A limit to the giant's unchained strength.
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
Far, like the comet's way through infinite space,
Stretches the long untravelled path of light
Into the depths of ages: we may trace.
Distant, the brightening glory of its flight
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight.
* * * * *
----'seas and stormy air
Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where,
Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well,
Thou laugh'st at enemies; who shall then declare
The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell
How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell?'
We sometimes wish that we had been born fifty years later than it
pleased Providence to send us into the world, that we might behold
the ever-increasing glory of our native land. * * * The reader
will be struck, we think, with the paper upon '_Mind in Animals_,'
elsewhere in the present number. The writer 'has firm faith in every
conclusion he has drawn. He has considered the ultimate tendencies
of his doctrine in many different points; and the result is, an
additional confidence in the correctness of his conviction, that
one principle of intelligence is bestowed upon all created beings;
modified, like their physical structure, to adapt them to different
spheres.' Time is an abstract term; and as touching the faculty of
abstraction in animals, the writer has a curious calendar which he
kept of the time of the crowing of the roosters in his neighborhood.
Having observed that they gave their midnight signal at about the
same hour for several nights in succession, the following record was
preserved:
AUG. 30, 11.25 P. M. Pleasant.
" 31, 11.22 " "
SEPT. 1, 11. 7½ " Cloudy.
" 3, 11.27 " Pleasant.
" 4, 12.24 " Moonlight.
" 6, 11.30 " Rainy.
" 7, 11.29 " Cloudy.
" 9, 11.20 " Moonlight.
As a new style of _crow-nometer_, this is a curiosity; but we
cannot perceive that it proves any thing very conclusively. If it
were in our power, however, to watch the operations of animals as
carefully as our own, one could very soon place the whole question
above controversy. * * * THACKERAY, the exceedingly entertaining
author of '_The Yellowplush Correspondence_,' has in a late number
of 'FRAZER'S Magazine' some judicious advice in relation to the
_modus operandi_ of novel-reading. 'Always look,' says he, 'at the
end of a romance to see what becomes of the personages before you
venture upon the whole work, and become interested in the characters
described in it. Why interest one's self in a personage whom one
knows must at the end of the second volume die a miserable death?
What is the use of making one's self unhappy needlessly, watching
the symptoms of LEONORA, pale, pious, pulmonary, and crossed in
love, as they manifest themselves, or tracing ANTONIO to his
inevitable assassination? No: it is much better to look at the end
of a novel; and when I read: 'There is a fresh green mound in the
church-yard of B----, and a humble stone, on which is inscribed
the name of ANNA-MARIA,' or a sentence to that effect, I shut the
book at once, declining to agitate my feelings needlessly. If you
had the gift of prophecy, and people proposed to introduce you to a
man who you knew would borrow money of you, or would be inevitably
hanged, or would subject you to some other annoyance, would you not
decline the proposed introduction? So with novels. The book of fate
of the heroes and heroines is to be found at the end of the second
volume: one has but to turn to it to know whether one shall make
their acquaintance or not. I heartily pardon the man who brought
CORDELIA to life. I would have the stomach-pump brought for ROMEO at
the fifth act; for Mrs. MACBETH I am not in the least sorry; but as
for the General, I would have him destroy that swaggering MACDUFF,
or if not, cut him in pieces, disarm him, pink him, certainly; and
then I would have Mrs. MACDUFF and all her little ones come in from
the slips, stating that the account of their murder was a shameful
fabrication of the newspapers, and that they were all of them
perfectly well and hearty.' * * * IT has pleased some late English
writer to laud the conduct of Sir HUDSON LOWE, at Saint Helena,
while NAPOLEON was under his 'treatment,' and as BYRON says, 'stood
unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.' The least said on _that_
point, the better. 'He was England's greatest enemy, and _mine_, but
I forgive him!' said that notorious military martinet, when informed
that his renowned captive was no more. This is rather rich; and
almost justifies the remark of NAPOLEON, in exhibiting to an English
visitor, in a copy of ÆSOP'S Fables (which Sir HUDSON had sent him,
among other English books) the fable of the sick lion, which, after
submitting with fortitude to the insults of the many animals who
came to exult over his fallen greatness, at length received a kick
in the face from an ass. 'I could have borne every thing but this!'
said NAPOLEON; and pointing to the wood-cut, he added: 'It is me
and your governor!' A friend of ours once informed us, that at a
_table d'hôte_ at which he was seated in a German inn, soon after
BONAPARTE'S death, Sir HUDSON LOWE was announced; when nearly every
person arose from the table, and 'left him alone in his glory.'
