partment of the divine art. His sympathies are The Poet deserves the love of all for his truth, deep and unbounded. In this respect, and this his creations of beauty and sweetness, but we alone, he is the poet of the people. If he builds should revere him because he wins the very heart gothic temples for others to inhabit, the warmer by his cheering words of encouragement and impulses of his heart lead him to choose a place tender sympathy; and who would not unite in by the "Fireside" of the humble cottage, where adopting the sentiments contained in the "Dedihe delights to tarry, and read a moral to the rus- cation" of the Seaside and the Fireside," and tic dwellers from the "Forever-never" of the send them back to their author, freighted with "Old clock on the Stairs,"-sing a Psalm of the warmest impulses ? Life," point to the "Footsteps of Angels," and talk of " Resignation" until the eye of faith catches the distant "Sunrise on the Hills" of a brighter and better world; or to mingle in the pastimes of the young, until he infuses the spirit of Excelsior" in every heart.

His tenderness is not the result of mere external sympathy; he would never, like an unsophisticated rustic, weep because others weep, nor be pathetic from the influence of attendant circumstances of present and outward sensibility. In this respect he differs from Burns and other kindred spirits, whose pathos was the result of a strong animal sensitiveness, which was ready to overflow at the first sight of any affecting incident, without respect to cause or effect. Now, Longfellow would never thus lavish the sacred treasures of his heart. There must be a propriety and fitness in the objects of his commiseration; a moral claim upon his better nature. He expends no balm or tears, no heart throbs upon those who are in distress by their own wickedness, and who exhibit no signs of true penitence. He looks at the springs of action, and fathoms the deep fountains of feeling; and with a refinement, as far as possible removed from mere impulse, claims a share in all sufferings endured by true worth in neglect, striving with adverse fortunes, or crushed under accumulated burdens. With such he weeps in sympathy, and at the same time cheers them with words of tenderness and regard, which bring back energy and hope; or, if the hour of expectation is past, nerves the sufferer to "endure what time cannot abate," as he sings:

"We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way."

"Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown!
Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token,
That teaches me, when seeming most alone,
Friends are around us, though no word be spoken."

No stranger in New York, pursuing a morning stroll, can turn out of the vast thoroughfare of Broadway, just as the chimes of Trinity have rung for noon, into the maelstrom of Wall Street, without being impressed with the fact-if he be a thinking man at all-that he has at length reached the peculiar court of Mammon. On either side he sees the shrines of Diva Pecunia, and he is jostled by her worshippers at every step, as he advances. Not particularly reverent are they of aspect, nor does their gait resemble that of the devotee in the cloister or the Moslem

It would not, perhaps, be a difficult task to find errors in the poetry of Longfellow; but it is much more pleasant to enjoy the full ripe fruit, than to dissect the rottenness of the blasted and decaying, only to show their unwholesomeness; approaching the Caaba. But Mohammed has to delight in the perfumes of the fresh and perfect rose, rather than to tear open the blighted bud, to expose the worm which lies nestled in its core. This task is left for others, to whose taste it may be congenial.

not a follower more ardent, nor Holy Mother Church a neophyte more zealous in her service, than these disciples of the goddess of money. Look for an instant at our friend Snipkins, who has just come out from that marble temple where

they sit in the receipt of customs. Snipkins| lives in a very sumptuous mansion in Fourteenth Street. His walls are adorned with copies of Italian paintings done by very un-Italian pencils. He belongs to one of those wicked clubs recently established to nourish and foster the exotic vices which we have borrowed from Europe. During the season he has his box at the Opera and has learned just when to applaud the performance. Moreover, Snipkins has his pew at a fine Gothic church, which shall be nameless, where he may be seen every fair Sunday morning, faultlessly attired, his coat without buttons behind, his kids of the irreproachable couleur de paille, and his moustache dyed to the exact shade of propriety His tendencies, perhaps, are High Church and his literary tastes incline to those charming little romances like the Lady Alice, which teach us how we may sin pleasantly according to the rubric. Snipkins has been heard to inveigh against frivolous literature and voted the Lorgnette stupid, because, as it was supposed, John Timon made him a target for his satire. And now, my excellent reader, what suppose you is the subject of Suipkin's thoughts under all these phases of character? It is money. He thinks of nothing else when he lieth down and when he riseth up, when he sitteth in his house and when he walk eth by the way. At home or at the club, in the most melting cadenza of Don Pasquale or the most eloquent portion of Dr. T's sermon. Snipkins is turning over in his mind the next day's operations on 'change. Look at him closely. What usurious lineaments of couuteuance! What money making expressed upon a brow! What speculation' in those eyes!

