman's ready wit, From all reproach herself defended; And forced her listner to admit Her counsel "for the best" intended. * * * * * CONTENT at length "made up her mind" ('Gainst PRIDE'S usurp'd control rebelling,) To leave the bustling town behind, And seek again her humble dwelling. 'Twas a bright morn in early Spring, When, HOPE her languid steps attending, Through vales where birds were on the wing, To that lone cot the maid was wending. The sun shone bright on hill and lea, The flowers from leafy shades were peeping; The brook ran murmuring merrily, And flocks were in the valleys leaping. The Cottage reach'd, she met once more The smile of PEACE, and LOVE'S embraces; JOY lit the maiden's eye again, And from her brow chased sorrow's traces. Soon HEALTH return'd, with genial glow, Her languid frame with strength induing, The blood resumed its wonted flow, The roses on her cheeks renewing. HOPE views the change with fond delight; Vows from CONTENT she ne'er will sever; Controls each wild impassion'd flight, And points where mercy beams forever. What more could Providence bestow To yield CONTENT an added blessing? Each hour her heart's pure offerings flow, To Heaven its gratitude addressing. And ever since, CONTENT has dwelt From the gay crowd, in vale secluded:— Their joyless strife she once has felt, And cannot be again deluded. Oft have I seen the humble roof, Where, with PEACE, LOVE and HOPE uniting, She dwells, from worldly cares aloof, Even while her story I am writing.

The following beautiful reply to the stanzas of Mr. Wilde, published in the first number of the Messenger, is attributed to Mrs. Buckley, the wife of a distinguished physician of Baltimore, a lady whose fine taste and poetic capacity are most happily displayed in these touching lines. The answer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr. Wilde's stanzas, and if we were called on to decide upon their relative merits, we do not know which of the two would most demand our admiration.

ANSWER

To "My Life is Like the Summer Rose."

The dews of night may fall from Heaven, Upon the wither'd rose's bed, And tears of fond regret be given, To mourn the virtues of the dead: Yet morning's sun the dews will dry, And tears will fade from sorrow's eye, Affection's pangs be lull'd to sleep, And even love forget to weep. The tree may mourn its fallen leaf, And autumn winds bewail its bloom, And friends may heave the sigh of grief, O'er those who sleep within the tomb: Yet soon will spring renew the flowers, And time will bring more smiling hours; In friendship's heart all grief will die, And even love forget to sigh. The sea may on the desert shore Lament each trace it bears away; The lonely heart its grief may pour O'er cherish'd friendship's fast decay: Yet when all trace is lost and gone, The waves dance bright and gaily on; Thus soon affection's bonds are torn, And even love forgets to mourn.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO —— ——

We parted—not as lovers part— No tear was in thine eye; No mantling blush was on thy cheek, Thy bosom heaved no sigh; Yet there was something in thine air That seemed to all unmoved,— Something that told my bursting heart, Dearest, that I was loved. For, when I took thy gentle hand To bid a short adieu, Methought within my trembling clasp, That white hand trembled too; And when too, from my faltering tongue The parting accents fell, Thou didst not, dearest—can it be Thou couldst not say farewell! Forgive, if I have boldly erred— If fancy 'twere alone, That check'd thy voice, and lent thy hand The tremors of my own. Forgive, forgive the daring thought— Forgive the hopes—the love— That bids me seek thee soon again, My bliss or wo to prove.

T. H. T.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHAT I LOVE.

I love to stray at early morn, 'Mid flowers along the verdant dale, Inhale the fragrance of the thorn, And hear the Dove's low plaintive wail. I love within some forest deep, At sultry noon reclined to lie, And watch the fleecy clouds that creep, With quiet pace along the sky. I love at quiet eve to go, Far from the noisy crowd, and dream Of all the glorious hopes which throw Their sunshine o'er life's gloomy stream. But more than all, at silent night, I love with one fair form to rove, Beneath the pale moon's pensive light, And whisper burning words of love.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO —— ——

Let not your heart be troubled.—John 14: 1.

Let Ocean swell with angry spite, And yawn and lash the heedless shore; And billows rage with mount'nous height, As if they'd be at peace no more. Let storm 'gainst storm their fury hurl, And loudly roar with fearful might, Till sea and land—yea, all the world— May seem to grope in trouble's night. But let thy heart thy Saviour know, Whose word once calmed the troubled deep, Who spake to winds that dared to blow, And hushed them in the lap of sleep. Tis He can quell each rising sigh, And calm thy heart from cruel fears, As when the storms in silence lie, And not a wave the Ocean mars.

SIWEL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ITALIAN EXTRAVAGANZA.

Addressed to a beautiful lady.

Se tutti gli alberi del mondo Fossero penne— Il cielo fosse carta, Il mare, inchiostro— Non basterebbero a descrivere La minima parte della vostra perfexione!

