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The Corsair.

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rible accident and my lamentations have not had a very bad effect, as they have brought back the smiles to your dear features, my own Ernest." The miner's hut became daily a more happy abode; the eyes of its inhabitants were soon accustomed to the dim light, and all that had seemed so wrapt in darkness when they first entered the mines, gradually dawned into distinctness and light. Bianca began to look with real pleasure on the walls and rude furniture of her too narrow room. She had no time to spend in useless sorrow, for she was constantly employed in the necessary duties of her situation; she performed with cheerful alacrity the most menial offices-she repaired her husband's clothes, and she was delighted if she could sometimes take down from an old shelf one of the few books she had brought with her. The days passed on rapidly; and as the young pair knelt down at the close of every evening, their praises and thanksgivings were as fervent as their prayers. Ernest had not been surprised at the high and virtuous enthusiasm which had enabled Bianca to support at first all the severe trials they underwent, without shrinking; but he was surprised to find that in the calm, the dull and hopeless calm, of undiminished hardship, her spirit never sank; her sweetness of temper and unrepining gentleness rather increased.

Another trial was approaching. Bianca, the young and tender Bianca, was about to become a mother; and one evening, on returning from his work, Ernest found his wife making clothes for her unborn infant. He sat down beside her, and sighed; but Bianca was singing merrily, and she only left off singing to embrace her husband with smiles, he thought the sweetest smiles he had ever seen.

the empress. She hoped, she implored for a moment. The words died upon her lips, when she beheld the calm but changeless refusal expressed in the look of Maria Theresa, who said instantly, "I have now only to bid you farewell. In this oratory I shall pray for you constantly. Think of me, not as your sovereign, but as your friend, and love me. A missal lay upon the altar; its leaves were kept open by a rosary of pearls: the empress had left it there, it was the rosary she always wore she pressed the crucifix suspended from it to her lips, and gave it silently to the young countess. Silently she kissed her cheek and forehead, and they parted. That very evening Bianca visited the cell of Alberti; she had been there once before; it was to receive his last embrace. Now she looked round on the gloomy courts, and smiled. Joyfully she passed on to the massy doors, which separated her from him whom she loved, and the grating of the bolts no longer sounded harshly. Ernest heard with astonishment the cry of delight with which Bianca threw herself on his bosom. He looked in vain for explanation on his mother, and the Father Antonio, who slowly entered the cell. He moved not as she unwound her slender arms, and looked up tenderly, but almost reproachfully, in his face. "My love," she said, "I am very bold; but it was not always thus. Do you look coldly on me? Dear, dear Ernest, must I remind you of our long-plighted affection? Are you still silent? Then I must plead the cause which has so often made you eloquent. I do not blush," she said, "to make my request;" while a deepening blush spread over her downcast face, and completely belied her assertion. "Will you not understand me? Will you not recall the time when I should have waited like a bashful maid, to be entreated like all bashful maids? then you have often called me too reserved. But now," she exclaimed, fixing her ardent and innocent gaze upon him, "a wife offers her hand to her husband. Dear Ernest, will you not take this hand?" She smiled and held out her small white hand. He took her hand, he pressed it to his lips, and continued to hold it trembling in his own. "My sweet Bianca," he said, and as he looked at her the tears streamed from his eyes, "I was prepared for this. I knew that you would speak as you do now. It is heart-breaking to see you here, to hear you speak as I knew you would. I almost wish you had been less true, less like yourself. Ah! how can I refuse the slightest of your chaste favors! But I must be firm. We must part. My love, I will not speak of poverty, although the change would be too hard for you, a young and delicate lady, of high rank, accustomed to affluence and to ease. But, Bianca, you are a woman; and shall a tender, helpless woman, be doomed to pine away in dark and horrid caverns, whose very air is poison?" "Alberti," said she, with eager earnestness, "have not the miners wives?" "It may be so," he replied; "but those women must be poor neglected wretches, inured to the sorrows and hardships of their life; they must be almost cal-brance of those parents who never would behold him more-before his first lous to distress." "Bianca looked at him as if she had not heard him rightly; her tall figure seemed to dilate into unusual majesty; her whole face beamed with intelligence as she spoke. "And do you think, Ernest, that cold and deadened feeling can produce that fortitude, that patient, heavenly fortitude, which the gospel, the spirit of God, alone inspires? Dearest, when I become your partner, the happy partner of your misery, I think not of my woman's weakness; (and yet I hardly believe that it would fail.) || No; I look to another arm for strength, to him who now supports the burden of all his children's sorrow. He will hear our prayers, and He will never forsake us. A miner's hut may be a very happy home; it must be so to me, for my happiness is to remain with you. Would you have me wretched with my wealth and titles? I am pleading for my happiness, not so much for yours. Must I plead in vain ?"

The wife of one of the miners, whom Bianca had visited when lying ill of a dangerous disease, kindly offered to attend her during her confinement; and from the arms of this woman Ernest received his first-born son; the child who, born under different circumstances, would have been welcomed with all the care and splendor of noble rank. But he forgot this, in his joy that Bianca was safe, and stole on tiptoe to the room where she was lying. She had been listening for his footstep, and as he approached he saw, in the gloom of the chamber, her white arms stretched towards him. "I have been thanking God in my thoughts," said Bianca, after her husband had bent down to kiss her; but I am so very weak! Dear Ernest, kneel down beside the bed, and offer up my blessings with your own." Surprising strength seemed to have been given to this delicate mother by Him "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb;" and she recovered rapidly from her confinement; but when her infant was about a month old, Bianca began to fear for his health. It was great sorrow for her to part with her own darling child; but she felt it to be her duty to endeavor to send him out of the mines, to the care of the old Countess Alberti. It was very hard to send him away, before he could take into the world the rememsmiles had seemed to notice the love and the care of the mother who bore him; but Bianca did not dare to think of her sorrowful regret, for it was necessary to use every exertion to effect this separation, so painful to herself. She knew that the wretched inhabitants of the mines were dropping into the grave daily; she knew that their lives seldom exceeded the two first years of their horrid confinement, and she panted with eager desire to send her pallid child to pure untainted air.