And there were sudden whispers, such as press
The life from out young firms, and some were dumb
In agony of spirit: who could guess

If ever should be paid "that little sum,"
Since upon morn so fair such awful noon could come!

And Wall Street frowns upon them with her Banks
And Life Assurance bureaus, as they pass,
Grieving, but giving curses more than thanks
Over the unredeeming throng,-alas!
Doomed before 3 o'clock to go to grass:
But other "operators," soon shall know
Their places upon Change, when all this mass
Of living usury shall be a show,

And men that once were 'fast' shall be uncommon 'slow!'

But this is not what I sat down to write. My design, good reader, was to narrate, in very few words, an incident which fell under my observation, only a fortnight since, in Wall Street, and which jarred upon my feelings as in shocking discordance with the cold, money-making genius of the place-an incident, one might think, which would arrest the notice of the passers-by, but which scarcely attracted the gaze of one other person than myself, except those who were part and parcel of it. The episode of the panic, came in to interrupt for a single moment, the short narrative I am to give you.

The incident to which I have alluded was a funeral. Surely, the reader, who is unacquainted with New York, will think-there was nothing so strange in this. People must die everywhere, and the marts of business cannot be exempt from the common lot of humanity. Very true, but consider that no one lives in Wall street; seven hours in the day is its only period of vi

And such as Suipkins, in a greater or less de-tality, after which it is as silent as that petrified gree of development, according to his success in the money world, is every second man you meet upon Wall Street. Absorbed in their pursuit of gain, they have little concern for any thing else, and the earth itself might gape at their feet without making the least sensation. One cause alone is adequate to arouse them and that a panic!

city in the story of Scheherazade; men tarry there for a short time, but do not dwell or abide there; a home in such a quarter is simply an impossibility, the Lares would fly the spot. Death does indeed intrude upon the haunts of trade. Your well-fed and purple-faced Bank Director sometimes falls down in an apoplexy; the day-laborer in Some years ago, I witnessed such an occur unidsummer occasionally dies from a sudden coupreuce. A great banking house had failed, car-de-soliel; the list of casualties now and then tells rying down with it many deserving merchants. us of somebody killed by a falling block of stone but many more money-changers who could claim no sympathy. I shall not soon forget the crisis as it was made visible about the corners of the Merchant's Exchange. For once the tide of human life was stopped in its passage, for once every man showed some interest in the affairs of his neighbour, for once the boys at Delatour's soda fountain were idle.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering crowds, and brokers in distress,
And cheeks ail blank, which but an hour ago
Flushed with a 3-per-cent-a month success;

from the scaffolding of a new edifice;-but all these are carried away for funeral services elsewhere, some to the Hospital for the potter's field, others to the court end of the city for Greenwood Cemetery. A funeral in Wall Street is something, therefore, of the rarest occurrence. It was something, too, to raise, in a loiterer like myself, feelings of curious interest similar to those inspired by the tomb of Cecilia Metella. Who and what was this unhappy man whose remains were about to be consigned to the grave! And how came he to die there? Had he no

friend on earth to offer him a quiet room, away | more. Not one individual seemed to have marked from the daily din of business, where he might. the passage of the dead to its last home. The at least, die in peace, aud from which his coffin sermon had been lost. And I fear that long might be borne to the grave without being rudely before I pulled the check-string of the omnibus run against by the pushing, furious crowd of that which carried me to my hotel, the moral of the noisy thoroughfare? Friends he certainly had, incident had quite passed out of my own mind. X. Y. Z. for a respectable cortège was in attendance. But why had they appointed an hour so malapropos for the funeral? It was about two. Three hours afterwards, they might have driven off without unseemly interruption.