AN ATTEMPT AT TRANSLATION.

Could we the sky's unbounded range, To paper all convert— And had we power, miraculous, to change, To pens, the trees, To ink, the seas— These would not all suffice to paint, in part, The rich perfections of thy mind and heart— Thy graces—thy desert!

ELLA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHERE IS MY HEART?

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

Where is my heart? Its place of rest is not within this aching breast;— Where does it dwell? It is not in the glittering hall, Where sunbright glances gaily fall 'Neath pleasure's spell. Where is my heart? Not in the crowd 'mid mirth and wine and revel loud;— It is not there. Nor is it where the summer's sky Gives birth to flowers of brightest dye And balmy air. Where is my heart? Upon the sea, where dwell the joyous and the free, It has not gone. My withered heart, it has not flown Where love or hope or joy is known, Or pleasures dawn. Where is my heart? To the cold grave, where yew and cypress darkly wave, My heart has fled. Yes, where the form it worshipped sleeps, My blighted heart its vigil keeps, Beside the dead.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INVOCATION.

Come my love—O! come with me, We will wander wild and free,— Where the pale moon sheds her light, And the dew-drops glisten bright;— Where is heard the gurgling flow Of the streamlet, we will go, And our joyous feet shall tread, Near the humble violets bed. We will breathe the rich perfume, Born of fragrant flowers in bloom; All that's sweet and all that's fair, From green earth or scented air, Nature brings in vesture gay, Laughing strews around our way. We will seek the shady grove, Through its mazes we will rove, Sit upon the moss-grown seat, And our youthful vows repeat. Years have passed since we were there, Still thy cheeks are fresh and fair, Not a single care-worn line, Mars that lovely brow of thine. Many gay and gladsome hours, We have spent in sunny bowers; Not one cloud of care or strife, E'er has dimmed our path thro' life,— And our pilgrimage doth seem As one long and happy dream. Come my love the Moon's on high, Sailing o'er the summer sky, And the stars are twinkling through Boundless fields of azure-blue— Faintly from the leafy trees, Sighs the balmy southern breeze. Down the valley we will stray, Where the night-flowers scent the way; Arm in arm we'll wander o'er Many a scene beloved of yore; Tell the oft repeated tale, By the fountain in the vale,— Talk of deep, confiding love, And of hearts that never rove.

ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

Aldie, Va.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN.

Come to the forests, while the leaves are falling In rustling showers from every yielding bough— Seek the wild haunts, where, save some lone bird calling Its mate departed, all is silence now. Leave the bright hearth, where love and peace are smiling, To dream awhile 'midst Autumn's falling leaves, To watch her power the Summer's charms despoiling As time of early joys the heart bereaves. There, as the year's bright glories fade around thee Bring home the lesson to thy saddened heart; Muse on the loves and friendships that have bound thee, Which thou hast seen like autumn leaves depart. Or if the Past yield no sad recollection, Upon the Future let thy thoughts be cast; Nor check the current of the sad reflection That whispers, human life is fleeting fast. Then bow to Him, in meek and low contrition, Whose Wisdom, full of Mercy, doth ordain To man a second spring in realms elysian, Where the bright hues of Summer ever reign.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NAPOLEON.

Aye! there he lies,—the mighty one! Death's hand is on him now; And fearfully he puts his seal Upon that haughty brow. What boots it that his own proud name In foreign lands has rung? That orators his fame have spoke, That bards his deeds have sung? What boots it that the hills of Spain Shook 'neath his lordly tread— That with the blood of her best sons, Her vallies' streams ran red? That over Moscow's battlements, His flag-folds he shook out— That e'en the lofty pyramids Rang with his charging shout? He who subdu'd so many lands, Must now from England crave (Although she is his deadliest foe) What man last wants—a grave!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,—You have published at page 199 of your January number, four outlandish-looking lines, with a hope that some one of your numerous readers may not only be able to inform your correspondent who furnished them, in what language they are written, but let him still further into the secret by giving their meaning. Happening to know a little of the Gaelic, I have no hesitation in saying that that is the tongue in which they are written; and further, I think I have succeeded, after a good deal of trouble, in discovering to a certainty that they are a translation of the first stanza of Sappho's celebrated Ode addressed "To the Beloved Pair," and commented upon at some length by Longinus, in the tenth section of his De Sublimitate. The stanza in question runs thus:

[For want of proper type we cannot give it in the Greek.—Ed.]

Videtur mihi ille æqualis Diis Esse Vir, qui oppositus tibi Sedet, et prope te dulce loquentem audit Et rides amabiliter. Blest as the immortal Gods is he The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak and sweetly smile.

An interesting critique upon the Ode, with the whole of Ambrose Philips' spirited translation of it, is to be met with in the two hundred and twenty-ninth number of the Spectator. Yours, &c.

UDOCH.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

No. II.