* * * IT is somewhat remarkable that so little attention is paid to
the _clearness_ of expression. Every body remembers the geographer
who, in describing ancient Albany, represented it as having 'two
thousand houses, and ten thousand inhabitants, _all standing with
their gable-ends to the street_!' A similar error was made not
long since by a western journalist, who in publishing a clever
poem, remarked that it 'was written by an esteemed friend, who had
lain in the grave many years, _merely for his own amusement_!' A
scarcely less ludicrous _misstatement_ occurred very lately in one
of our popular daily journals. In describing the explosion of a
brig, near the Narrows, and certain accidents which resulted from
the disaster, the editor, among other items, had the ensuing: 'The
only passengers were T. B. NATHAN, who owned three thousand dollars'
worth of the cargo, _and the captain's wife_!' * * * BRYANT, our
most eminent American poet, has entirely 'satisfied the sentiment'
of our correspondent 'SENEX'S' stanzas on '_Old Age_,' in his fine
lines commencing, 'Lament who will, with fruitless tears,' etc. A
modern English poet, too, has recently reëxhausted the theme, in an
extended string of six-line verses, from which the subjoined are
derived:
'To dark oblivion I bequeath
The ruddy cheek, brown hair, white teeth,
And eyes that brightly twinkle;
Crow's feet may plough with furrows deep
My features, if I can but keep
My heart without a wrinkle.
'A youthful cheer sustains us old.
As arrows best their course uphold
Winged by a lightsome feather
Happy the young old man who thus
Bears, like a human arbutus,
Life's flowers and fruit together.'
* * * * *
WE should be bound to dissent from the conclusions of 'T. R.' on the
Hudson, were we to give his paper a place (which we _shall_ do, with
his permission,) in the KNICKERBOCKER. His _pecuniary_ conclusions
are right, no doubt; but his _natural_ deductions are, in our poor
judgment, decidedly wrong. 'Oh! mad world!' exclaims one who knows
it well; 'oh! incomprehensible, blind world! Look at the rich! In
what are they happy? In what do they excel the poor? Not in their
greater store of wealth, which is but a source of vice, disease,
and death; but in a little superiority of knowledge; a trifling
advance toward truth.' * * * WE do not know who drew the following
'picture in little' of fashion's changes, (changes alike of person
and apparel,) but to our mind it has the 'veritable touch and
tint:' 'There is something awful in the bed-room of a respectable
old couple, of sixty-five. Think of the old feathers, turbans,
bugles, petticoats, pomatum-pots, spencers, white satin shoes,
false fronts, the old flaccid, boneless stays, tied up in faded
riband, the dusky fans, the forty-years' old baby-linen; FREDERICK'S
first little breeches, and a newspaper containing the account of
his distinguishing himself in the field; all these lie somewhere
damp and squeezed down into glum old presses and wardrobes.' * * *
WE have observed going the rounds of the press a paragraph which
speaks of 'excitements' of all kinds as prejudicial to longevity;
and citing, among other examples, the constant whirl of the stage,
as a reason why theatrical persons are generally so short-lived.
But the _premises_ in this particular instance are _wrong_. As a
class, actors attain to more than common longevity. Call to mind
those who in our own era have nourished in England and in this
country, in proof of the correctness of this position. And it was
thus in a previous age. Look at MACKLIN. He performed the part of
'Sir Pertinax MacSychophant' in his own Comedy of 'The Man of the
World,' consisting of thirty-six 'lengths' or nearly sixteen hundred
lines, including 'cues,' with a vigor and spirit that astonished
every beholder, when he was in his one hundredth year! How old was
GARRICK when he was seen for the last time as Macbeth, marching at
the head of his troops (in a modern court-suit, and a well-powdered
peruke!) across the blasted heath? We do not exactly remember his
age, but he was 'no chicken.' * * * THERE is great beauty as well
as truth in the annexed brief synopsis of the characteristics of
the author of 'The Spectator.' ADDISON, says the writer, seemed at
the same moment to be taken by the hand by Pathos and by Wit, while
Fiction enrobed him with her own beautiful garments which Truth
confined with her cestus, and Imagination put her crown upon his
head, and Religion and all her band of Virtues beckoned him along
the path to immortality, both in the life of the genius and the
life of the soul. All the lineaments of beauty wake into splendor
in his prose. It is in his essays that his muse beams out upon the
reader, and calls forth all the sleeping wonders of her face. His
true tragic energy is exhibited in his earnest panegyric of virtue;
his true comedy is contained in the history of Sir ROGER DE COVERLY,
and his true fancy in the 'VISION OF MIRZA.' He was an essayist, a
tale-writer, a traveller, a critic. He touched every subject, and
adorned every subject that he touched.' Do we seek for the opinions
of a man of letters upon the aspect and the antiquities of the
most famous country in Europe? We have his 'Remarks on Italy.' Are
we fond of examining the aids which history derives from some of
the obscurer stores of antiquity? We can turn to his 'Dialogues on
Medals.' Are we charmed with the stateliness of Eastern fiction and
the melancholy grandeur of Eastern allegory? We find it in all the
allegories and visions of this charming writer. Or do we seek to be
withdrawn from the cares of our maturer life into the thoughtless
sports and pleasures of our youth? Who so good a guide as ADDISON,
in those papers which unlock all the gentler and purer emotions of
the heart? * * * AMONG the pleasant papers of the late ROBERT C.