It was at this time that Ernest, as he was at work in one of the galleries, beheld a stranger, attended by the surveyor of the mines, approaching the place where he stood. Ernest turned away as the stranger passed, but he started with surprise to hear the tones of a voice which he well remembered. He could not be mistaken, for the person spoke also with a foreign accent. At first he nearly resolved not to address him; but the stranger had not proceeded many steps, when Ernest stood before him, and exclaimed, "Signor Everard, have you forgotten me?" The Italian, who had come to examine the mines, did not, indeed, recognise at once, in the emaciated being who addressed him, the young and gallant Count Alberti, whom he had known at Vienna, one of the bravest and most accomplished men of the court. Who would not have been struck at such a contrast? Who could have refused to grant the request that Ernest made? He entreated Everard to remove his infant from the mines, and to deliver him to the care of the old countess. The generous Italian did not hesitate to comply with his wishes: but his heart and soul were interested in the cause, when Alberti conducted him to the hut, and he beheld the pale and slender Bianca bending over her sick infant, like a drooping lily; preserving, in the midst of toil and misery, all the sweet and delicate graces of a virtuous and high-born female; and when her beseeching and melancholy smiles, and her voice, like mournful music, pleaded for her infant's life. The Italian left the mines immediately, to seek the means of the child's removal, but had no sooner reached the post-house nearest the mines, than a person arrived there express from Vienna, anxiously inquiring if Alberti or his wife were still alive. A few hours after another person arrived with the same haste, and on the same errand: they were, the one a near relation of Bianca, the other Alberti's fellow-soldier and most intimate friend. Pardon had at length been granted to the young exile, at the petition of the general officer whom he had wounded; and Alberti was recalled by the empress herself to the court of Vienna.

It was not her language, it was the almost unearthly eloquence of tone and manner that gave to the words of Lady Bianca an effect which it seemed impossible to resist. When she finished speaking, her hand extended to Ernest, and her face, as she leaned forward, turning alternately to the aged countess and the friar, her eyes shining with the light of expression, and the pure blood flowing in tides of richer crimson to her cheek and parted lips, lips on which a silent and trembling eloquence still hung, they all sat gazing on her in speechless astonishment. One sunbeam had darted through the narrow window of the cell, and the stream of light, as Bianca moved, at last fell upon her extended hand. When Ernest saw the pale transparent red, which her slender fingers assumed, as the sunbeams shone through them, he thought with horror, that the blood now giving its pure clearness to her fair skin, and flowing so freely and freshly through her delicate frame, would in the mine's poisonous atmosphere become thick and stagnant he thought how soon the lustre of her eyes would be quenched, and the light elastic step of youth, the life which seemed exultant in the slight and graceful form of Bianca would be palsied forever. Ernest was eager to speak, but the old priest interrupted him, by proposing that nothing should be finally settled till the evening of the fourth ensuing day. Then the Lady Bianca, he observed, would have had more time to consider the plan she had formed; and till then the young count would be permitted to remain in Vienna. "I will consent; but on this one condition," said Bianca, "that my proposal, bold as it is, shall not be then opposed, if, as you say, my resolution be not changed. You know, dear Ernest, that I cannot change."

Bianca went, and with her husband, to the mines. The dismal hut of a workman in the mines of Idria was but a poor exchange for the magnificent palace of the Count Alberti, on the banks of the Danube, which was now confiscated to the crown; though a small estate was given to the venerable and respected countess during her life. But Bianca smiled with a smile of satisfied happiness, as, leaning on her husband's arm, she stopped before the hut which was to be their future home. Their conductor opened the door, but the count had forgotten to stoop, as he entered the low doorway, and he struck his lofty forehead a violent blow. Bianca uttered a faint shriek, her first and only complaint in that dark mine. The alarm which Bianca betrayed at his accident, banished the gloom which had begun to deepen on her husband's spirits: to remove her agitation, he persuaded himself to speak, and even to feel, cheerfully; and when Bianca had parted away his thick hair, to examine the effects of the blow, and had pressed her soft lips repeatedly to his brow, she said playfully, as she bent down with an arch smile, and looked into her husband's face, "After all, this ter

The bearers of these happy tidings immediately descended into the mines. As they approached Alberti's hut, the light which glimmered through some apertures in the shattered door induced them to look at its inmates before they entered. Though dressed in a dark coarse garment, and wasted away to an almost incredible slightness, still enough of her former loveliness remained, to tell them that the pallid female they beheld was the young countess; and the heart admired her more, as she sat leaning over her husband, and holding up to his kisses her small infant, her dark hair carelessly parted, and bound round her pale brow, seeming to live but in her husband's love; than when elegance had vied with splendor in her attire, when her hair had sparkled with diamonds, and, in full health and beauty, she had been the one gazed at and admired in the midst of the noblest and fairest company of Vienna. The door was still unopened, for Bianca was singing to her husband; she had chosen a song, which her hearers had listened to in her own splendid saloon, on the last night she had sung there: the soft complaining notes of her voice had seemed out of place there, where all was careless mirth and festivity; but

its tone was suited to that dark solitude-it was like the song of hope in the cave of despair.

