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The few we liked, the one we loved

A sacred band! come stealing on, And many a form, far hence removed,

And many a pleasure gone.

Friendships, that in death are hushed,

And young affection's broken chain, And hopes, that fate too quickly crushed

In memory live again.

Tom Manning into a state of entire subjection to sentiment; and, by the end of that time, Miss Caroline having begun to despond in her matrimonial views, and having quite a passion for the “ best society" was ready to bestow herself, and her snng fortune, upon any respectable person, who like Tom Manning, was well received at Cotsworth. A not very old number of the C- Gazelle contains the following amongst its marriage-notices.

“At the Cowpens, by the Rev. John Tyem, Thomas Manning, Esq., to Miss Caroline, eldest daughter of the late Simon Grimshaw, Esq., all of this county.” The cheerful editor, acknowledg. ing, in an appended paragraph, a present of wedding cake, ventures upon certain lively confidences concerning the married life of the interesting couple. I join the editor in his good wishes for the future of worthy Tom Manning; and sincerely trust that so able-bodied a lady, as Mrs. Manning, may find it possible to moderate Tom's attachment to his bottle. I think that I have heard something, already, of such a result.

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O what is Empire's glittering show!

Amhilions empty fame

And pageant pomp proclaim, All, all is vanity below.



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Was there ever a lovelier scene spread out to mortal gaze, than that which is presented to the eye of the beholder, on a soft, moonlit night, from Church Hill, in the City of Richtond ?

Standing upon the brow of the hill, west of the Old Church, there is a picture sketched before you that cannot fail to fascinate the lover of the rich, ihe varied and the beautiful in landscape painting. Looking westward, the most prominent object that attracts attention is the Capitol, which is seen lifting its majestic form above the green foliage that gently undulates around it. The white walls gleam amid the dark shade trees, that crown, like a diadem of royalty, the eminence on which the Capitol stands. Just beyond, the tall, sky-pointing spire of St. Paul's is seen piercing the heavens, and standing out above surrounding objects, like a lone, but faithful sentinel, keeping watch, while the whole carnp besides is sweetly sleeping. Still further on, and a little to the left, the four pinnacles which surinount the graceful tower of lhe Second Presbyterian Church are seen shooting opwards. Sull on, far away upon the City's verge, a concentrated speck of moonlight glitters upon the rounded dome-like summit of the building that overarches the entrance to the gloomy

walls of the penitentiary. And yet still on, and to the left, the green islands, the dark rocks, and the sparkling waters of the quiet James, altract the eye; while the canal lies along the bruken hillside, like a great serpent,-ils shining coils marking out iis sinuous course along the stream.

What a picture is here! From the base of the bill at your feet, stretching far away into the gathering gloom, thousands of houses present their roofs and

walls, whichi, together with the patches of shrubbery, the public Squares, the rows of shade irees, all rising and falling with the uneven surface on which the City stands, produce a most happy effect. There a window-glass is gilded with the reflected light of a full moon-there another is sonk in darkness from the deep shadow of an adjacent building; yonder a gentle undulation swells up in a graceful curve, and there an abrupt sleep meets the eye; in one place the white collage-like dwelling peeps out from surrounding trees, in another the magnificent mansion overhangs the precipitous cliff; there is a church steeple, and yonder a prison wall; and, amid all, in every direction, thousands of lights gleam from the windows of the gilded saloon, and from the sanctuary of religious worship; from the house of revelry and mirih, and from the lonely apartment where moments of anguish are measared by the pulsations of an aching heart; from the home of luxury and pleasure, where

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fair fingers sweep the golden harp-strings, and at which the river is revealed by the moonlightfrom the abodes of poverty, where the needle is scarce a sound is upon the night winds as they assiduously plied to save fatherless children from creep up the hill sides and stir your hair, save the starvation. This picture, on which we gaze, has far-wandering note from a serenader's flute, or an its lights and shadows; and yet the variety gives occasional footfall upon the pavement below. The interest to the view.