——If the painter saw Naught but the prose of things, and dared but draw The literal, aged, uninspiring truth, And saw not nature in her winged youth Her rainbow aspect, when she stands array'd In floods of sunshine and in nights of shade, What would he gain?—Barry Cornwall.

In my last number, I undertook to show, that "uncultivated taste, is incapable of estimating excellence in art" and that, "the beautiful in nature, like philosophy and science, can only be comprehended by those who study it profoundly and observe it habitually." But those who think nature an unveiled beauty to be gazed upon by every wanton eye, or that the arts aspire no higher than the "prose of things;" those who are resolved to admire what they like, rather than learn to like that which is admirable, may spare themselves the trouble of reading this article,—as my object is, to instruct the teachable, to ramble with the lover of nature amidst the shades of rural life, and converse with the amateur of art, about all that is excellent in ancient or modern works.

Before we can perceive what is beautiful in art, we must comprehend what is beautiful in nature; and without entering into the abstruse question of beauty, which has so much divided the erudite in all ages, we may say, that every thing from the hand of the Creator is beautiful in its proper place: and it is precisely this, that is beautiful in art. But to know the place where beauteous nature lurks, and to trace the harmony and fitness of every object to the part it supplies in the picturesque of scenery, requires a mind

"——by nature's charms impress'd, An ardor ever burning in the breast, A zeal for truth, a power of thought intense; A fancy, flowering on the stems of sense; A mem'ry as the grave retentive, vast That holds to rise again, the imprison'd past."

Beauty is not confined to the waving line of Hogarth, or to objects smooth and soft, as Mr. Burke thought, but is multiform in nature, and therefore admits of a diversity of tastes; yet it is not an arbitrary principle subject to the fancy of every individual, but like harmony in music, it vibrates on the imagination and affections of a cultivated mind, as doth the octave in a well tuned instrument;—the tutored ear perceives the slightest discordance in sounds, and the cultivated eye detects with equal facility the want of harmony in art or nature. It has been said "that the peasant youth, would require more red in the cheek of his beauty, than would be agreeable to a man of cultivated taste," and the inference was, "that the delicate is more beautiful than the florid," but in fact, they are each beautiful in their place. In rustic life, amidst the scenes of the vintage, in the hay field, or milking the cow—how beauteous is the flush and healthful bloom of the cottage maiden! The ruby lip and liquid laughing eye bespeak the joyous heart, pleased with its vocation. Here, the delicate and courtly dame of polished life would appear unequal to the task; would be incongruous to the scene, and as much out of place as epic verse in pastoral poetry;—yet in her proper sphere

"——those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul, Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart,"

she moves the attractive star of cultivated taste.

The choice of these subjects, constitutes the difference between the Dutch and the Italian schools of art. The former painted pastoral scenery with a fidelity incomparably superior to the Italians, yet greatly inferior in the higher excellencies of art. They are justly admired for their attention to detail, to exact finish, and all the results of "mere mechanic pains," but are void of classical taste, of moral instruction, and the poetry of the imagination, that highest effort of genius. Their works may therefore be beautiful, but never sublime, and their attempts at historic painting degrade it to something worse than caricature. I remember to have seen in the Louvre, a little painting of this school, designed for "Peter denying his Lord in Pilate's house." The interior was a Holland kitchen; boors were smoking before a chimney place, or playing at cards on a tub reversed; a coarse looking woman held Peter by his collar, and chanticleer sat perched on a beam of the house. The costume and furniture were equally out of keeping, but executed with the most harmonious tone and finest touch of the pencil. Now the same subject in the schools of Italy would represent a hall becoming the governor of Judea, soldiers in Roman costume would be grouped around an antique vase of embers, placed upon a tripod, and Peter would quail under the pert recognition of a beautiful damsel; the grey dawn would appear through the intercolumniations of the portico, and the warning clarion of the cock would be expressed on the brow of the conscience-stricken Apostle.

This may not be considered a fair comparison, but rather the antithesis of the two schools. What then shall we take as the highest effort of Dutch genius? The Bull of Paul Potter!¹ As well might we compare a wax figure of Tecumseh with the Apollo Belvidere, or the Sleeping Beauty with the Venus de Medicis. But, if indeed, it be the highest effort of genius to produce an exact representation of things, the modeller in wax, is superior to the sculptor in marble, and the Bull at the Hague, to the Transfiguration in the Vatican. As no one of any pretension to taste will ever assent to this conclusion, I must again insist, that art aspires to a higher attainment than the mere portraiture of nature, and claims poetic honors; it is the poetry of form and color: it selects the agreeable from the discordant parts of the great prototype—combines and disposes them—and without changing the features, elevates and ennobles them; it seizes upon incidental effects to cast a shadow over the asperities of objects, and throws a broad and brilliant light on the more beautiful parts. When Dominichino was asked what obscured a part of his picture, "una neblia si passa," was his reply; and by thus imagining a passing cloud, he was enabled to preserve that breadth of light and shade so remarkable in the English school at present. The Italians however, did not often seek after effect; they did not address themselves so much to the eye, as to the judgment; and their distinguishing excellence is correctness of design and dignity of character. It was this that acquired for them the praise of a "grand gusto," or sublimity of style, superior to all other artists.