SANDS, which we intended to have included in our late series of his
'Early and Unpublished Writings,' was the following extract from a
burlesque imitation of the literary-antiquarian 'researches,' so
common some years ago. The poem was 'edited' by a celebrated cook
in London, and was 'intituled '_Kynge Arthour, his Puden_.' It
purported to have been derived from the MS. which 'contained the
original Welsh, as well as the version.' It throws great light on
the gastrology of the olden time:
'Ys KYNGE for Sonday mornenge bade
Hys cooke withoute delaie
To have a greate bagge-puden made,
For to dyne upon yt daie.
'Ye cooke yn tooke hys biggeste potte,
Yt 90 Hhds. helde,
And soon he made ye water hotte
Wyth which yt potte was fyllede.
'Hys knedynge-troughe was 50 yds
In lengthe, and 20 wide;
And 80 kytchen wenches stode
In ordere bye its side.
'Full 60 sakes of wheaten floure
They emptyed in a tryse,
And 15 Bbls. of melases,
& 7 casks of Ryse!'
This really seems somewhat common-place, just at this period; but
twenty-five years ago it was a 'gem of one of the old English school
of metrical writers!' * * * WITH perhaps as strong sympathies in
behalf of the great philanthropic moments of the age as most of our
readers possess, we are nevertheless sometimes inclined to wish
that the liberal patrons of the great benevolent societies could
now and then have a glance behind the curtains at the chief actors
there. In many of these institutions true Christian principle is
doubtless paramount, and the managers men of exalted piety and
worth; but there are _others_ of them which, while the _names_ of
good men are paraded upon the 'Boards' to inspire confidence, are
really directed by a set of individuals who would have done honor to
the Spanish Inquisition in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
Some facts have recently come to our knowledge in regard to the
doings of the directors of a _soi-disant_ charitable institution,
which operates in this city and State for the ostensible benefit
of a transatlantic colony, which, were they known to the public,
as without doubt they soon will be, would pretty effectually set
the seal of condemnation upon all their efforts toward collecting
moneys from the benevolent, for many years to come. A friend and
correspondent of ours, whose character stands above reproach, fell
by chance into the hands of some half a dozen of these directors,
who, among a body of thirty for the most part honorable men,
usually form the quorums and do the business; and the treatment he
received (these same half-a-dozen sheltering themselves the while
under the sanctity of their religious body) would have disgraced
a band of King PHILIP'S warriors in the old Pequot war. We are no
Abolitionists, technically so called, as our readers well know;
nor do we take sides with either of the two great societies whose
professed object is the benefit of the colored race; so that we
cannot be charged with speaking from prejudice. But we _do_ go for
justice, for truth, for fair-dealing, and Christian principle; and
when any body of men, whatever may be their standing or professions,
outrage these; and worse than all, when they commit this outrage
under the garb of pharisaical sanctity, we know of no reason why
they should be screened from public rebuke. * * * SOME kind-hearted
and affectionate female correspondent, an integral portion of
the girlery of New-York, on the strength of some remarks in our
last upon the universality of the tender passion, has sent us a
love-tale, with this motto:
----'ALL things seem
So happy when they love; the gentle birds
Have far more gay a note when they unite
To build their simple nest; and when at length
The 'anxious mother' watches o'er her young.