The feelings of Bianca, as she ascended slowly in the miner's bucket from the dark mine, cannot be described. She had unwillingly yielded to her husband's entreaties, that she would be first drawn up; and with her infant in her bosom, her eyes shaded with a thick veil, and supported by the surveyor of the mines, she gradually rose from the horrible depths. The dripping damps that hung round the cavern fell upon her, but she heeded them not. Once she looked up at the pale pure star of light, far, far above her, but immediately after she bent down over her infant, and continued without moving or speaking. Several times the bucket swayed against the sides of the shaft, and Bianca shuddered, but her companion calmly steadied it; and at last she was lifted out upon the ground. She did not look up; she knelt in fervent but distracted prayer, till she heard the bucket which contained her husband approaching. The chain creaked and the bucket swung, as it stopped above the black abyss. Even then there was danger, the chance of great danger; it was necessary for Ernest to remain immovable; at the highest certainty of hope, he might yet be plunged at once into the yawning depths below. Bianca felt this, and stirred not; she held in her breath convulsively-she saw through her veil the planks drawn over the cavern's mouth-she saw Ernest spring from the bucket-some one caught her child, as, stretching forth her arms to her husband, she fell senseless on the ground.

There were many hearts that sorrowed over the departure of the young Alberti and his wife from the mines of Idria. The miners, with whom they had lived so long, had learned to love them, at a time when, too, many a heart had forgotten to love and to hope; had learned from their kind words, but more, oh! much more from their beautiful example, to shake off the dreadful bands of despair, and daily to seek, and to find, a peace which passeth all understanding. Ernest and Bianca had taught them to feel how happy, how cheerful a thing religion is! Was it then surprising, that, at their departure, their poor companions should crowd around them, and weep with mournful gratitude, as Ernest distributed among them his working tools, and the simple furniture of his small hut? Was it surprising that Bianca and her husband, as they sat on the green grass, with waving trees and a cloudleas sky above them, while the summer breeze bore with it full tides of freshness and fragrance from their magnificent gardens, and they beheld the pure rose-color of health begin to tinge the cheek of their delicate child, was it surprising that they should turn with feelings of affectionate sorrow to the dark and dreary mines of Idria?

I must not forget to mention, that Ernest and his wife were publicly reinstated in all their former titles and possessions. A short time after their return to Vienna, they made their first appearance at court for that purpose. At the imperial command, all the princes and nobles of Austria, georgeously dressed, and blazing with gold and jewels, were assembled. Through the midst of these, guiding the steps of his feeble and venerable mother, Alberti advanced to the throne. A deep blush seemed fixed upon his manly features, and the hand which supported his infirm parent trembled more than the wasted fingers he tenderly clasped. The empress herself hung the order of the golden fleece round his neck, and gave into his hands the sword which he had before forfeited; but, as she did so, her tears fell upon the golden scabbard; the young soldier kissed them off with quivering lips. But soon every eye was turned to the wife of Alberti, who, with her young child sleeping in her arms, and supported by the noble-minded general who had obtained her husband's pardon, next approached. Bianca had not forgotten that she was still only the wife of an Idrian miner, and no costly ornament adorned her simple dress. Not a tinge of color had yet returned to her cheeks of marble paleness, and a shadowy languor still remained about her large hazel eyes: but her delicately-shaped lips had almost regained their soft crimson dye, and her dark-brown hair, confined by a single ribbon, shone as brightly as the beautiful and braided tresses around her. She wore a loose dress of white silk, adorned only with a fresh cluster of roses (for since she had left the mines she was more fond than ever of flowers). Every eye was fixed on her, and the empress turned coldly from the glittering forms beside her to the simple Bianca. Descending from the throne, Maria Theresa hastened to raise her, ere she could kneel; and, kissing her with the tender affection of a dear and intimate friend, she led the trembling Bianca to the highest step of the throne. There she turned to the whole assembly, and, looking like a queen as she spoke, said, "This is the person whom we should all respect as the brightest ornament of our court. This is the wife, ladies of Austria, whom I, your monarch, hold up as your example-whom I am proud to consider far our superior in the duties of a wife. Shall we not learn of her to turn away from the false pleasures of vanity and splendor, and like her to act up, modestly but firmly, to that high religious principle which proves true nobility of soul?-Count Alberti," continued the empress, every may envy you your residence in the mines of Idria. May God bless you both, and make you as happy, with the rank and wealth to which I now fully restore you, as you were in the hut of an Idrian miner."

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husband

CLEOPATRA, PORTIA AND JULIET.-No one female can, in power, cope with Cleopatra, who stands alone. Portia would never have condescended to act as she did; she would have had no pleasure in such toils of fascination. Juliet would have had equal ability of passion, but too much modesty, too little self-confidence or forwardness, to fill such a situation. Juliet's was a romantic love of the ideal-not so the Egyptian; the difference, such as between Lord Byron's and Little's love songs. To Juliet there was but one beau-ideal; Cleopatra was a universalist, who admired all sorts of preeminence; and to admire, with her, was to love. Portia had wisdom justly to appreciate, without losing her reason, or forgetting her dignity; Desdemona would believe her hero vested with exactly those qualities which were calculated to command her affections, and such veneration as only they could compass; Juliet, while she perceived the individual deficiencies of her lover, would yet disgustedly contemplate the inferiority of