¹ This is esteemed the greatest of the Dutch school.

G. C.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ETYMOLOGY.

——The inventor of a new word must never flatter himself that he has secured the public adoption, for he must lie in the grave before he can enter the Dictionary.—D'Israeli.

Mr. White:—I am an odd old fellow, and fond of etymology, and frequently amuse myself with tracing to their roots, words in familiar use. Having been confoundedly puzzled of late by the term CAUCUS, which is in every body's mouth, and not being able to satisfy myself as to its origin, I have determined to have recourse to you, and will be infinitely obliged to you or any of your readers for a solution of the difficulty. If it be true as D'Israeli says, that the inventor of a new word cannot be secure of its adoption by the public, for he must lie in the grave before he can enter the Dictionary—the man who made the aforesaid word must be still living, though at a very advanced age. I rather suppose however that D'Israeli is mistaken, and that the inventor has been dead a long time, and lived to see the general adoption of his word, notwithstanding it has as yet no place in any Dictionary that I have seen. Supposing it to be an English word, I consulted Walker, and was mortified to find that he took no notice of it. I then made sundry combinations of other terms, but could light upon none that seemed at all plausible, except the words calk us, which, united into caucus, may produce a kind of onomatopoeia, descriptive of the assemblage in question; for to calk, is, according to the abovementioned lexicographer, "to stop the leak of a vessel;" and inasmuch as a caucus is urged by the admirers of Mr. Van Buren, to be the means of stopping all leaks in our political vessel, there seems to be some show of reason in this derivation. Upon further reflection, however, I concluded that the word must be Greek, and having recourse to Schrevelius, found the paronymous term kakos, malus. This I presently rejected, though apparently descriptive of the pernicious tendency of a caucus, because the institutors of that pestilent oligarchy would hardly have selected so barefaced an epitheton, such a cacophony, if I may so speak. On further search, upon meeting with kaukis, I was so much delighted with the near resemblance of sound, as to jump up and cry out eureka; but moderated my rapture on discovering that "genus calceamenti," the explanatory terms in Latin, could not be tortured to any manner of application, unless indeed it was intended to indicate that the members of a caucus would be willing to stand in the people's shoes, upon the occasion of electing a President of the United States; or unless we observe further the aliter baukos, jucundus; for it is literally a very pleasant and right merry way of getting rid of the difficulty of a choice by the people. So far the Greek. As for the Latin, I have consulted every Dictionary in my possession, from Ainsworth and Young, up to old Thoma Thomasius, printed Coventriæ Septimo Idus, Februarii 1630, and can find nothing resembling our Caucus, but the three headed robber Cacus, who by paronomasia, might be considered as the grand prototype of that modern monster, which has stolen, if not the cattle, at least the property of the great American Hercules, and will keep it, unless he rise in his might, and crushing the political thief, resumes his original rights. Now, Mr. White, I am disposed to rest here; though not quite so well satisfied as Jonathan Oldbuck was about the locality Of Agricola's camp, from those mysterious initials which the mischievous Edie Ochiltree so wickedly interpreted to mean "Ailie Davy's lang ladle," and not "Agricola dicavit libens lubens," as Monkbarns would have it;—but do observe, sir, the singular coincidences between Cacus and Caucus; the one a three headed rogue—the other a sort of political Cerberus; the first slily taking away the cattle of another—the second insidiously cajoling the people of their rights; the former hiding them in a cave, where they were discovered by their bellowing—the latter betrayed by a bellowing from Maine to Georgia; and finally Cacus demolished by Hercules, and Caucus easily demolished by the Herculean force of public sentiment.

I acknowledge, however, that I am not entirely satisfied, notwithstanding this "confirmation strong," and hope you will speedily relieve the perplexity of

Your most obedient, NUGATOR.

P.S. A friend facetiously suggests that Caucus is nothing more than a corruption,—Caucus, quasi cork us; that is, shut close the doors that nobody may hear us.

REMARK.