From the International Magazine.
PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE.

With such conjectures in my brain, I halted exactly opposite the hearse, and determined to await the moving of the little procession. But most of all I mused on the probable character of Among our pleasant friends in many years the deceased-what manner of man he waswas the author of the Froissart Ballads. We whether he was like most of those who hurried think of him as a friend, but we never saw him; by me with hearts harder than the nether mill his features are familiar to us only by this poor stone, and was a mere worshipper of Mammon, counterfeit, and all we know of his voice is that or whether he might not have been another Tim it has been described to us as musically joyous, Linkinwater who had lived honestly and served sometimes varying to a sad sweetness, somefaithfully through many years, and whose soul, times wild. For half a dozen years visits to him when released from the tabernacle of clay, had were written of, and hoped for, and it was settaken that unusual flight from Wall Street to tled, we thought, that we were to share with him a turkey-hunt in the Old Dominion, in a few weeks, when suddenly the intelligence came

Heaven!

If I could have reconciled it with my sense of what was proper, I think I should have gone over and walked up into the room where the services were performing. For as I stood watch ing the door (which was the immense entrance to a granite structure, occupied by fifty or more corporations and individuals) it occurred to me that the sermon, if delivered by a sensible man, might embody some very eloquent admonition. What striking antitheses did not the place and the occasion suggest? Within was Death, the last enemy; without was Life, fitful, uncaring, riant Life, with its empty occupations and concerns. If any where or at any time, the verses of Ecclesiastes would be likely to affect the hearts of listeners, it was under such circumstances as these.

that he was dead.

Philip Pendleton Cooke was born in Martinsburg, Berkeley county, Virginia, on the twentysixth of October, 1816. His father, Mr. John R. Cooke, was then and is now honorably distinguished at the bar, and his mother was of that family of Pendletons which has furnished so many eminent names to that part of the Union.

At fifteen he entered Princeton college, where he had a reputation for parts, though he did not distinguish himself, or take an honor, and could never tell how it happened that he obtained a degree, as he was not examined with his class. He liked fishing and hunting better than the books, and Chaucer and Spenser much more than the dull volumes in the "course of study." I have hinted already that the procession of He had already made rhymnes before he became a freshman, and the appearance of the early carriages was respectable and also that it was small. Perhaps, if corporations were mortal numbers of the Knickerbocker Magazine promptand were buried like men, and one of the bank-ed him to new efforts in this way; he wrote for ing institutions which occupied the building had the Knickerbocker, in his seventeenth year, The been about to be interred, the obsequies would Song of the Sioux Lover, and The Consumptive, have been more imposing. Consider, if such a and in a village paper, about the same time, huthing were possible, the funeral of the Bank of morous and sentimental verses. Commerce.

When he left college his father was living at By and by, the coffin was brought out, and Winchester, and there he himself pursued the pushed, by a struggle, through the crowd of pe- study of the law. He wrote pieces in verse and destrians on the pavement, into the hearse. The prose for the Virginian, and The Southern Litmourners who followed did not seem inconsola-erary Messenger (then just started,) and projected ble in their grief. The procession threaded its novels and an extensive work in literary critiway with extreme difficulty through the densely cism. Before he was twenty-one he was married, admitted to the bar, and had a fair prospect

filled streets, and at last turned out of view.