others in delicacy, refinement, tenderness, &c.; Portia would discover many just as excellent as her own; but as he was well adapted to herself, and that she loved him dearly, she would not in the least desire or relish a change; with Cleopatra the present idol was supreme-a very god in attraction; yet, as the Euphrates once hurried to an altered channel, and swept forwards as powerfully over its new bed, so was it with the emotions of the Alexandrian queen. Regarding worldly talents, she could have bought and sold our three former heroines; looking down on them all, while they compassionated her, and contemned her tastes. Juliet alone would have sympathised with her, considering her with fascinated eye, and loving, far more than the calmer Portia, or more timid Desdemona, to meditate on her noble genius, inciting enterprises, and earthly brilliancy. Ashamed of acknowledging her inclination, it would acquire the interest of secresy; while, in private, she would silently and sorrowfully weep over the fate of her heroine; and before her own time of being loved arrived, she would almost envy her the adoration she had commanded. Then, when happiness did overshadow her, she would pity her for her ignorance of true felicity. Desdemona might estimate her picturesqueness, and deplore her faults; but there was no congeniality which would induce frequent rumination, or inspire a fellow feeling with such a subject. Portia would shun matter of such painful reflection, and never dare to mention so disagreeable a topic in society. Cleopatra would likingly term Juliet a pretty girl; she would with indifference call Desdemona a silly one; and with dislike entitle Portia a proud damsel.

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THE CORSAIR.

NEW-YORK, SATURDAY, APRIL 27, 1839. PAULDING THE AUTHOR DISINTERRED. PAULDING'S WORKS IN TWELVE VOLUMES. HARPER AND BROTHERS. We sympathized with the very warmest of Mr. Paulding's friends in rejoicing at his promotion to the Secretaryship. We had long pitied, with the same sympathy, the position of an old man, who, with no time or energies left, to try a new career, had discovered, within sight of the grave, that he had mistaken his vocation-who, having been ticketed for immortality oy a few officious and injudicious friends, had worn out his label and walked unrecognized at sixty-who, in short, was the subject of one of those longlived literary humbugs, which sometimes die with a fortunate man, but which Mr. Paulding is so unfortunate as to have outlived. He has stepped, however, from this crumbling pedestal, and we rejoice that another was at hand-that he had no undignified de scent-that his grey hairs still enjoy the digito monstrari-and that his long practised English, tho' poor "woof and web," for an author's style, does very well indeed for letters to refractory lieutenants and peccant commodores.

We consider Mr. Paulding, the author, as dead. If there were more than one event in his life, Mr. Secretary Paulding might himself write his posthumous memoirs. Quite dead and forgotten! We defy his fondest survivor to quote a line of him. We challenge proof of idea ever borrow'd of him-of phrase or sentence ever plagiarised or gone astray one inch from his twelve mortal volumes. We would almost wager that, (the Dutch vo cabulary of christian names apart) Mr. Secretary Paulding himself could not, on sudden demand, tell the substance of any chapter in the works of Paulding the author. So complete a submersion in Lethe has never before occurred in America. He will have one line and one distinction in history-the first forgotten! He has not died without "his little peculi arity" after all.

Our object, of course, is not to review an obsolete and voluminous collection of" works." We have read them, however. We record it as a literary curiosity that we have read them. Some fifteen years ago (before and after) the defunct was a paragraphist for the city papers, and the city papers in those days, blew the trumpet before him with a vengeance. We read his "works" to know "what the devil was in the wind." They had one merit-open them any where, novel or satire, travels or essays, the first sentence you fall upon let you completely into his style. There was no variation. One eternal canal of low humor dwelling on disgusting objects with disgusting words, ran through them all. He was what the English call "nasty" in every thing he undertook. His works lie by us at this moment, sent us for review. We will open the uppermost at random. Sal

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magundi―Second Series! Well, come! this is in his best style. Here is like an echo. Every newspaper Siamesed the words. Every blow of the ham-
some of his cleaner humor.

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mer and blast of the bellows at the blacksmith's shop on the Hudson, (which was the centre of this manufactory of authors,) rung out "Irving and Paulding!" Irving had consented to write in the same book with him. All the newspapers echoed the union. The public took it for granted they were linked for immortality Who were the principal American authors? "Irving and Paulding!" Who wrote Salmagundi? "Irving and Paulding!" Who wrote the Sketch-book? "Irving and Paulding !" The words stuck together, from constant repetition, like the names of a mercantile firm. There was no separating them. As you say, "Day and Martin's" daughter or son, it was "Irving and Paulding's" new book. He hung on to good Geoffrey's skirts like a shadow. As well as he could, he imitated his style. He followed in the same vein of subjects. He was witty in Dutch names. He floundered after his gay humor in what he called satire. He thought it was Irving-like to say sly things on every page about "piggy," illustrate every thing by pigs-make his humor in short, consist of nothing but the transfer of the choice nomenclature of the stye and kitchen to polite novels. Oh, well-forgotten Paulding!

The echo, however, did not reach John Bull's ears. John Bull cried out for "Irving," but the jackal strained his ears in vain for the appendage. Hence the only original book Paulding ever wrote-" John Bull in America." He hates the English with an emphasis! Secretary and all he hates John Bull. Original, did we call the book? It is the most faithful col

"RANDIE DANDY."
There's humor? That is what poor Paulding, dead and gone, called hu-
mor! It was his best vein. Humor with him was to talk of pigs. "Pig-
gy" was the funniest diminutive, the wittiest thing in the world. We have
looked through half a volume to find a page without pig in it. It is pig all
"Pig,” “egg," 'gutter," "gander," "grab," "gouge," we take
the words as they catch our eye in turning over. We shall not do justice
to the great forgotten, however, without trying him on an elegant theme.lection of jokes on foreigners, from the American newspapers, ever made.
In his novel of Koningsmarke, there occurs a dissertation on gentlemanly

over.

manners!