We will do all in our power to assist our esteemed friend Nugator in his etymological researches.—We remember to have read in a work of a New England author, some years since, an elaborate inquiry into the origin of the word which so much puzzles our correspondent. If our memory serve us faithfully, that writer fixes the nativity of the term in the city of Boston, and the date of its birth previous to the revolution. The circumstances out of which it sprang he asserts to be these. In that stormy period, when every class of citizens was agitated by the sentiments which exploded shortly afterwards in the thunders of revolution, public meetings were frequently held by the different trades and professions. For reasons which we now forget, particular attention was attracted to one called by the Calkers, a large body of citizens in so commercial a town. Their proceedings being peculiar, (perhaps in exclusiveness or secrecy,) caused this assemblage to be much talked of; and every subsequent meeting characterized by similar peculiarities in its formation or proceedings, was called a "Calker's Meeting." Gradually, in the lapse of time, although the term continued to be used, its origin was forgotten; and a knowledge of its etymological parentage no longer preserving it from corruption, an erroneous pronunciation, and consequently an erroneous manner of spelling it, gave to it the form and shape which it now wears—a change not at all surprising in regard to a word which was probably unwritten during the first thirty years of its existence. We give this derivation from memory alone; we cannot even recall the work in which we saw it. If it be the true one, our friend will perceive that in one of his surmises he is not far wrong. It is high time that the birth, parentage and early condition of a particle of our language, which has of late become a word of power, equal in its magic influence to the fabled spells of ancient necromancers, should be settled beyond dispute. Seeing what Caucus now means, it is natural that we should desire to know from what beginnings it has arisen to its present stupendous importance in the ranks of our modern political vocabulary.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

THE CRAYON MISCELLANY. By the author of the Sketch Book. No. 1. Containing a Tour on the Prairies. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1835.

A book from the pen of Washington Irving, is a morceau, which will always be eagerly sought after by literary epicures. He is decidedly one of the most popular writers in this country: his sketches of character and scenery, are always true to the life, full of freshness and vigor; and there is usually a clear stream of thought pervading his pages, in fine contrast with the crude and indistinct conceptions of ordinary writers. The volume before us cannot be said indeed to rival some of its predecessors from the same pen, but the cause is not so much in the author as in his subject. In spite of an agreeable and highly descriptive style, the mind becomes wearied with the monotony of a journey through the solitudes of the Western Prairies, and after we have once formed a tolerably distinct idea of a buffalo hunt, and the lasoing of the wild horse, we become tired of the repetition of adventures, which possess so little variety. Considering his materials, however, Mr. Irving has contrived to sustain his narrative with his usual ability. It is true, that most readers will somewhat regret that he did not present more finished portraits of some of the personages who accompanied the expedition. We have quite satisfactory sketches of that "swarthy, meager, braggart" Tonish, and of the "sullen saturnine" half breed Beatte, but we desire to know something more of the wild young Swiss Count, of his travelling companion and mentor, the virtuoso, and of the hardy old hunter, Ryan, a true member of the leather-stocking family.

Notwithstanding the famed perspicuity and purity of Mr. Irving's style, he occasionally adopts a form of expression which creates some surprise. We will give one instance, in particular, because the inaccuracy, if we may so term it, is repeated several times in the volume before us:—"The horse, which was fearless as his owner, and like him, had a considerable spice of devil in his composition, and who beside, had been familiar with the game, no sooner came in sight and scent of the buffalo, than he set off like mad, bearing the involuntary hunter," &c. &c. &c. (Page 232.)

We should have supposed the expression, "like mad," a typographical error, if it had not been frequently used.

We copy for the reader's amusement, a short chapter, containing an account of "A Republic of Prairie Dogs," a kind of quadruped, with which we, at least, in this portion of North America, are not very familiar. The harmony, vigilance and energy, with which these little brutes rally around their rights and their laws, might whisper a sage lesson even to the wisdom of rational and intellectual beings:—

A REPUBLIC OF PRAIRIE DOGS.

On returning from our expedition in quest of the young Count, I learned that a burrow, or village, as it is termed, of prairie dogs, had been discovered on the level summit of a hill, about a mile from the camp. Having heard much of the habits and peculiarities of these little animals, I determined to pay a visit to the community. The prairie dog is, in fact, one of the curiosities of the far West, about which travellers delight to tell marvellous tales, endowing him at times with something of the politic and social habits of a rational being, and giving him systems of civil government and domestic economy, almost equal to what they used to bestow upon the beaver.

The prairie dog is an animal of the coney kind, and about the size of a rabbit. He is of a sprightly mercurial nature; quick, sensitive, and somewhat petulant. He is very gregarious, living in large communities, sometimes of several acres in extent, where innumerable little heaps of earth show the entrances to the subterranean cells of the inhabitants, and the well beaten tracks, like lanes and streets, show their mobility and restlessness. According to the accounts given of them, they would seem to be continually full of sport, business and public affairs; whisking about hither and thither, as if on gossiping visits to each other's houses, or congregating in the cool of the evening, or after a shower, and gambolling together in the open air. Sometimes, especially when the moon shines, they pass half the night in revelry, barking or yelping with short, quick, yet weak tones, like those of very young puppies. While in the height of their playfulness and clamor, however, should there be the least alarm, they all vanish into their cells in an instant, and the village remains blank and silent. In case they are hard pressed by their pursuers, without any hope of escape, they will assume a pugnacious air, and a most whimsical look of impotent wrath and defiance.