I looked around upon the moving throng once

A wood-engraved portrait.

of practice, in Frederick, Jefferson, and Berkeley counties. "I am blessed by my fireside," he wrote, "here on the banks of the Shenandoah, in view and within a mile of the Blue Ridge; I go to county towns, at the sessions of the courts, and hunt, and fish, and make myself as happy with my companions as I can."

any further excuse for not collecting them. If not the most devoted, truly you are the most serviceable, of my friends, but it is because Mr. ter makes me feel as if I had always known you Kennedy has overpraised me to you. Your letintimately, and I have a presentiment that you will counteract my idleness and good-for-nothingness, and that, boisted on your shoulders I shall not be lost under the feet of the crowd, nor left behind in a fence corner. I am profoundly grateful for and to show you that I will avail myself of it, the kindness which dictated what you have done, I inclose a proem to the pieces of which I wrote

So," he wrote to us in 1846 "have passed five, six, seven, eight years, and now I am striving, after long disuse of my literary veins, to get the rubbish of idle habits away and work them again. My fruit-trees, rose-bushes, poul-you in my last." try, guns, fishing-tackle, good, hard-riding friends, a long-necked bottle on my sideboard, an occaThe poem referred to was so beautiful that we sional client, &c., &c., &c., make it a little diffi- asked and obtained permission to put it in Gracult to get from the real into the clouds again. ham's Magazine, of which we were at that time It requires a resolute habit of self-concentration editor. The author's name was not given, and to enable a man to shut out these and all such it excited much curiosity, as but two or three of real concerns, and give himself warmly to the nobler or more tender sort of writing-and I am slowly acquiring it."

The atmosphere in which he lived was not, it seems, altogether congenial-so far as literature was concerned—and he wrote:

Young Emily has temples fair

Caress'd by locks of dark brown hair.
A thousand sweet humanities
Speak wisely from her hazel eyes.
Her speech is ignorant of command,
And yet can lead you like a hand.
Her white teeth sparkle, when the eclipse
Is laughter-moved, of her red lips.
She moves, all grace, with gliding limbs
As a white-breasted cygnet swims.

our poets were thought capable of such a performance, and there was no reason why one of them should priut any thing anonymously. It was most commonly, however, attributed to Mr. Willis, at which Mr. Cooke was highly gratified. The piece, which was entitled "Emily." contained about three hundred lines, and was a feign"What do you think of a good friend of mine, ed history of the composition of tales designed a most valuable and worthy, and hard-riding one. to follow it, exquisitely told, and sprinkled all saying gravely to me a short time ago, I would'nt along with gems that could have come from only waste time on a damned thing like poetry; you a mine of surpassing richness. For examples: might make yourself, with all your sense and judgment, a useful man in settling neighborhood disputes and difficulties.' You have as much chance with such people, as a dolphin would have, if in one of his darts he pitched in amongst the machinery of a mill. Philosophy would clip an angel's wings,' Keats says, and pompous dulness would do the same. But these very persons I have been talking about, are always ready, when the world generally has awarded the honors of successful authorship to any of our mad tribe, to come in and confirm the award, aud buy, if not read, the popular book. And so they are not wholly without their uses in this world. But woe to him who seeks to climb amongst them. An author must avoid them until he is already mounted on the platform, and can look down on them, and make them ashamed to show their dulness by keeping their hands in their breeches pockets, whilst the rest of the world are taking theirs out to give money or to applaud with. I am wasting my letter with these people, but for fear you may think I am chagrined or cut by what I abuse them for. I must say that they suit one half of my character, moods, and pursuits, in being good kindly men, rare table companions, many of them great in field sports, and most of them rather deficient in letters than mind; and that, in an every-day sense of the words, I love and am beloved by them."

Soon afterward he wrote:

"Mr. Kennedy's assurance that you would find a publisher for my poems leaves me without

I know some wilds, where tulip trees,
Full of the singing toil of bees,
Depend their loving branches over
Great rocks, which honeysuckles cover
In rich and liberal overflow.
In the dear time of long ago
When I had woo'd young Emily,
And she had told her love to me,
I often found her in these bowers,
Quite rapt away in meditation,
Or giving earnest contemplation
To leaf, or bird, or wild-wood flowers;
And once I heard the maiden singing,
Until the very woods were ringing-
Singing an old song to the hours!