99.66

"And here we will observe that the best possible test of a gentleman is his behaviour at a dinner, breakfast, or supper table, in a hotel or steamboat. It is there that his pretensions are put to the touchstone, and that fine clothes fail to hide from observation the clown that lurks beneath them. If we find him snatching at every dish within his reach; filling his plate with fish, flesh, and fowl; eating as if his last, or rather his first meal, were come; and at the same time looking about with his eyes as wide open as his mouth, to see what next to devour-not velvet-cloth coat, dandy pantaloons, or corset dire, will suffice to place him in the rank of a gentleman. Were we to express our idea of a well-bred man in one word, we would say, he was a gentleman, even in his eating; nor would we hesitate to place any man in that class, who, being fond of soft eggs, should be able to eat them boiled hard, without grumbling. We remember, for we delight to remember every thing connected with that gay, good-humored, sprightly old gentleman, Deidrich Knickerbocker, that he always superintended his eggs himself, by a stop-watch, and more than once came near to scalding his fingers in his haste to rescue his favorites from the boiling element, ere the fatal crisis was passed.

"This diversity of taste extends to almost every enjoyment and luxury of life, more especially to books, in the composition of which, notwithstanding so many appearances to the contrary, we will venture to say, that almost as much reason is necessary, as in the roasting or boiling of eggs. Some readers like what are called hard studies, as some would like hard cggs; while others luxuriate in raw sentiment, and melting, drivelling, ropy softness."

They are strung together with very original malice, very original misstatements, VERY original wholesale abuse, and that is all that ever was original in this most bilious author. Any file of Mississippi or Kentucky papers will give you the entire staple of the book.

We are glad that our great and beloved author, Washington Irving, has at last followed the example of Peter Schlemihl, and sold his shadow. We were well nigh sure at one time, that "P." would have been the initial on the foot-stone of his grave. The unlucky Schlemihl, however, could not have been more astonished when the devil rolled up his shadow to pocket it, than must have been the modest Geoffrey at the marvellous alacrity with which his dissevered twin sunk into oblivion. Out he went like a candle snuff-one day Paulding and Irving-the next, Paulding the ship-chandler. One day half an author at least the next, a patient old gentleman cyphering his way to a secretaryship. There he sits-all honor to his new dignity! But it will be a mortifying remembrance to his famefounders on the Hudson, that, let him drag out the bilious remainder of his life how he will, they themselves must acknowledge that the "Secretary stood alone!"

Poor Paulding! He thought he had an idea of a gentleman! Our object, as we said before, is not to review the works of the deadalive Secretary, though they were sent us that we might do so. We have taken him up to speculate upon the curious subject of literary humbug. How in the name of wonder did these twelve volumes of flat, pointless, and essentially vulgar stuff ever find printer, publisher, puffer, and reader! Paulding's works were known in America from the time the author first wrote for the newspapers till he ceased writing for them-say from 1786 to 1830. At that period they suddenly dropped out of all recollection, and will be a "curiosity in literature" for the future D'Israeli of our country-but let us put down a fact or two for the basis of his speculations.

Every lion has his jackal. Paulding was Washington Irving's. Those who have lived in "literary circles," so called, know very well, how, on the appearance of any man of genius, there gathers about him a knot of patronisers, who by dint of talking of his works, praising him to his face, giving him advice and ferreting out the origin of his play, poem, or tale, grow to fancy, at last, that he is their own production-found, fostered, moulded, and sustained entirely by their own penetration, skill, counsel, and generosity. Washington Irving grew up in such a circle. He was as modest as he was gifted, and after writing that which will live forever, it never occurred to his retiring mind that there could be any objection to his friends' taking as much of his merit to themselves as they pleased. They had suggested the idea. It was their family story. They had read it in manuscript. "He is our Washington Irving."

Having made one author, entirely by themselves, and he well on his way to immortality, this same creative circle undertook another. Mr. Paulding had furnished the alloy to Irving's gold in Salmagundi, and they fancied that if the fusion could be continued a while, he might pass, alone. He had one advantage, too, which Irving had not, he could circulate himself,-in the newspapers. At it they went-hammer and trumpet. The one rule was, never separate their names. Irving and Paulding! Irving and Paulding! IRVING AND PAULDING! Every old maid on the Hudson took the slogan

AUTOGRAPHS-No. 2.

Leigh Hunt is one of those who "have not had their fame" He is an irritable, disappointed, poverty-beset and poverty-doomed man, and has said and done some things (e. g. his attack on Lord Byron's memory) which the world have not forgiven him as readily as they might. But he is a man of the very highest order of genius, and when he writes, sits "fast by the oracle" of inspiration. He lives an obscure, un-illustrious life in London, but is known and beloved by such men as Proctor, Charles Lamb, and that inner world of London mind. Here is a note of his that has a relish of the gayer side of his heart:

"MY DEAR SIR:

"I am glad you enjoyed our Twelfth night. Even such of you as went away, at least were all very exemplary-all pleased and pleasing. I look upon such a night as a triumph, not only over sleep but over mortality. We did not break up till half past 6, after breakfast in the study, and the ladies were sparkling to the last. The sun ought to have been ashamed of himself to think he had gone to bed. Pray settle some evening with Mr. for coming to see yours truly,

L. H.

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Thomas Hood writes, you would think with the end of his finger. You
would know both autograph and style without a name.
DEAR

If you should feel disposed for a day or two to relax here, Wright
will drive down my new shay (your old friend Bob is out of office, and a
bay mare is premier) Saturday evening, or Sunday morning, which you
like, and let him know where to meet you.
Yours very truly,

T. HOOD.

P. S. The novel is printing, and christened Tylney Hall.
Allan Cunningham, a gigantic and senatorial looking Scotchman-(by
the way, a capital likeness of Mr. Clay) writes (as Mr. Clay does) a very
beautiful, careful, and elegant hand. Here is an acceptance of an invita-
tion to dinner.