The prairie dogs are not permitted to remain sole and undisturbed inhabitants of their own homes. Owls and rattlesnakes are said to take up their abodes with them; but whether as invited guests or unwelcome intruders, is a matter of controversy. The owls are of a peculiar kind, and would seem to partake of the character of the hawk; for they are taller and more erect on their legs, more alert in their looks and rapid in their flight than ordinary owls, and do not confine their excursions to the night, but sally forth in broad day.

Some say that they only inhabit cells which the prairie dogs have deserted, and suffered to go to ruin, in consequence of the death in them of some relative; for they would make out this little animal to be endowed with keen sensibilities, that will not permit it to remain in the dwelling where it has witnessed the death of a friend. Other fanciful speculators represent the owl as a kind of housekeeper to the prairie dog; and from having a note very similar, insinuate that it acts, in a manner, as family preceptor, and teaches the young litter to bark.

As to the rattlesnake, nothing satisfactory has been ascertained of the part he plays in this most interesting household; though he is considered as little better than a sycophant and sharper, that winds himself into the concerns of the honest, credulous little dog, and takes him in most sadly. Certain it is, if he acts as toad eater, he occasionally solaces himself with more than the usual perquisites of his order; as he is now and then detected with one of the younger members of the family in his maw.

Such are a few of the particulars that I could gather about the domestic economy of this little inhabitant of the prairies, who, with his pigmy republic, appears to be a subject of much whimsical speculation and burlesque remarks, among the hunters of the far West.

It was towards evening that I set out with a companion, to visit the village in question. Unluckily, it had been invaded in the course of the day by some of the rangers, who had shot two or three of its inhabitants, and thrown the whole sensitive community in confusion. As we approached, we could perceive numbers of the inhabitants seated at the entrances of their cells, while sentinels seemed to have been posted on the outskirts, to keep a look out. At sight of us, the picket guards scampered in and gave the alarm; whereupon every inhabitant gave a short yelp, or bark, and dived into his hole, his heels twinkling in the air as if he had thrown a somerset.

We traversed the whole village, or republic, which covered an area of about thirty acres; but not a whisker of an inhabitant was to be seen. We probed their cells as far as the ramrods of our rifles would reach, but could unearth neither dog, nor owl, nor rattlesnake. Moving quietly to a little distance, we lay down upon the ground, and watched for a long time, silent and motionless. By and bye, a cautious old burgher would slowly put forth the end of his nose, but instantly draw it in again. Another, at a greater distance, would emerge entirely; but, catching a glance of us, would throw a somerset, and plunge back again into his hole. At length, some who resided on the opposite side of the village, taking courage from the continued stillness, would steal forth, and hurry off to a distant hole, the residence possibly of some family connexion, or gossiping friend, about whose safety they were solicitous, or with whom they wished to compare notes about the late occurrences.

Others still more bold, assembled in little knots, in the streets and public places, as if to discuss the recent outrages offered to the commonwealth, and the atrocious murders of their fellow burghers.

We rose from the ground and moved forward, to take a nearer view of these public proceedings, when, yelp! yelp! yelp!—there was a shrill alarm passed from mouth to mouth; the meetings suddenly dispersed; feet twinkled in the air in every direction; and in an instant all had vanished into the earth.

The dusk of the evening put an end to our observations, but the train of whimsical comparisons produced in my brain, by the moral attributes which I had heard given to these little politic animals, still continued after my return to camp; and late in the night, as I lay awake after all the camp was asleep, and heard in the stillness of the hour, a faint clamor of shrill voices from the distant village, I could not help picturing to myself the inhabitants gathered together in noisy assemblage, and windy debate, to devise plans for the public safety, and to vindicate the invaded rights and insulted dignity of the republic.

North American Review.—The April number is for the most part excellent. But we are forcibly reminded by it of a defect in the Reviews of this country, which it seems to us, might with some little exertion, be remedied. The fault to which we allude, is their tardiness in noticing the publications of the day. In this number of the North American, we find several pages devoted to a review of Burkhardt's Travels in Africa, which have been before the public sixteen years, while the crowd of new works of undoubted merit which fill our book stores, have not as yet, with but few exceptions, attracted the attention of the reviewers. In this book-making age, we are aware that it is impossible for a Quarterly to review the twentieth part of the productions constantly issuing from the press: but if, as we suppose, it is the design of these periodicals to direct the taste of the public in every department of science and literature, surely they should contain reviews of such works selected from the mass, as are best worthy attention; and should endeavor to keep pace with the stream of publication. We can see little value in a review of a book after every reading man in the community has perused it, and formed his opinion upon its merits. Thus to lag behind the march of current literature, deprives the criticisms of the reviewer of much of their value and weight. In the instance to which we have alluded, it might well be asked whether the travels of Burkhardt, English reviews of which we read ten or twelve, or more years ago, could have the same claim upon the public interest as the newer works of Burnes, Jacquemont, Bennet and many others, whose books possess the charm of novelty? We subjoin the contents of the April number: 1. Politics of Europe: 2. Coleridge: 3. Mineral Springs of Nassau: 4. Life of G. D. Boardman: 5. National Gallery: 6. Italy: 7. Last Days of Pompeii: 8. Immigration: 9. Burkhardt's Travels in Africa: 10. Popular Education.