One jocund morn:

I found her where a flowering tree
Gave odors and cool shade. Her cheek
A little rested on her hand;

Her rustic skill had made a band

Of rare device which garlanded

The beauty of her bending head;
Some maiden thoughts most kind and wise

Were dimly burning in her eyes.
When I beheld her-form and face
So lithe, so fair-the spirit race,
Of whom the better poets dream'd
Came to my thought, and I half deem'd
My earth-born mistress, pure and good,
Was some such lady of the wood,
As she who work'd at spell, and snare,
With Huon of the dusky hair,
And fled, in likeness of a doe,
Before the fleet youth Angelo.
But these infirm imaginings
Flew quite away on instant wings.
I call'd her name. A swift surprise
Came whitely to her face, but soon
It fled before some daintier dyes,
And laughing like a brook in June,
With sweet accost she welcomed me.
It was a golden day to me,

And its great bliss is with me yet,
Warming like wine my iumost heart-
For memories of happier hours

Are like the cordials pressed from flowers,
And madden sweetly.

....."They are certainly not in the high key of a man warm with his subject, and doing the thing finely; I wrote them with the reluctance of a turkey-hunter kept from his sport-only Mr. Kennedy's urgent entreaty and remonstrance whipped me up to the labor. You will hardly perceive how they should be called "Ballads." You are somewhat responsible for the name. I

Then the poet recited ancient lays which tell designed (originally) to make them short poems some natural tales; and then :

Pity look'd lovely in the maiden;
Her eyes were softer, when so laden
With the bright dew of tears unshed.
But I was somewhat envious
That other bards should move her thus,
And oft within myself had said,
"Yea-I will strive to touch her heart
With some fair songs of mine own art❞—
And many days before the day
Whereof I speak, I made essay
At this bold labor. In the wells
Of Froissart's life-like chronicles
I dipp'd for moving truths of old.
A thousand stories, soft and bold,
Of stately dames, and gentlemen,
Which good Lord Berners, with a pen
Pompous in its simplicity,
Yet tipt with charming courtesy,
Had put in English words, I learn'd;
And some of these I deftly turned
Into the forms of minstrel verse.
I know the good tales are the worse-
But, sooth to say, it seems to me
My verse has sense and melody-
Even that its measure sometimes flows
With the brave pomp of that old prose.

It was a good while before the promised coutents of the book were sent to us, and Cooke wrote of the delay to a friend:

of the old understood ballad cast. I sent you

the proem, which you published as a preface to the Froissart Ballads.' Words in print bore a look of perpetuity (or rather of fixedness) about them, and what I would have changed if only my pen and portfolio had been concerned, your type deterred me from changing. The term Froissart Ballads,' however, is after all correct, even with the poems as they are. The Master of Bolton is as much a song as the Lay of the Last Minstrel, although I have no prologue, interludes, &c., &c., to show how it was sung; and as for Orthone, &c., Sir John Froissart may as easily be imagined chanting them as talking them."

Again he wrote:

"You will find them beneath your sanguine prognostic. They are mere narrative poems, designed for the crowd. Poetic speculation, bold inroads upon the debateable land the wild weird clime, out of space out of time'-I have not here attempted. I will hereafter merge myself in the nobler atmosphere; in the mean time I have stuck to the ordinary level, and have endeavored to write interesting stories in verse, with grace and spirit. I repeat my fear that in writing for the cold, I have failed to touch the quick and warm-in writing for a dozen hunting comrades, who have been in the habit of making my verse a post prandium entertainment, and never endured au audacity of thought or word, I have tamed myself out of your approbation."

"Procrastination is a poison of my very mar row. Moreover, since the first wisping of the leaf,' my whole heart has been in the woods and The book was at length published, but though on the waters-every rising sun that could be reviewed very favorably by the late Judge Bevseen, I have seen, and I never came in from my erly Tucker, in the Southern Literary Messenger, sport until too much used up to do more than adopt this epitaph of Sardanapalus: Eat, drink, and by Mr. Poe, in the American Review, and &c. Moreover (2d), Mr. Kennedy and others much quoted and praised elsewhere, it was, on were poking me in the ribs eternally about my the whole, not received according to its merits poems; and I was driven to the labor of finish-or our expectations. Yet the result aroused the