DEAR MADAM:

On the worst of all paper, and with a pen that is spoiled with writing on architecture, I write to say yes to the invitation of one of my worthiest friends. I shall come at 5, and bring the sole remaining son of the house

1

of Cunningham with me. Give my respects to
and for your-
self, feel assured that I have a great affection for you, and a fine appetite.
Yours in haste and truth,

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Some could hardly see it.
The new acessions to the crowd could not see
it at all. Presently 'twas bruited that there had been no bird-one said
"'twas all moonshine and gammon." The men began to disperse. The
boys consulted on the propriety of crying fire, and one or two, whose cou-
rage had returned, squeaked out "Mary Dyer! Mary Dyer;" "Twas no

Cuuningham is much beloved by his friends, and lives with Chantrey the sculptor, from whom he is inseparable. Their friendship, it seems to me, is very natural, and considering the mature years of both, very beau-go. In companies of tens and twenties, the graceless urchins clustered

tiful.

NEWS OF THE WEEK.

66

about, listening to the recital of some taller "spaulpeen of a gawkey,” whose better vision had revealed to him "the great eagle on St. Paul's steeple." A loud laugh from a party of mad wags, who had been intently watching the effect of their well planned joke, disclosed the mystery and proved how easily the imagination can be made to see eagles on church steeples at night, by merely gazing at the vane, and suggesting the feasibility of shooting one at that height.

ANNIVERSARY OF WASHINGTON'S INAUGURATION.-The New York Historical Society propose to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the great era of our National Government in a manner that will enlist the feelings of every true hearted American. The orator of the day is the EX-PRESIDENT ADAMS, and the Middle Dutch Church has been selected as the most fitting place for the delivery of the Oration. A public dinner will be provided, and the occasion promises to be one of extraordinary interest. Tickets for the oration have been issued, and may be obtained of the Committee or Librarian at the Stuyvesant Institute.

"VULCAN, FORGE ME SUCH A CUP."--One of the most stirring, brilliant, and original compositions we have heard in modern music, is a glee with this title, the aria of which is composed by Mr. John Wallack, the Manager's eldest son. We should have the credit of a school of composers in New York, for the incognita "Lady of New York" has given us waltzs better than Strauss, and here is a glee that Sir John Stevenson might be proud to have written.

The news of the week contains little to excite or astonish; the following is a brief summary of the most remarkable events. A fire broke out in Albany on Saturday, which destroyed $150,000 worth of property, and bid fair to make a bon fire of the city, but for the interference of a storm of wind from the north-west, which blew the flames in an opposite direction, thus aptly illustrating the proverb that "its an ill wind that blows nobody good." Caradori Allen has left New Orleans, and is on her way to this city. Mr. Verplanck presented a petition in the Senate for a Registry Law," to prevent illegal and fraudulent voting, but, on motion of Mr. Edwards, it was referred to the Committee of Privileges and Elections. The Indian disturbances in Texas have ceased. The poor red men are in an awful condition for carrying on a war, being destitute of food, arms and ammunition, and almost as naked as Hottentots. Civilization continues to progress with rapid strides in the celebrated Sandwich Islands, whereof we have ample proof in the fact that the only newspaper published there, "The Gazette," is about to be discontinued for want of patronage. The Ravel family-now seventeen in number-have been engaged by Niblo, and are now travelling, post haste, to New York. A portion of Philadelphia is being paved with asphalte-which is spoken of as being superior to wood Scott and Eaton are starring it in Houston, Texas ;-little talent, no doubt, goes a great way in that neighborhood. A clever lady, named Elizabeth Johnson, of Boston, who has been altering one dollar We understand that the score of the glee was written by Mr. Dugan, the notes into fives, was preferred to a station in the city prison for her inge-leader of the orchestra at the National-one of those unpraised men whose nuity. The Germans have got up a steam organ, which drives a gigantic position is so near the centre of the machinery of a theatre that, important violin and a whole team of orchestral instruments-thus saving the labor as his services are, he is not visible to the critics. He is a clever and of about fifty musicians, by means of a few kettles of hot water. Nourit accomplished musician. (Adolphe) the once celebrated great gem of the Paris opera was lately hissed to death at Naples-at least he was hissed at the theatre-returned home and committed suicide on the strength of it. An eagle-some say it was a goose others that it was nothing at all-alighted on the vane of St. Paul's steeple on Wednesday evening, and remained there, taking a "bird's eye" view of the city by gas light until two o'clock in the morning. The city is full of strangers, and consequently, the theatres, museums, &c. are doing a good business-the merchants as busy as nailors—and all the hotels filled up to the brim, and flowing over. Beef is up at the almost unallowable price of 27 cents a pound. A flower garden has been opened in Fulton Market, which we presume is intended to feed those people on fragrance-editors, poets, and the like-who can't afford to buy the afore-her sex. The possession and watchful culture of exotics is now so comsaid beef; and so ends our chronology.

EAGLE SHOOTING ON CHURCH STEEPLES.