The first article contains a spirited review of the political events in France since the revolution of 1830, and of the foreign and internal policy of Louis Philippe. The progress of the juste milieu system is well delineated, and a forcible picture is drawn of the present posture of the French government. We do not entirely coincide with the writer's ideas of the onward course of the cause of liberty, (or perhaps more correctly, of revolution) in France; but consider the article generally correct and instructive. That on Coleridge is admirable: and we heartily rejoice that in a work so much looked up to in England as is the North American, for the expression of our literary opinions, justice so ample should have been done to that extraordinary mind. A Baltimore newspaper, in allusion to the article in question, speaks of "the pitiful shifts to which the reviewer is driven to account for a fact which he admits, viz.—that there is but here and there an individual who understands him," [Coleridge.] "What stronger proof do we want," says the journalist, "of that confusion of thought and mysticism with which he has been charged?" We think far stronger proofs are necessary to support the accusation. That but few comprehend the metaphysical treatises of Coleridge, is owing to the simple fact, that few are so thoroughly versed in psychological knowledge as to maintain a position in the van of the science, the post universally acceded to Coleridge by the learned in ethics. It is for this class of men that he has written, and in whose applauses he has received a plentiful reward. These, at least, will not hesitate to say that so far from being justly charged with confusion of thought, and its consequence confusion of expression, no man who ever lived thought more distinctly even when thinking wrong, or more intimately felt and comprehended the power of the niceties of words. That his philosophical disquisitions are abstruse, is the fault of the subjects, and not of the language in which he has treated them, than which none can be more lucid or appropriate.

The article on Italy is interesting—also that on the National Gallery. In the notice of the Last Days of Pompeii, justice is by no means done to that most noble of modern novels.

The London Quarterly Review for February, American Edition, No. 1. Vol. 2. is printed on good paper, with excellent type. It contains, 1. Wanderings in New South Wales, by George Bennet, Esq. F. L. S. Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons: 2. Correspondence of Victor de Jacquemont: 3. Population of Great Britain and Ireland: 4. Coleridge's Table Talk: 5. Egypt and Thebes: 6. Rush on the Prophecies: 7. The Church and the Voluntary System: 8. Recent German Belles Lettres: 9. England, France, Russia and Turkey: 10. Sir Robert Peel's Address. The eighth article contains much information on a subject with which Americans are, for the most part, indifferently conversant. Coleridge's Table Talk is highly interesting, as every authentic fragment of his sentiments and opinions must be. The work reviewed in this article, is published by Mr. Henry Coleridge, a near relative of the departed philosopher and poet, and is made up from notes of numerous conversations, taken down by the publisher immediately after their occurrence. They bear the impress of Coleridge's mind, will be read with interest by all classes, and probably do more to make the general reader acquainted with him and his opinions, than all else that has been written.—We take this opportunity of noticing the excellent American Edition of the London, Edinburg, Foreign and Westminster Reviews, combined. It does much honor to Mr. Foster of New York, the publisher; and the compression of matter is such, without being printed too fine, as to give to subscribers for the sum of eight dollars, these four periodicals for which upwards of twenty dollars was formerly paid. The paper, type, and execution, are good.

The Life of Samuel Drew, the shoemaker and philosopher of Cornwall, by his son, is published by Harper & Brothers, and consists of 360 pages. Drew was an extraordinary man, whose works, especially his theological ones, have gained him no little celebrity. It now appears that he had much to do with the writings attributed to Dr. Coke.

The Life of the Emperor Napoleon, Vol. 1, by H. Lee. New York, Charles De Behr. This work has great merits and remarkable faults. Published ostensibly as a corrector of the numerous errors of other biographers of Napoleon, and especially those of Sir Walter Scott and Lockhart, it cannot but be read with interest. The errors detected and set right, are numerous and important. In most instances Mr. Lee clearly makes out his charges—in some we are sorry to see that he seems to be governed by a spirit of captiousness: And we cannot but object to the tone of his strictures upon Sir Walter Scott. Milder language would better have graced his cause. We have prepared a review of this work, which we are compelled to postpone to the next number of the Messenger.