Her mate is near, to recompense her care
With his sweet song.'
Our fair correspondent has exalted the attractions of her heroine
'to a degree,' as the English cockney novelists have it: 'Every
look of her beaming eyes penetrated to the heart; every motion
of her moist coral lips gave ecstasy; and every variation of her
features discovered new and ineffable beauties!' Good 'eavens!--how
'THEODORE' _must_ have felt, as he 'gradually recovered from the
hurt of his fall,' (_was_ his 'limb' amputated?) and found that
angel 'lifting his head from his pillow, and touching his eye-lids
with awakening light!' * * * THANKS to the kind '_Incognita_,' to
whom we are indebted for a beautiful worsted butterfly, destined to
a 'literaneous' sort of destiny! Verily, it is a beautiful fabric;
so vivid and life-like in its brilliant colors, that it seems, while
hanging by the thin ear of our iron gray-hound, as if about to
rise and float a living blossom of the air. How deftly the Ettrick
Shepherd ('the d--d HOGG!' as BALLANTYNE called him,) has limned its
counterpart: 'Perhaps a bit bonny butterfly is resting wi' folded
wings on a gowan, not a yard from your cheek; and now, awakening out
of a summer-dream, floats away in its wavering beauty; but as if
unwilling to leave the place of its mid-day sleep, comin' back and
back, and round and round, on this side and that side, and settling
in its capricious happiness to fasten again on some brighter
floweret, till the same breath o' wind that lifts up your hair sae
refreshingly catches the airy voyager, and wafts her away into some
other nook of her ephemeral paradise!' Answer us, all ye that ever
_saw_ a summer butterfly in the country, is not that a _perfect_
picture? * * * WE have a prospectus of a new series of the '_New
Mirror_,' which can now be obtained in _complete_ sets, weekly, or
in monthly parts, 'with four steel-plates, and sixty-four pages of
reading matter.' When we add, that the MIRROR has many of its old
corps of writers, with several new ones, and that General MORRIS and
N. P. WILLIS are also diligently laboring at the oars, we have said
all that is necessary, to indicate the claims of the work. Success
to ye, gentlemen! By the by: the first number of the new series
had a full-length portrait, by _the_ JOHNSTON, of the eminent and
deeply-lamented painter-poet, WASHINGTON ALLSTON. If it is at all
like the original, we can well believe the statement of an indignant
writer in the 'Boston Post,' who avers that 'the engraving from
BRACKETT'S beautiful bust of Mr. ALLSTON, in the last 'Democratic
Review,' bears no resemblance whatever to the bust itself, and might
as well be called a likeness of one of the numerous JOHN SMITHS, as
a portrait of the great artist.' Speaking of likenesses: we would
venture to ask, what is the thing at the end of the right arm of
a figure in one of the Philadelphia 'pictorial' monthlys intended
to represent? Is it a hand, (no, _that_ it isn't!) or the end of a
tri-pronged beet or radish? It is 'a copy' from the end of _some_
diverse-forked vegetable, _that_ is quite clear. * * * IT is a very
interesting work, the History of ELIZABETH of England, recently
published by Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD, Philadelphia. Proud,
powerful, and haughty as that imperial potentate finally became, her
infancy was distinguished by the want of even comfortable clothing.
An uncommon intellect she certainly possessed, and she had her
wrongs, no doubt; but who can think of her without at once reverting
to poor MARY of Scotland? After an imprisonment of nineteen years,
that unhappy Queen was left alone, without counsel and without
friends; betrayed by those in whom she had trusted, and confronted
by the representatives of the power and majesty of England. 'But
she evinced in the last sad scene of her mournful life the spirit
of the daughter of a long line of kings, and exposed to the
wondering world the spectacle of a helpless woman, enfeebled by long
confinement, 'gray in her prime,' and broken down by sickness and
sorrow, contending single-handed against the sovereign of a mighty
realm, who sought her blood, and had predetermined her death.'