Turning around last echo of the midnight bell has died opon the you are struck with the antique looking tower of ear: a fleecy mass of cloud, momentarily conceals the old church that is seen rising above the tufted the face of the “ melancholy orb," and the curtain tops of a rich, green clump of trees that cluster is drawn over the scene that enchants the eyearound the ancient fane, and half embosom it in

“I would I were like thee, thou little cloud, their soft embrace. Silence has folded her downy

Ever to live in Heaven : or seeking earth wing over that old grave yard. The funereal

To let my spirit down in drops of love: trees—the shrubbery and flowers that adorn this To sleep with night upon her lewy lap; sacred and solemn spot, present a strong contrast

And, ihe next dawn, back with the sun to Heaven ; with the white monuments, and tombstones nestling

And so on through eternity, sweet cloud! amid the roses and wild vines that weave a festoon

I cannot think but that some senseless things

Are happy." to decorate this last resting place of the dead. How sweetly the moonlight rests upon the thick,

J. E. E. bushy boughs of that wide-branching tree! How Richmond, June, 1848. quiet the tower on that time-honored church !

“All things are calm, and fair and passive. Earth
Looks as if lulled upon an Angel's lap
Into a breathless dewy sleep: so still,
That we can only say of things, they be !"


(Translated from the French of Lamartine.)

Vainly the days still onward roll,

They glide and leave no trace ;
But love's last dream within my soul

No time can e'er efface,

As years crowd on, their space seems brief

My glance I backward cast;
Then seem they like the faded leaf

Swept off by Autumn's blast.

My brow Time's hoary hand has pressid,

My life's warm current stillid,
As when the foamy billow's crest

By Winter's breath is chilled.

We look down again towards the City, Sonthward we turn our eyes. Below us the whole of Franklin Street is marked out, from the foot of the hill at its eastern termination to where it ends abrupily at the Capitol Square. All along its course the deep shadows of the strade-trees chequer the side walks with alternate light and darkness.

And now--for the night wears away, and the bell is tolling the hour of twelve--we must take our last look upon this enchanting scene. Look beyond the river--Manchester seems a sweet, smiling village, embowered in Trees, and lapped in a beautiful valley. And then to the left, you look upon that well-tilled farm which stretches away from the river's bank to the dim outline of forest that skirts the horizon, and seems to blend with the drooping, darkening sky. And then that river-the Powhatan of Indian memory! Time was when the bark canoe of the tall red man shot like an arrow across its waters,

Time was when the yell of the savage echoed along its lonely shore.

But there it flows, bearing upon its bosom the commerce of a flourishing State. The broad, rounded full moon bangs just over the stream, while a quivering thread of brilliant light dances, and shimmers along the surface of the tide. Yonder it is obstructed by a passing sail that flutters in the unsteady breeze, there by a fisherman's boat, and here by the flaunting of our country's flag, as it rustles from the mast-head at Rocketts. On either side the river is indented by the overhanging forest that runs up in a bluff to the stream, or by the dense clusters of willows that fringe its tortuous banks. The eye is fixed for a moment upon the most distant point

Thy radiant image reigns supreme

Deep in my heart it lies,
Its glory gilds regret's dark beam,

And like the soul ne'er dies.

No! thou hast never left my sight

And in my musings lone
My thoughts pursue thy heavenward Highs

Since thou from earth art flown..


Then seem'st thou as on that last day,

When throwing off life's load;
Thou flewest with Aurora's ray,

Towards thy blest abode.

Thy beauty's pure and touching light

In Heaven shines still the same;
Those eyes which death had closed in night,

Send forth immortal fame.

Still Zephyrs breath, thy long dark hair,

Lists up in amorous play,
As waving o'er thy bosom fair

Those ebon tresses stray.

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Thy form thus wrapp'd in shadowy veil,

more Allan M'Aulays in real life than in fiction. A softened semblance seerns ;

Campbell indeed makes his seer reveal the cause Like mists which shrond the morning pale

of his prophetic skill, for when the red field of Cul. Ere day's full brightness beams.

luden rushes upon his vision he exclaims
The glorious sun, celestial flame!
To day alone gives light,

“ 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
But my soul ever burns the same

And coming events cast their shadows before."
With love which knows no night.

But I am forgetting the passage with which I 'Tis thee I see, 'ris thee I hear,

started out. In Blackwood's Magazine for NovemIn clouds in deserts lone;

ber 1819, the following remarkable paragraph may Each wave thine image pictures clear

be found, in an article entitled “ De Foe on AppaEach Zepbyr bears thy tone.

ritions.” The writer atter speaking of the days of Oft while the earth sleeps peacefully,

chivalry, when“ gentlemen set down to rest themI list the wind's low sigh;

selves, under about two cwt. of iron,” says, Tben in each star thou seem'st to be

“Neither were there potatoes in those days— Wbich most attracts mine eye.

and, without that vegetable, say, what were a

When Zephyr wings from flowers, and I
Am dizzy with perfume ;

“ A world without a sun."
I think that I inhale thy sigh
'Mid those wbich sweetest bloom.

From the very bottom of our souls do we pity our

ancestors. There is no philosophy in saying, that When lone and desolate I stand

the universal love of the potato, did the potato itBeside the bealing shrine My secret prayer to raise ;-the hand

self create. That love must have pre-existed in Which dries my tears, is thine,

the elements of our nature, just as the desire of

Eve pre-existed for Adam, and was only called
Thou watchest when sleep casts its shade, forih into action by that accomplished female.
Thy wings are o'er me spread;

There must, therefore, have been, ever since the
Soft light from thee my dreams pervade,
Sueh light as spirits shed.

arrival of the Saxons in this island, unknown, at

least understood, by our forefathers,
And should while slomber seals mine eye
Thy band my life's thread break,

“A craving void left aching at their hearts."
My soul's celestial half,- then I

A void which, within these last hundred years, has On thy pure breast shall wake.

been filled up, so that liule seems now to be wantLike blended rays at morn that shine

ing, under our free government, to the perfection On sighs that mingling soar,

of our social and domestic happiness. It would be Our iwo souls, as but one entwine

a curious inquiry lo show the effects of this vegetaAnd now I sigh e'ermore.

ble on the moral, intellectual, and physical characier of the people of a sister kingdom ; and on some future occasion we hope to sift this subject to the bottom. There can be no doubt, that the sudden extinction of the potato in Ireland would be as fine

a subject for a poem from the pen of Lord Byron, POTATOES AND PROPHECY.

as the sudden extinction of light, some of the evils

of which imaginary event his Lordship has, with MR. EDITOR, I have just seen in an “old maga- his usual vigor, delineated in that composition enzine" a very curious speculation which looks like litled, " Darkness.” Not to go too much into parprophecy. As you take an interest in such mat- liculars, we just remark, that bulls are in Ireland ters, I venture to send it to you. To peer into the red chiefly on potatoes, and that those fine animals fotore has always been regarded as among the would be in danger of becoming extinct with the " things forbidden" to mortals, and Milton repre- root on which they now grow to such prodigious sents the fallen angels, who remained in Pandemo size." nium, after the Arch Fiend set forth on his jour- • The extinction of the potato in Ireland !" ney to the Earth, as reasoning among themselves

Alas, could this joking prophet have foreseen the

long train of aliendant horrors which were des"Of Providence, fore knowledge, will and fate,

lined to follow in sad procession this very event, he Fix'd sate, free-will, fore knowledge absolute.”

might indeed consider it a proper subject for the Still Superstition has aforetime often credited the pen of Lord Byron. The tory magazine is still Faticinations of the astrologer and the incoherent published, its fame has filled the world--perhaps ravings of " second sight." There have been the writer of the article is himself yet upon the

stage. If so, he will surely agree with me that the repulsive and gloomy imagery of “Darkness"

Notices of New Yorks. presents to exaggerated picture of the condition of Ireland in 1847. Did not a fearful famine spread its disaster on every hand ?

New Books.-Harper & Brothers have issued three “Morn came and went-and came, and brought no food, new works combining the utile and the dulce most appropri, And men forgot their passions in the dread

ately for summer reading ;-the former in the shape of a of this their desolation ; and all hearts

revised edition of Dr. Beck's Botany-and the Isller in Were chilled into a selfish prayer for-bread."

that of a most attractive novel and spirited book of travelse

Angela," by the justly admired author of " Emilia Alas, how singularly and fearfully has this casual Wyndham,” and “ Loiterings in Europe." by a very intel. prediction been verified !

R. Vigent physician just returned from abroad. We commend

them cordially to tourists and rusticating gentry as enretig the thing to beguile instructively the time onder a tree at on board a steam-boat; and wortby afterwards of a niche in the library. One of the most graceful juveniles we have seen for a long time is the “ Danish Story Book," by Hans Andersen, published by C. S. Francis & Co., of New York,

D. Appleton & Co., have very seasonably issued a banda TO SUSAN.

some reprint of Lamartine's Pilgrimage in the Holy

Land," which, independent of its intrinsic merit, gires ut a

delightful insight into ihe character of the poet who has been BY W. GARDNER BLACKWOOD.

recently so nobly developed as a man of action. Headley's

Lise of Cromwell has also just appeared from the press of Maiden, in the spring of life,

Baker & Scribner. li contains passages of risid narra:

rion; but we cannot agree with the author in bis esliniste Thine are life's May-flowers;

of the Protector. It is altogether too eulogistic. Carey Their freshness in thy heart is rise,

& Hart have supplied a desideratum in putting forth a neat Their fragrance fills thine hours.

but economical edition of Bryant's Poems.
To thee the future's sun shines bright,

Hope its enchantment lends.-
Unknown thy memories lo the night

That on the past attends.

R. James, Esq. New York. Harper & Brotbers. 1843.

We believe that a judicious economy of labor would teach Affection's flowers strew thy path,

the critic to await the publication of three or four works of

Mr. James, and despatch them all with a single notice. With Love's blossoms there entwine ;

this view we have deferred our remarks on the volume beEach golden joy that fortune hath,

fore us, until the present time. The last month, however, Youth's halcyon days are thine.

has passed away, mirabile dictu, without the appearance of And fairy visions, dim-defin'd,

his usual norel, and we must therefore no longer delay page By fairy fancy wove,

ing our regards to Sir Theodore Broughton.

The incident on which the story is founded is the death lo heav'n-sent dreams awake thy mind

of Sir Theodosius Edward Allesly Boughton, in the year To purifying love.

1781, under suspicion of poison, from the hands of his

brother-in-law Capt. Donellan, who was found guilty of the Enjoy youth's cloudless morn, that breaks

murder and executed at Warwick. We recollect reading

the minute account of the trial of Capt. Donellan, a bich is Above the future's gloom :

preserved, with strong convictions that the accused was For time, alas ! all quickly makes

condemned upon insufficient evidence. The tragical end of the young heart a tomb.

of a young nobleman in the morning of life, the search And in its fleshly urn, sweet dreams

ing examinations of counsel, the appearance in the witness. With sond hopes that have died,

box of so distinguished a man as Dr. John Hunter-all com

spired to invest this trial with a remarkable interest. We And many a joy that life redeems,

do not wonder therefore that Mr. James has chosen the it Sleep death-cold side by side.

cident for the basis of a fiction. In his preface, he begs it

to be understood that his personations are not designed as I would Fate's mystic pow'r were mine,

accurate portraitures of the real characters-a precaution

which is proper enough, when we consider that there are Thy horoscope to cast;

relatives of all the parties, still residing in England. The stars above, that brightly shine

We cannot give anything like a synopsis of the plot of O'er darkness' empire vast,

this story and must therefore merely say, that the hera is The beauteous stars thy type should be :

not the nobleman, but a highwayman of the Clifford school, Thro' life's Erebian night

one Colonel Lulwich, who, falling in love with a lovely

young girl, is made to forsake his evil courses through ber To know the sphere's sweet harmony,

gentle influence, and become in the last chapter an bovest In love's unchanging light.

and happy bridegroom. Before this satisfactory result it

attained, a variety of malaventures are experienced. The Charleston, S. c.

heroine has been the object of Sir Theodore Broughton's

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