If that one being whom we take
From all the world, and still recur
To all she said, and for her sake
Feel far from joy, when far from her;

If that one form which we adore,

From youth to age, in bliss or pain,
Soon withers and is seen no more -
Why do we love - if love be vain!

In what strange contrast with a picture like this, does the beautiful UHLAND place some of his nature-colored characters! How sweetly does he draw the picture of two devoted beings, practising palmistry, with palm to palm, and uttering a world of downy nonsense beneath the rolling moon:

'In a garden fair were roaming,
Two lovers, hand in hand;
Two pale and shadowy creatures,
They sat in that flowery land.

On the lips, they kissed each other,

On the cheeks so full and smooth;
They were wrapt in close embracings -

They were warm in the flush of youth.'

These are very apt verses to be made directly out of a man's head, ar' n't they? How the author must have been haunted with visions;

all

'Sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath.'

6

I FORGOT to observe, that the postillion of whom I have spoken, was rather profane. He told a story of his experience some years before, with a divine, who was riding with him, on his professional seat, in the west, to attend a protracted meeting.' 'It was about 'lection time,' said he, and I had just gi'n in my vote. Of course, I was used with hospitality; and I was a leetle 'how-come-you-so?' as Miss Kimball says in her Tower. Well I driv on, at an uncommon rapid rate; (that's a fact;) and whensumever I threw out the mail-bags at a stoppin' place, I replenished the inner individual. At last I became, as the parson observed, manifestly inebriated ;' and he ondertook for to lecter me! I said nothing, until he observed, or rather remarked, that he should not be surprised if I fell from my seat some day, and would be found with my head broke, and extravagantsated blood on the pious matter.'

d

"Well,' says I, I should n't be surprised; it would be just my d etarnal luck!''

'He did n't say no more all the trip. I shot him up.' 'But the election' - it was inquired - 'did you succeed in that?' 'Oh, yes; and the man that we put in, made a fool of himself at Albany, into the Legislature, and there was a piece put into a book about him a'terwards.'

'Ah? - what was it?'

'Here it is,' was the reply of my gentleman, as he drew from his pocket a worn fragment of a printed page.

'On the first day of the session, he was enabled to utter the beginning of a sentence, which would probably have had no end, if it had not been cut short, as it was, by the Speaker. On the presentation of some petitions, which he thought had a bearing on his favorite subject, the election by the people of public notaries, inspectors of beef and pork, sole-leather, and staves and heading, he got on his legs. When,' said he, ' Mr. Speaker, we consider the march of intellect in these united, as I may say confederated, states, and how the genius of liberty soars, in the vast expanse, stretching her eagle plumes from the Pacific Ocean to Long-Island Sound, gazing with eyes of fire upon the ruins of empires -'just at which point of aerial elevation, the Speaker brought down the metaphorical flight of the genius, and that of the aspiring orator together, by informing the latter that he should be happy to hear him when in order, but that there was now no question before the House !'*

'But what was the name of this man?' was a query following this eloquent extract.

Smith, Sir, was his name; Smith, John Smith, of Smithopolis, and surrogate of Smith County. He was the first man in Smithville; was a blacksmith in his youth, a goldsmith a'terwards, and John Smith through all. A consistent man, Sir; no change with him; always upright, but always poor; unchanging, for he had nothing to change with! He was a distinguished man; had letters advertised in the post office; owned a blood horse; led the choir at church; read the Declaration' on every Fourth-of-July; made all the acquaintances he could; was exceedingly fussy on all occasions. In short, he was a very great man in a small way. His speech will stand as a memorial of his genius, when the Kattskill shall be troubled with the mildew of time, and the worms of decay!'

WELL the reign of autumn, for the present year, has come; and there will doubtless be the annual quotations of description in the newspaper market. Some of it will remain on first hands, and the rest will find a ready circulation. Meditation will vent itself upon apostrophe; poetry will be engendered; old songs will be re-sung. It is, in truth, a delicious season, and no one can be blamed for yielding himself up to its influences. When the first yellow surges of September sunlight seem to roll through the atmosphere; when the dust of the city street, as you look at some stately carriage, whose wheels are flashing toward the west, seems rising around them like an atmosphere, colored betwixt the hue of gold and crimson; when the mountains put on their beautiful garments, where tints of the rainbow mingle with the aerial blue of the sky; when the winds have a melancholy music in their tone, and the heaven above us is enrobed in surpassing purity and lustre - then, the dwellers in great capitals may perhaps conceive of the richness and fruition of the country; but they cannot approach the reality. The harvest moon has waned; the harvest home been held; the wheat is in the garner;

* SANDS,

1837.]

Autumn

-

'The Sabbath of the Year.'

445

the last peaches hang blushing on the topmost branches where they grew; the fragrant apples lie in fairy-colored mounds beneath the orchard trees, and the cheerful husbandman whistles at the ciderpress. As September yields her withered sceptre into the grasp of October, the hills begin to invest themselves in those many-colored robes which are the livery of their new sovereign. As my observant friend, (a well-belovéd Epinetus,) who hath discoursed of matters outre-mer, so richly hymns it, then there comes

A mellow richness on the clustered trees;
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds,
Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep crimsoned,
And silver beech, the maple yellow leaved-
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves; the purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch hazel; while aloud,

From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings.

To me, there is nothing of that dark solemnity about the autumnal season, which it has to the morbid or the foreboding. It comes, laden with plenty, and breathing of peace. There seems a sweet monition in every whisper of the gale, and the rustle of every painted leaf, which may speak a world of tranquillity to the contemplative mind. If there be sadness around and within, it is the sadness which is cherished, and the gloom that purifies; it is that doubtful twilight of the heart, which is succeeded at last by a glorious morning. We think with the serene and heavenly-minded Malcolm, of the distant, or the departed, who have gone before us to lay down their heads upon pillows of clay, and repose in the calm monotony of the tomb. Reflection asserts her sway, and the spirit expands into song:

Sweet Sabbath of the Year!
When evening lights decay,
Thy parting steps methinks I hear,
Steal from the world away.

Amid thy silent bowers,

'Tis sad but sweet to dwell,

Where falling leaves and fading flowers,

Around me breathe farewell,

Along thy sun-set skies,

Their glories melt in shade;

And like the things we fondly prize,
Seem lovelier as they fade.

A deep and crimson streak,
The dying leaves disclose,

As on Consumption's waning cheek,
Mid ruin, blooms the rose.

The scene each vision brings
Of beauty in decay;
Of fair and early-faded things,
Too exquisite to stay:

Of joys that come no more;

Of flowers whose bloom is fled;
Of farewells wept upon the shore;
Of friends estranged, or dead!

Of all, that now may seem
To memory's tearful eye
The vanished beauty of a dream,
O'er which we gaze and sigh!

AND now, reader, Benedicite! 'Hail and farewell!'

THESE lines,' writes a fair correspondent, in a delicate crow-quill hand, and on an aromabreathing sheet,' were written the other day in my album, by a dear friend of mine; a school-girl of sixteen. Are they not pretty? I think they are worth publishing

answer, 'Yes.'

don't you? Of course we

EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE TOKEN AND ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. A CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR'S PRESENT. Edited by S. G. GOODRICH. pp. 312. Boston: American Stationers' Company. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

TALENT of a high order has been employed to enrich both the pictorial and literary departments of the 'Token' for the coming year; and, in our judgment, the work greatly exceeds in merit, as it certainly does in size, any of its predecessors. Let us first take a running glance at the embellishments. The presentation-plate, from a tasteful design by CHAPMAN, is engraved on wood by ADAMS; and in so masterly a manner is it executed, that it seems more like a fine steel engraving, than a cutting upon wood. The succeeding picture, 'The Expected Canoe,' painted by CHAPMAN, and engraved by ANDREWS and JEWETT, is very spirited in its conception, and finished in execution. The rising storm, the lightning, the anxious countenance of the Indian maiden, and the ease and grace of her position, are worthy of especial praise. There is something quite yankeeish in CHAPMAN's design of the frontispiece-a cupid leaning over a huge pumpkin to see another carve a 'token' upon the rind. We can say little for 'The Only Daughter,' although engraved by ANDREWS, from a painting by NEWTON. The subject is harsh and unpleasing. There is CHAPMAN'S old fault in the 'Indian Maiden at her Toilet,' or 'The Token.' There is not an Indian feature, nor the semblance of one, in the face of the girl. Otherwise, the picture is well conceived. One of the richest plates in the volume, is 'English Scenery,' engraved by SMILLIE, from a painting by BROWN. It is mellow and soft, in the ensemble, yet distinct in minute detail, and there is about it an almost living atmosphere. A very clever picture, too, is HEALY's 'Young American on the Alps,' and it has received ample justice at the hands of the engraver, G. H. CUSHMAN. 'The Last of the Tribe,' painted by BROWN, and engraved by ELLIS, should have been called 'A Mountain Scene,' and the Indian figure omitted. He lacks the proper physiognomy, sadly. The scenery is well imagined. The Fairies in America,' like all attempts at depicting such nondescript creatures of air, strikes us as a failure. Leaving out all the figures, both the painting and engraving reflect credit upon the artists, CHAPMAN and SMILLIE. MARTHA WASHINGTON,' engraved by CHENEY and KELLOGG, is a good engraving of a far more beautiful female than we have been accustomed to consider the original, from the portraits we have hitherto seen. She is here depicted in her young and rosy years, 'plump as a partridge,' and most delectable to look upon. Thus much for the plates; and now a few words touching the literary contents.

'The Wonders of the Deep,' by PIERPONT, well deserves the place of honor which it occupies. It is a poem, without the form of verse; and its poetry is of a high order. We ask attention to the annexed paragraphs:

"What a wonder is the sea itself! How wide does it stretch out its arms, clasping islands and continents in its embrace! How mysterious are its depths!-still more mysterious its hoarded and hidden treasures! With what weight do its watery masses