* * * OUR entertaining correspondent, the '_American Antiquary_,' has
given elsewhere some account of the stalwart citizens of a portion
of New-Hampshire. They _are_ 'good men,' no doubt, and 'honest as
the skin atween their brows;' but 'where two men ride a horse, one
must go before.' Our friend should see a specimen or two of our
western and southwestern noblemen of nature. We should like to place
his hand in that of ALBERT PIKE, for example, the Arkansas poet,
politician, and lawyer. His first impression would be, that in his
BLACKWOOD 'Hymn to the Gods' he had been lauding his own kith and
kin. We consider it a great pleasure to have encountered so fine
an illustration of the '_mens sana incorpore sano_.' Having seen
him once, one could not soon forget him. We should know him now, if
we were to 'come across his hide in a tan-yard!' * * * OUR Salem
(Mass.) friend, who complains that we 'are leagued with the Quakers
against the memory of the pious Puritans,' is 'hereby respectfully
invited to attend' to the following hit at old COTTON MATHER and
his fellow-persecutors of that era, from the pen of a true 'Son
of New-England:' 'We can laugh now at the Doctor and his demons:
but little matter of laughter was it to the victims on Salem hill;
to the prisoners in the jails; to poor GILES COREY, tortured with
planks upon his breast, which forced the tongue from his mouth,
and his life from his old palsied body; to bereaved and quaking
families; to a whole community priest-ridden and spectre-smitten;
gasping in the sick dream of a spiritual night-mare, and given over
to believe a lie. We may laugh, for the grotesque is blended with
the horrible, but we must also pity and shudder. GOD be thanked that
the delusion has measurably vanished; and they who confronted that
delusion in its own age, disenchanting with strong, clear sense, and
sharp ridicule, their spell-bound generation, deserve high honors
as the benefactors of their race. They were indeed branded through
life as infidels and 'damnable Sadducees,' by a corrupt priesthood,
who ministered to a credulity which could be so well turned to their
advantage; but the truth which they uttered lived after them, and
wrought out its appointed work, for it had a divine commission and
GOD-speed.' * * * TO 'X. L.' of Hudson we say, 'By no means!' He
is _another_ 'rusty, fusty, musty old bachelor,' who lacks that
'company' which Misery is said to love. 'If love,' he commences,
'were not _beneath_ a man, he couldn't '_fall_ into it,' as he is so
often said to do. Borrowed, dear Sir, 'to begin with!' Learn wisdom
of one of your aged fraternity, whom we have the pleasure to know,
who was married within a twelvemonth, in the fiftieth year of his
age. He has lately been heard to observe: 'If I had known as much
about matrimony twelve years ago as I do now, I should just as lieve
have been married then as not!' * * * WHEREVER you are, reader, if
you have an opportunity to see MACREADY in BYRON'S 'Werner,' fail
not to enjoy that rich intellectual repast. It is a matchless piece
of acting. A friend of ours, whose experience in dramatic excellence
embraces all the great standards usually referred to, tells us
that EDMUND KEAN'S 'Othello,' JOHN KEMBLE'S 'Coriolanus,' TALMA'S
'Britanicus,' and MACREADY'S 'Werner,' in their several styles of
merit, are the most admirable performances he ever beheld. * * *
A CORRESPONDENT inquires if there is 'any more of such charming
scenes' as the one we quoted from the '_Mysteries of Paris_,' in
our last number. 'It was very beautiful,' she adds. Yes; there
is an account of a joyous country excursion made by RODOLPHE and
'FLEUR-DE-MARIE' in the Autumn, from which we take a short passage:
'OH! I am very happy, it is such a long time since I have been
out of Paris! When I saw the country before, it was spring; but
now, although we are almost into winter, it gives me just as
much pleasure. What a fine sunny day! Only look at those little
rosy clouds, there--there! And that hill! with its pretty white
houses gleaming among the trees. How many leaves remain! It is
astonishing, in the month of November, is it not, Monsieur? But
in Paris the leaves fall so soon. * * * _And down there--that
flight of pigeons! Look! look! they are settling down on the
roof of the mill!_ In the country, one is never tired of
looking; every thing is attractive.'
'It is a pleasure, FLEUR-DE-MARIE,' said RODOLPHE, 'to see you
so delighted with these nothings which make the charm of the
country.' The young girl, contemplated the peaceful and smiling
landscape which was spread out before her, and once more her
face assumed its soft, pensive expression.'
'There!' she exclaimed; 'that fire from the stubble in those
fields; see how _the beautiful white smoke ascends to heaven_!
And this cart, with its two fat grays! If I were a man, how
I should love to be a farmer!--to be in the midst of a large
field, _following the plough, and seeing at a great distance
immense woods_. Just such a day as to-day, for instance! Enough
to make one sing songs, melancholy songs, to bring tears into
the eyes, like 'Genevieve de Brabant.'