PLANTS AND FLOWERS.-We could scarcely invite the attention of all our fair readers to a more delightful spot at this season of buds, than Hogg's Garden, near the House of Refuge. His hot houses are filled with the rarest plants, just putting on their gayest robes, and with roses, geraniums, tulips, and all the et cetera of horticulture either just bursting into beauty, or with holding their sweets for a few days, to expand under the influence of a warmer sun. A beautiful boquet is an object of admira'tion, and a fitting gage of our devotion to the fair, but a paterre of tastefully selected flowers is at once an object of love-an indication of refinement, and worthy the care and fostering attentions of the most delicate of

mon in our city, that we nead not dwell on the pleasures derived from so becoming an employment. We will therefore merely say, that from personal inspection we can commend Mr. Hogg's collection as the most extensive and select that has ever been offered for sale in New York.

The ambitious editor of the Spirit of the Times, not content with conducting the largest paper in the city, and in its pictorial embellishments by far the most expensive and superb, has just issued altogether the handsomest Magazine ever published in America. They to whose interests it is devoted, will welcome the TURF REGISTER, in its new livery and costly decorations, as the much desired record of all turf matters, in a form most convenient for preservation and reference. The variety of its contents— the gay and lively editorials-the practical knowledge of the contributors, and the selections from the English sporting magazines, conspire to make this work as interesting as it is instructive and useful. A glance at the Register will convince any one that we do it poor justice even in commending it thus highly. Success attend it.

Just as the evening shades began to prevail on Wednesday, there might have been seen at the corner of Broadway and Vescy street, a large cluster of men and boys, gazing with open mouths at the steeple of St. Paul. The crowd thickened and soon some hundreds were intent on the same object and the whisper went round "do you see him?-it must be an eagle-or an owl, or something surely." A flaw of wind turned the vane, "See him flop his wings-there he goes-he's lit again," resounded from all sides. Guns were put in requisition,-large duck shot was procured, and leave to mount the roof of the Astor obtained, from whence this terrific bird might be shot. Bang! bang! but no bird came down. There he seemed to perch in proud defiance of the gaping crowd and the more ambitious sportsmen. Again the guns were loaded and discharged, but no one could say with Coleridge's Mariner "I shot the Albatross." In the glimmering of the white moonshine, the bird was still visible. Some thought they heard him, others could see him sharpen his beak on the lightning rod— GERMAN LITERATURE.-' ---The exquisite German story, which we consome saw feathers fly at every gun, and all could hear the pattering of the cluded in our paper of last week, will go far to correct many of the posi shot on the lofty vane. Same talked of ghosts and the church-yard--some tions assumed by the erudite critic who occupies so large a space in our of perturbed spirits. The boys began to feel a little uneasy; it might not columns of to-day; for all who have read "The Fugitive of the Jura," be quite right to kill an unknown bird on a church steeple in the night. must agree with us in pronouncing it a sweet picture of the birth and proSome of the smaller Johnny Horners began to think of getting home--be-gress of love in two hearts surrounded by all the innocence and simplicity fore anything happened. Flop, flop, went the bird. The little Pilgarlicks of rural life, relieved by touches of quiet humor and a noble back-ground edged out of the crowd, and stood ready for a rush to their kennels and of powerfully-described natural scenery. In its moral influence it will their anxious mothers. The larger young republicans, whose special care bear a comparison with any tale in our language. Again we commend the it is to cry fire on Sunday evenings, furnished themselves each with a good amiable and learned translator to those who desire to take lessons in the stone in case the presumed eagle should pounce down into the church German language. yard. Once more bang went the guns. "The moving Moon went up the sky," and the golden ball on the summit of the steeple reflected her "chaste beams," and it was distinctly whispered "the big bird looked smaller."

THE GREAT WESTERN.-On Monday at twelve o'clock, this Queen of Steamers went to sea, crowded with passengers. Among the passengers were the French minister, M. Pontois, and Mr. Cowell, the agent from the

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Bank of England. It should be a source of pride to every American, that
Mr. Cowell has collected or secured almost every shilling of the large debt
with which he was charged. Thousands thronged the Battery and Castle
Garden to witness the departure of their friends and to wish them God-
speed over the trackless waste of waters.

MISS CLIFTON has just reached the city, after completing her engage-
ments in the Southern and Western theatres. Although she suffered a
most severe illness in Mobile from exposures on the Mississippi, she retains
a full portion of those charms that render her the most attractive artist that
that could at this moment be engaged for our stage. A few days of rest
and attention to her impaired health will restore the wonted exuberance of
personal fascinations, and afford us the pleasure of seeing her at the Park.

AN EPISTLE ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.
What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,

And, better still, a man of guineas,
To talk of "patrons," in these times,
When authors thrive, like spinning-jenneys,
And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page
Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no, those times are past away,

When, doom'd in upper floors to star it,
The bard inscribed to lords his lay,-

Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.
No more he begs, with air dependent,
His "little bark may sail attendant"

Under some lordly skipper's steerage;
But launched triumphant in the Row,
Or ta'en by Murray's self in tow,

Cuts both Star Chamber and the Peerage.
Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whisked from England by the gale,
But bears on board some authors, shipp'd
For foreign shores, all well equipp'd
With proper book-making machinery,
To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,
Of all such lands as they shall see,
Or not see, as the case may be :-
It being enjoined on all who go
To study first Miss Martineau,
And learn from her the method true,
To do one's books,—and readers, too.
For so this nymph of nous and nerve
Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"
And, lest mankind at all should swerve,
Teaches them also" What to Observe."
No, no, my friend,-it can't be blink'd,-
The Patron is a race extinct;
As dead as any Megatherion
That ever Buckland built a theory on.
Instead of bartering, in this age,
Our praise for pence and patronage.
We, authors, now, more prosperous elves,
Have learned to patronise ourselves;
And since all-potent Puffing's made
The life of song, the soul of trade,
More frugal of our praises grown,
Puff no one's merits but our own.
Unlike those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really raise the wind;
And since they've fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going,

'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy
As her old haunts near Aganippe,
The Muse, now, taking to the till,
Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill,
(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,
As seen from bard's back attic windows);
And swallowing there without cessation
Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,
Touches the notes for each new theme,

While still fresh "change comes o'er her dream."
What Steam is on the deep,-and more,-
Is the vast power of Puff on shore ;
Which jump's to glory's future tenses
Before the present ev'n commences;
And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us
Before the world has read one line of us.
In old times, when the God of Song
Drove his own two horse team along,
Carrying inside a bard or two,
Book'd for posterity "all through;"-
Their luggage, a few close-packed rhymes,
(Like yours, my friend), for after-times,-
So slow the pull to Fame's abode,
That folks oft slept upon the road ;-
And Homer's self, sometimes, they say,
Took to his night-cap on the way.
Ye Gods! how different is the story
With our new gallopping sons of glory,
Who scorning all such slack and slow time

Dash to posterity in no time!
Raise but one general blast of Puff
To start your author-that's enough.
In vain the critics, set to watch him,
Try at the starting post to catch him;
He's off-the puffers carry it hollow-
The critics, if they please, may follow.
Ere they've laid down their first positions,
He's fairly blown through six editions?
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence-
(That plague so awful in my time
To young and touchy sons of rhyme,)
The Quarterly, at three months' date,
To catch th' Unread One, comes too late :
And nonsence, littered in a hurry,
Becomes immortal," spite of Murray.
But bless me !-while I thus keep fooling,
I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling."
That postman, too, (who, truth to tell,
'Mong men of letters bears the bell,)
Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally
That I must stop-
Yours sempiternally.

T. M.

THE AUTHOR OF THE 66
PURSUITS OF LITERATURE."
Mr. Mathias, the reputed author of "Pursuits of Literature," is far ad-
vanced in years, of diminutive stature, but remarkably lively and vivacious.
He is devoted to Italian poetry, and is a proficient in that language, into
which he has translated several English poems. His choice in the selec-
tion has not always been fortunate. He resents with warmth the imputa-
tion of having written the "Pursuits of Literature," not that he would not
be vain of the erudition displayed in that work, but because some of the
persons severely treated in it were so indignant, that he positively denied
the authorship, though the denial has convinced no one.
Mathias' conver-
sation is interesting only on Italian literature. His friends (commend me
to friends for always exposing the defects or petits ridicules of those they
profess to like) had prepared me for his peculiarities; and he very soon
gave proofs of the correctness of their reports. One of these peculiarities
is an extraordinary tenacity of memory respecting the dates at which he,
for the first time of the season, had eaten green peas, or any other culinary
delicacy; another is the continual exclamation of " God bless my soul !"
Dinner was not half over before he told us on what days he had eaten
spring chickens, green peas, Aubergine, and a half hundred other dainties;
and at each entremet that was offered him, he exclaimed, "What a deli-
cious dish!--God bless my soul!"

Mr. Mathias has an exceeding dread of being ridden or driven over in
the crowded streets of Naples; and has often been known to stop an
hour before he could muster courage to cross the Chiaja. Being known and
respected in the town, many coachmen pause in order to give him time to
cross without being alarmed; but in vain, for he advances half way, then
stops, terrified, and rushes back, exclaiming, "God bless my soul!" It is
only when he meets some acquaintance, who gives him the support of an
arm, that he acquires sufficient resolution to pass to the other side of a
street. While he was dining in a cafe, a few days ago, a violent shower
of rain fell, and pattering against the Venetian blind with great noise, Sir
William Gell observed that it rained dogs and cats; at which moment,
a dog rushed in at one door of the case, and a frightened cat in at the
other.

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mathias, gravely, "so it does! so it does! who would have believed it?"

This exclamation excited no little merriment: and Mathias resented it by not speaking to the laughers for some days

MILTON AND GALILEO.-Florence and its environs, beautiful as they are, acquire fresh attraction from the memories with which they are blended. What English visitors can look at Faesolé without remembering that our own Milton has visited it too; and commemorated it and Galileo in his Paradise Lost?

"His ponderous shield,

Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,

Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views

At evening from the top of Fesolé,

Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,

Rivers, or mountains, on her spotty globe."

Who can forbear dwelling with deep interest on the meeting of two such
master minds as those of the " starry Galileo" and Milton, and fancying
their conversation? Galileo, already with impaired vision in those eyes
which had so long contemplated the heavens, and made such discoveries in
their starry lore, that, dazzled by the wonders they described, they became
at a later period shrouded in darkness; and Milton, doomed to lose his
sight, which seemed to have been only granted to him long enough to have
filled his glorious mind with images whose brightness never escaped from
it, but embued his work with unfading light long after he himself had
ceased to enjoy all physical sense of it. I love to think of this mee tng,
when my eyes dwell on the sunny Fesole, and people its summit withitwo
such spirits.

CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE DEATH OF MISS BATHURST. Melancholy news are arrived from Rome, announcing the death of the beautiful Miss Bathurst. This sad event occurred by her horse slipping into the Tiber, from a narrow path near its edge, when she attempted to turn him; and though she rose to the surface of the water on horseback, the efforts of the horse in swimming burst the girths, and she was precipitated again into the flood. She rose once more, and then disappeared into its turbid depths for ever, in the presence of her agonised friends, who saw

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