Celebrated Trials of all Countries, and remarkable cases of Criminal Jurisprudence, selected by a Member of the Philadelphia Bar. Philadelphia, E. L. Carey and A. Hart. Such a book as this was much wanted. The records of criminal trials were scattered through the newspapers or buried in some huge tomes of antique law reports, almost inaccessible to the ordinary reader. And this book seems fitted to supply the deficiency to a considerable extent. It is a large octavo, and contains a selection of criminal trials from the early period of 1588, down to the present day, among them some of the most celebrated cases on record, such as that of Sir Walter Raleigh in 1602, of the Earl of Strafford in 1643, of Alexis Petrowitz Czarowitz in 1815, of the rebels, Kilmarnock, Cromartie, Balmerino, &c. in 1745, and others of equal interest—the judicial proceedings in relation to which, belong to history. The contents of the work are highly interesting, but we cannot withhold our censure of their arrangement. The trials are huddled together without the slightest attention to chronological order; and it would seem that the gentleman of the Philadelphia Bar, who is made responsible for the compilation of the work, could merely have selected the several cases leaving the printer to arrange them as he pleased. The consequence is, that the reader finds himself shifting backward and forward, from century to century, in a complete medley of dates. This is to be lamented, because the history of criminal jurisprudence is a history of the progress of civil liberty, and of the expansion of the human mind. And the interest which we find in tracing the progress of just and equitable rules in the trials of malefactors, is marred by this defect of arrangement. As future volumes of this work are partly promised, it is to be hoped that in them this fault will be amended.

No Fiction. A Narrative founded on recent and interesting facts, by the Rev. Andrew Reed, D.D. has been republished by the Harpers. With a plot of great simplicity, and with diction equally simple, this work has attained much celebrity. It is indeed thrillingly interesting. Martha, a more recent effort by the same writer, is however, in every respect a book of greater merit.

Memoirs of Celebrated Women of all Countries. By Madame Junot. Philadelphia, Carey, Lea and Blanchard. These memoirs are amusing, and so far we can recommend them highly, but no farther. Their morality is questionable indeed; and they bear upon their face, in a certain pervading air of romance, sufficient evidence of their own inauthenticity. There is a sad mistake too in the title of the work. These are not memoirs of celebrated women in all countries: they are merely Madame Junot's celebrated women in a few particular regions. The greater part of them have no pretensions to celebrity. It has been remarked that the sketch of Marina Minszech will afford a fair sample of the Duchess's biographical style. In this opinion we concur, and as it is a pretty fable, we advise all to read it who have no inclination for the book entire.

Influence, a Moral Tale, by the author of Miriam. Philadelphia, Key and Biddle. There is an air of modest tranquillity about this book which we admire. It is a pleasing tale addressed to the young, to serious parents, and to friends—and it pretends to be nothing more. Its style too is unobjectionable. If the work developes in the author no extraordinary capabilities, it is, we think, because there was no intention of developing them.

Lives of the English Pirates, Highwaymen and Robbers, by Whitehead. Philadelphia, Carey and Hart. These lines will be read in spite of all that a too fastidious taste may say to the contrary. We see no very good reason why they should not be.

Confessions of a Poet, 2 vols. Carey, Lea and Blanchard. The most remarkable feature in this production is the bad paper on which it is printed, and the typographical ingenuity with which matter barely enough for one volume has been spread over the pages of two. The author has very few claims to the sacred name he has thought proper to assume. And indeed his own idea on this subject seem not to satisfy himself. He is in doubt, poor man, of his own qualifications, and having proclaimed himself a poet in the title page, commences his book by disavowing all pretensions to the character. We can enlighten him on this head. There is nothing of the vates about him. He is no poet—and most positively he is no prophet. He is a writer of notes. He is fond of annotations; and composes one upon another, putting Pelion upon Ossa. Here is an example: "Ce n'est pas par affectation que j'aie mis en Francais ces remarques, mais pour les detourner de la connoissance du vulgaire." Now we are very sure that none but le vulgaire, to speak poetically, will ever think of getting through with the confessions: thus there the matter stands. Lest his book should not be understood he illustrates it by notes, and then lest the notes should be understood, why he writes them in French. All this is very clear, and very clever to say no more. There is however some merit in this book, and not a little satisfaction. The author avers upon his word of honor that in commencing this work he loads a pistol, and places it upon the table. He farther states that, upon coming to a conclusion, it is his intention to blow out what he supposes to be his brains. Now this is excellent. But, even with so rapid a writer as the poet must undoubtedly be, there would be some little difficulty in completing the book under thirty days or thereabouts. The best of powder is apt to sustain injury by lying so long "in the load." We sincerely hope the gentleman took the precaution to examine his priming before attempting the rash act. A flash in the pan—and in such a case—were a thing to be lamented. Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences. We might even have a second series of the Confessions.

The Language of Flowers, embellished with fine colored engravings. Philadelphia, Carey, Hart and Co. This is a book which will find favor in the eyes of the ladies, and thus, par consequence in the eyes of the gentlemen. Its motto is pretty and apposite: