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sonorous undulations, the last wave of which is even now sweeping past us.

But to the head of the stream we are slowly tending, borne onward by the gentle flood-tide. On the left are green meadows, with here a patch of corn, and there a patch of potatoes, with a plentiful sprinkling also of apple-trees. On the right is a gentle ascent, covered to the top, here with grass, and there with grain. Of this, however, only transient glimpses are caught through the irregular rows of trees with which the stream is on this side lined ; first willows, then maples, birches and. beeches, and finally terminating in an extensive grove of lordly oaks. There is a strange kind of bird calling from one of those trees to its wandering, perhaps its murdered mate, for its note is rather mournful. I wish I were an ornithologist, that I might tell you its name; but it speaks to me as plainly as if I knew the Latin for its genus and species. There is a monstrous boulder of granite on the right hand. It stands as the advanced guard of the point which we are just passing. Now if I were a geologist, I might fancy that I could tell you whence it came, how it came, and why it is rounded instead of angular. But to relate the history of that boulder, requires a bolder man; I confess my ignorance; and, with an extra dip of the paddle, we pass on. There is a clump of barberry-bushes on the left

, at the top of the bank; the current carries us close to it, and small birds fly from it with a whirr, at our approach, forsaking their nests in fear. We will not harm them, indeed we could not without harming ourselves. The middle of a large barberry-bush is a safe place for a nest; those who otherwise would rob, being in salutary fear of scratched faces and hands, pass peaceably by a nest so ensconced. Here we are, opposite the oak grove. What a dark shadow it throws upon the water! What is this on our left ? A pigeon-stand, built for murderous purposes ; and there too is the booth of pine branches, erected to conceal the sportsman. The stand is covered with wild pigeons; they seem to know that no one will molest them on the Sabbath, for they fly not at our approach. Were it Monday, and had we a gun with us, they would be off in a twinkling. Here the creek divides, both branches becoming mere gutters; but that is a beautiful point which separates them. There too is a pigeon-stand, and farther on, a little to the left, is another. This is a famous neighborhood for pigeons. On a calm morning in the latter part of summer, twenty dozens are often shot in sight of this place before breakfast. I have seen many killed, but cannot boast of having shot many myself. To-day they are safe; short respite !

Let us land and saunter through these grand old pine woods on our left. Our boat touches the strand, we disembark, make her fast to a bush, and prepare to enter the solemn forest. This is the way ; here is the path ; take care that the boughs of the saplings, rebounding from my pressure, do not put out your eyes. Here we are at last, in one of the noblest of God's houses, with the pillars of Nature's church raising their tall shafts around us in every direction. Although there was not wind enough to ripple the waters of the stream which we have just left, yet the tree-tops are uttering ceaselessly their solemn, mournful, soothing murmurs. 'Tis as if angels were whispering in the boughs above

us. The wood-bird whistles mysteriously in the distance, and his mate answers yet more distantly. Let us lie on the soft moss, and, in Nature's grand cathedral, worship Nature's God! Oh, how great, how good, how beautiful, seems every thing around us ! On this glorious day, earth, water and sky vie with each other in praising the ALMIGHTY. Oh, how infinitely good, great, and beautiful, must He be who created all things!

These feelings are raised within us by observing the marvels of this small spot. Let us now glide in imagination over the whole earth; continents, oceans and islands; rivers, lakes, cataracts, volcanoes, valleys, mountains, burning deserts and frozen zones. Long before our flight is completed, our wonder and adoration are raised apparently to the loftiest pitch, and we feel how utterly insignificant we are, compared with the mighty sphere on which we move. Could we live twice ten thou sand years, and be possessed, each of us of a Fortunatus's wishing.cap. we should not, at the end of our long lives, have done more than to com mence our investigations. And this is earth! A mere speck compared with the millions of orbs which circle eternally through God's illimitable universe!

Let us, in the spirit, (which says, and it is done,) leave the earth, wing our way to the mighty sun, to the most distant planets, to the farthest comet of our system; then, sailing through the immeasurable space which separates them, let us visit the millions of other solar systems; let us penetrate to the grand centre; let us pass to the outmost confines of Creation. The grand centre! it moves around a yet grander! and that around a grander still, and so on to infinity. We may seek in vain for the ultimate centre - the source of all things. Equally in vain will be our search for the outmost confines of creation.

