new-colored. Him indeed you have followed, and have taken for your pattern the red and fiery eyes of the serpent; and since you have taken your dress from him, you may e'en take up your abode with him, and dwell together in eternal fire.”



We read in an old story book,—the Gesta Romanorum,—that a law once prevailed in a certain city, requiring that every knight should be buried in his armor; and that if any one should rob the grave, and deprive the dead man of his armor, he should suffer death. It once happened, when this city was closely besieged, that a poor cavalier transgressed the law, by borrowing the harness of a dead knight from his sepulchre, and though he thereby saved the city from destruction, he was nevertheless condemned to death, in order to satisfy the noisy populace, who were jealous of his fame. Petrus Berchorius, the putative father of this story, appends a ghostly moral to it. Will it not likewise bear a literary application? Let the reader say, whether an author, who robs the grave, and borrows the weapons of the dead, even to do his country service, does not deserve to be put to death as a literary felon, and is not in danger of suffering such a fate.



Helicon was once a fountain, but has now become a sea; and he must dive deep, who would search for pearls of price. How many are contented to play with the pebbles on the shore !



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(A MID-SUMMER'S DAY-DREAM.) Two or three years ago,-on a lazy, sultry, Saturday afternoon,-as I was poring over the columns of a German newspaper, published in Philadelphia, my eye was caught by an advertisement headed :

Wo ist Peter Grinim?" This singular title struck my fancy by its novelty, and I read on as follows:

“Peter Grimm, from Bingen, on the Rhine, who embarked for America in 1829, is requested to give information concerning his present place of residence. His family and friends are in great anxiety on his account, having received neither letter nor information of any kind from him since his departure. A letter from Bingen for Peter Grimm lies at this office."

Straightway I fell into a day-dream. What man of feeling would not have done so ? The thermometer stood at 98°, and it was after dinner. Perhaps I was asleep. At all events fancy took wing; and shadows

came and went before my mind's eye, like the shadows of a cameraobscura,-living-moving-well-defined.

Where is Peter Grimm ?

Sure enough, where is he? Where-who-what is he? What golden dream allured this solitary wanderer from the father-land—from the glorious Rhine—from the peaceful shades of home? Bingen! I well remember Bingen on the Rhine. A beautiful little city, and all around it as green as an emerald ;—placed, too, in the very centre of the most romantic scenery of the whole Rhein-gegend. It leans against the eastern slope of the Rochusberg, with one foot in the waters of the Nahe, and the other in the kingly Rhine. Over against it lie the rich vineyards of Ruedesheim, and Geisenheim and Johannisberg, remembered with a sigh by the lovers of Rhenish flagons. Above, the green meadows of Greifenklau, and the sloping hills of Lange Winkel bask luxuriantly in the sun. Below, the river

darts through a narrow pass, dark with over-hanging crags, and on every crag the ruins of a castle. O glorious scene! O glorious river Rhine! There stand the towers of the Rossel—there the light and graceful castle of Vogtsberg, perched like a fairy palace in the air; and there

But where is Peter Grimm ?

Sure enough, where is he? How could he leave a scene like this? Perhaps he was poor, and not fond of beautiful scenery-belonging to other people. He cared not for Falkenberg, nor Sternberg, nor Drachenfels, nor Ehrenbreitstein. And yet how could he leave a home like this? Perhaps he took the steam-boat down the Rhine, as I did. Perhaps he did not. Then he lost a pleasant sail upon the most beautiful of rivers; a most lordly and majestic stream, whose rebellious waters, on entering Holland, divide into various channels, and that which bears the name of the Rhine, dwindled to a brook, sinks ere it reaches the sea, being buried, like Captain Kidd's Bible, in the sand. There is a German song, and a fine one, too, upon this theme. I once translated it into our vernacular tongue; and thus runs this “ Song of the Rhine :"

Forth rolled the Rhine-stream strong and deep
Beneath Helvetia's Alpine steep,
And joined in youthful company
Its fellow-travellers to the sea.

In Germany embraced the Rhine,
The Neckar, the Mosel, the Lahn and the Main,
And strengthened by each rushing tide,
Onward he marched in kingly pride.

But soon from his enfeebled grasp

The satraps of his power,
The current's flowing veins unclasp-

He moves in pride no more.
Forth the confederate waters broke

On that rebellious day,
And, bursting from their monarch's yoke,

Each chose a separate way.
Wahl, Issel, Leck and Wecht, all, all

Flowed sidewards o'er the land,

And a nameless brook, by Leyden's wall,

The Rhine sank in the sand.

Doggerel? Did you say Doggerel? Then a fig for your taste in poetry. The song is like the stream it celebrates : unequal, sometimes smooth, sometimes rough—but always beautiful. And if it should ever be your lot,

But where is Peter Grimm ?

Sure enough, where is he? To be gone so long without sending home any information of his whereabout, looks rather suspicious. And the whole family, too, in deep anxiety about him. No doubt he left them all in tears—with many promises to write, if he could, and if he could not write, to make his mark; and yet up to this date has neither written nor marked

“ Doch hat er nicht geschrieben

Ob er gesund geblieben." No-not a single line to tell whether he is sick or well. Ah, Peter Grimm! Peter Grimm ! Your heart must be as hard to move, as Plaffendorferhoehe, or Blickhobzhaeuserhof is to pronounce. But your friends are less unkind; there is a letter for you. In absence, when seas divide us from our friends—when time as well as distance, cuts us off from those we love, there is no balm for the sick heart like tidings of our home. Next to the pressure of the lip-next to the pressure of the hand—is the unfolding of the white wings of that mysterious little messenger, that comes commissioned by love with tidings of the absent. Sweet is the fountain to the traveller of the desert—sweet is repose to the toil-worn laborer-sweet is the breath of spring after winter's biting winds—sweet are the shades of night after the burthen and heat of the day—but sweeter far than all, to the stranger in a strange land, is a letter from his home -particularly a letter of credit!

But where is Peter Grimm ?

Sure enough, where is he? Perhaps he is in Albany—perhaps he is in Sing-sing—in the State-prison-or in bed—or in debt-or in liquor, or in “a claret-colored coat.” Who knows? Perhaps he is quietly smoking his pipe at Lancaster,—or in some little village on the banks of the Susquehanna, as quietly reading himself to sleep in the “Berks Caunty Adler.” Perhaps he is dead and gone-swept away by the cholera. Yes : that accounts for his long silence. The grave tells no tales. He was huddled into it like a malefactor—a handful of earth thrown over him —no tears shed—no bell tolled—no dirge sung. After all, what matters it where or how ? “ The way to heaven is the same from all places, and he that has no grave, has the heavens still over him.” For ought I know, he may have been one of those, who think it easier to die away from home; for then there are no weeping friends to unman you—no painful leavetaking of those you love; at most it is only prolonging the separation a little, not commencing it; and as the Italians say, Il piu duro passo è quel della soglia—the hardest step is that of the threshhold. However, if,

But where is Peter Grimm ? “ In his skin! When he jumps out, you may jump in!" answered a

voice close by my ear. It broke my day-dream like a thunder-clap; and yet it was nobody but my old matter-of-fact friend, Mr. Pipkins, a very common-place man, who is always quoting silly sayings, which he learned in his boyhood. He is not half so romantic as I am. Now, I must have been thinking aloud; in a word, I must have been, where I mean to be again in five minutes from this time, and where I suppose my reader is already-asleep.


Stay, dear one-time may never bring
Another moment on his wing

So rich with bliss :
See-mid the sun-lit heavens on high,
Hang blushing clouds—a canopy

Whose shadows kiss
The trembling waves, that bound to meet
The sun's last glances, ere they fleet

Like visioned hopes.
My own, my blest-mark how below
The fields and woodlands brightly glow :

Kind Nature opes
Her richest stores-tis a fair scene
And thou of Beauty art the Queen,

My loved-my dear.
Stay, nor like that bright orb depart-
Thine eyes are to my beating heart

A sunny sphere.
Thou wilt not?-cruel !-fare thee well:
Heed not my tears that gushing swell.

Far from my sight
Go-go—I would not bid thee stay:
My life--my bliss thou bear'st away.

Good night, -Good night!

E. G. L.


I AM ALONE! What bitterness

To the young heart is in the thought
That in its joy, or in its grief,

A share shall mortal breast have not!
I am alone ! —the paths through life,

By others trod, are gayly strown
With flowers, to gladden heart and eye,

While mine is desolate, and lone!
I am alone!-the streams of love
My swelling heart would fain

pour forth,
Are frozen even at their source,

Like fountains of the dreary north!
I am alone -in death's dark hour,

My parting spirit none shall cheer,-
None :o my memory yield a sigh,

Or breathe a requiem o'er my bier !

C. J. C.



“ His soul proud science never taught to stray.”-GOLDSMITH.

Can I sell you some whortleberries ?

I was standing in the store of a merchant in the little village of Cwith my back towards the speaker. I immediately turned so as to face him. He was a strange-looking, weather-beaten veteran, of some sixty years old, with gray hair and beard, and a countenance deeply bronzed and furrowed. His frame was somewhat bent, and a staff was thrown over his shoulder, at the end of which dangled a pail containing about six quarts of whortleberries. His dress was not of the latest fashion. It was thin enough for the month of August; and its numerous darns and patches told of frequent encounters with bush and brier.

“ Can I sell you some whortleberries ?” said he to the merchant in attendance. " What is your price ?" asked the merchant.

Only three cents a quart,” said the veteran ; " and I will take my pay in goods. I DON'T WANT MONEY.”

The merchant purchased his cargo, and a little tea and tobacco sufficed for the exchange. The old man seemed extremely gratified with these luxuries, and was evidently well pleased with his bargain. He put them carefully into his coat pocket, first assuring himself, by careful examination, that no envious rent endangered the security of that receptacle, and with a light heart and a lighter burden, was about to depart. The old man was somewhat deaf. For this reason, and perhaps from long companionship with the silent woods, he seemed little inclined to converse with the bantering youngsters about him. Several sallies of wit were made at his expense; but they did not ruffle his temper: he was too deaf to hear them—too innocent to understand them—and perhaps too quiet to notice them, if he had been fully aware of their purport and object.

The Man of Whortleberries moved toward the door. “ Stop a moment,” said one of the youngsters—" do you know that the tea you have received has been steeped ? It has lost its strength!"

" What 'say ?" drawled the old man, putting his hand to his ear to catch the sound.

The question was repeated. “Do you know that that tea has been steeped ?"

"No," said the old man, “has it? But never mind if it has, I can make it up with the tobacco !"

The Man of Whortleberries went on his way rejoicing, and his active tread seemed to belie his years. I felt some curiosity in a being whose habits of life were so simple, and I was led to inquire concerning his history. Of this but little could be gleaned. “I have known him," said one, "for twenty years past; and at the earliest date of my recollection,

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