Can any one discover the boundaries of Space ? Can any one imagine a line, a partition-wall, beyond which space does not exist ? No! do what we may, we can never get rid of the idea of space; wherever we imagine ourselves, that surrounds us. As with space, so is it with duration. We cannot conceive of a moment which had not a preceding, nor of one which will not have a following moment. Negatively, we comprehend the eternal and the infinite; but positively and by experience, never! Then how utterly beyond human comprehension, the AUTHOR of eternity and infinity!'' He is past finding out.'

Here we are, in mid space, thousands of billions of leagues distant from our own planet. The spirit is fatigued, the imagination is weak; the Finite cannot measure the Infinite. Let us return to our own solar system, which now in the mighty distance is but one shining speck amid many that dot the black space; the sun alone being visible, as a very small star. Could we speed toward home with only the rapidity of light, thousands of years would elapse ere we could reach our destination. But imagination is fleeter than light; and while the thought is passing through the mind, we are within the boundary of our own system. Let us slacken our speed a little; we feel quite at home, although millions of miles intervene between us and Earth. We descry our native planet in apparently close embrace with the moon; but they separate as we advance, like a maiden and her lover at the approach of strangers.

moon.

We are now enabled to see what a magnificent moon Earth is to her own satellite; and we are taught thereby a lesson of modesty, and discover that the moon was no more made for Earth, than earth for the

We will not visit the satellite, for she has been so overrun lately by Mesmeric tourists and Shakers, not forgetting Locke, the lunar Munchausen, that we could not hope to gather a new fact, and should not like to publish a book on so thread-bare a subject.

Homeward, then! We are near enough to Earth to see her conti. nents, islands and oceans. Here is our own America ; our own New. England; our own Piscataqua; our own creek, our own pine woods ; and here also are our own bodies, which we left on the moss half an hour since. They are asleep; how could it be otherwise, when the spirit was absent ? Often, while the body is taking its rest, does the soul thus wander through creation; and on this account it is, that while travelling in strange regions which we never before visited in the body, a sudden flash of memory comes over us, and we say to ourselves : We have been here before, God only knows when or how ;' and the next moment the impression passes away forever. Our bodies move uneasily ; they feel that their souls are near; they sleep most soundly when we are farthest away

from them. Let us enter. Come, arouse ! - the tide is falling, the boat is grounding, and by the time we get home, dinner will be waiting. The body needs food as well as the mind, and it will take a longer time to paddle corporeally down the stream in our skiff, than it would for us to sail spiritually over the whole earth.

That is a pleasant reminiscence to me. Eventful years have passed since then; but the scenes still lie brightly and greenly before my mental eye, and to no portion of Memory's varied landscape do I so often turn, and with such unfading pleasure. The dear tenants of the old farmhouse, my aged grand-parents, dust though their bodies are, still live in my heart; and with the recollection of them mingles not one painful thought. I remember them as embodying my highest ideas of goodness, and love, and simplicity; they departed in a good old age, when, on account of the infirmities which had crept upon them, it would have been sinful to wish them to live longer. One of the strongest desires of my heart is to meet the dear couple in the other world. If I could be the same simple boy that I once was, and live with them on the same old farm, drive the same old cows to pasture, drink the same milk, eat the same sweet bread and butter, and the same luscious baked-apples, and paddle in the same • float' on the same creek — I almost think I should hesitate to exchange my Heaven for any that I have ever heard of, or seen described. Portsmouth, N. H., 1843.

J. K., JR.

E P I G R A M.

The Doctor has a learned nose;

If not a very learned head:
For, as his years advance, it grows

Week after week, more deeply red.

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The Golden Age, beloved of men, I sing,
That now to earth descends on aureate wing ;
That age, Arcadia, thou of old didst claim
The dreams of poets gave to thee the fame;
But now, from wild imaginations free,
A golden age mankind in truth may see.
Not such as that false prophets would create,
But dimly glimmering through the veil of fate;
Millennium called, to shut out those who sin,
And let a motley crowd of saints within;
Nor yet partaking of the joys of Heaven -
Eternity to true believers given;
But earth-born, earth-enduring, and to end
When Mammon shall to other planets wend.
That

age I sing; that now in gold bedight,
The wingéd hours makes joyous in their flight;
That warms the miser in his cob-web nest,
That calms the crying infant at the breast,
That worketh miracles by potent charms,
That, peace ensuring, sets the world in arms;
In fine, by opposites that brings about
Harmonious discord, death by a new route !
Think ye such virtues are a poet's dream,
Nor all this tumult-loving world beseem ?
If on your mind one lingering doubt should dwell,
Attend my lay – I will that doubt dispel.
For dark and drear, and clothed in many woes,
The IRON age o'er France and Europe rose !
Then giant Discord shook the tottering throne,
And man th' OMNIPOTENT refused to own!*
Nor helpless sex, nor infancy nor age,
Nor sacred priesthood spared that phrenzied rage !
The altar fell, and round its ruins stood
Of harpies foul a fell and noisome brood ;
A strumpet bold, thin-veiled, before a crew
Of demons stood, indecorous to view;
And she was Reason called ; before whose shrine
The world beheld a hundred tapers shine:
Then o'er lost France the reign of terror rolled;
Then the loud bell for daily murders tolled!
Then horror filled the guilty nation's heart,
And blood-stained ROBESPIERRE felt th'envenomed dart.
At length a warrior rose; the IRON age
Proclaimed its triumph o'er the people's rage.
Then the forge vibrated with noisy clang,
The clinking hammers then war-breathing rang;
The bristling bayonets in thousands stored,
The cannon's mouth, for earth-born thunder bored,
Presaged the loosing of the dogs of war,
And nations viewed them shuddering from afar!
Now with an earthquake shock the tempest broke,
Old Europe quivered at the giant stroke,
And France her thousands poured to scourge the world,
Till war her warrior monarch downward hurled !
But now the SCOURGE, the IRON age is o'er;
The cannon's thunder echoes now no more!

* Was it not COLLOT D'HERB018 who called upon God to avenge his name, if he DARE?

Now nations quarrel - but they never fight;
New missiles have put Bravery to flight!
For who the rocket's flight might now abide,
Or red-hot balls, nor quiver in his hide?
Or who the famed projectile e'er could brook,
Nor turn to fly with horror-stricken look ?
In this behold the golden age revealed;
War at a discount - peace by terror sealed!
Our cannon balls are ministers of state,
Our pens not muskels rule the realms of fate ;
And high consideration nations feel
For hostile nations who their honor steal !
Now civil war evaporates in words;
Men shoot their men as Marseillaise do birds; *
And ministers extraordinary run
To finish what with warlike threats begun!
No bloodshed now doth civil discord stain;
But peace can at the monster-meetings reign;
The stump oration cools us while it warms,
Bids us be heroes, but not take up arms;'
While, Mammon well with Patriotism blent,
DANIEL harangues us, and we pay the rent!

A STORY OF NEW YORK.

MATTIEW

C.

TIELD

CHAPTER FIRST.

'It is in the politic, as in the human, constitution; if the limbs grow too large for the body, their size, instead of improving, will diminish the vigor of the whole. The colonies should always bear an exact proportion to the mother country; when they grow populous, they grow powerful, and by becoming powerful they become independent also.'

GOLDSMITH

Not long after the last war with England, an unpleasant occurrence took place one evening in the theatre in New York. Charles Percy, a young American, with his betrothed bride, Cornelia Neville, and Stephen Percy, his elder brother, sat in one one of the curtained boxes near the stage, being attracted by the name of a new star from England in SHAKSPEARE's lovely creation of · Rosalind. British officers were still lounging about the city, on their way either to or from Canada, or waiting to complete arrangements for departure by sea to England; and they haunted the public places with an ostentatious display of proud bearing, seeking in this unworthy way to wound the vanity of those they could not conquer in any nobler contention. The haughty and insolent spirit that had marked the conduct of these officers during all their intercourse with the Americans, was about this time betrayed more unreservedly than ever, and their bitter chagrin at the result of the war manifested itself in petty attempts at annoyance in every way they could devise of offering it to their successful opponents. They were disappointed at the termination of their residence abroad, vexed at the triumph of American

* Sxs an amusing translation frorn Thrush Hunting' by ALEXANDER Duvas, in the February, 1844, number of Blackwood. Not original, by the way : Il bave in my possession a little book, a collection of tales from the French, published many years ago, that contains a story from which this is evidently plagiarized.

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