that waves it to and fro. We set it in a becoming position, relieve it with some appropriate background, and touch it with soft melancholy lightwith the mellow hues of a deepening twilight, or, better still, with the moon's idealizing rays.

In Rome, such visions, if they exist in the mind, are rudely dispelled by the touch of reality. Many of the ruins in Rome are not happily placed for effect upon the eye and mind. They do not stand apart in solitary grandeur, forming a shrine for memory and thought, and evolving an atmosphere of their own. They are often in unfavorable positions, and bear the shadow of disenchanting proximities. The tide of population flows now in different channels from those of antiquity, and in far less volume; but Rome still continues a large capital, and we can nowhere escape from the debasing associations of actual life. The trail of the present is everywhere over the past. The forum is a cattle-market strewn with wisps of hay, and animated with bucolical figures that never played upon the pipe of Tityrus, or taught the woods to repeat the name of Amaryllis. The pert. villa of an English gentleman has intruded itself into the palace of the Caesars-as discordant an object to a sensitive Idealist as the pink parasol of a lady's-maid, which put to flight the reveries of some romantic traveller under the shadow of the great pyramid. The Temple of Antoninus Pius is turned into the custom-house. The mausoleum of Augustus is encrusted with paltry houses, like an antique coin embedded in lava, and cannot even be discovered without the help of a guide. The beautiful columns of the Theatre of Marcellus--Virgil's Marcellus-are stuck upon the walls of the Orsini Palace, and defaced by dirty shops at the base. Ancient grandeur is degraded to sordid modern uses. "Mummy is become merchandise; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams."

To most men, ruins are merely phenomena, or, at most, the moral of a tale; but to the antiquary they are texts. They have a secondary interest, founded upon the employment they have given to the mind, and the learning they have called forth. We value everything in proportion as it awakens our faculties, and supplies us with an end and aim. The scholar, who finds in a bath or a temple a nucleus for his vague and divergent reading to gather around, feels for it something like gratitude as well as attachment; for though it was merely a point of departure, yet, without it, the glow and ardor of the chase would not have quickened his languid energies into life.

Scott, in his introduction to the "Monastery," has described with much truth as well as humo: the manner in which Captain Clutterbuck became interested in the ruins of Kennaqhair-how they supplied him with an object in life, and how his health of body and mind improved the moment he had something to read about, think about, and talk about. Every ruin in Rome has had such devoted and admiring students, and many of these shapeless and mouldering fabrics have been the battle-grounds of antiquarian controversy, in which the real points at issue have been lost in the learned dust which the combatants have raised. The books which have been written upon the antiquities of Rome would make a large library; but when we walk down, on a sunny morning, to look at the Basilica of Constantine or the Temple of Nerva, we do not think of the folios which are slumbering in the archives, but only of the objects before us.

THE PICTURESQUE IN ROME-FROM SIX MONTHS IN ITALY.

Every young artist dreams of Rome as the spot where all his visions may be realized; and it would indeed seem that there, in a greater degree than

anywhere else, were gathered those influences which expand the blossoms, and ripen the fruit of genius. Nothing can be more delicious than the first experiences of a dreamy and imaginative young man who comes from a busy and prosaic city, to pursue the study of art in Rome. He finds himself transported into a new world, where everything is touched with finer lights and softer shadows. The hurry and bustle to which he has been accustomed are no longer perceived. No sounds of active life break the silence of his studies, but the stillness of a Sabbath morning rests over the whole city. The figures whom he meets in the streets move leisurely, and no one has the air of being due at a certain place at a certain time. All his experiences, from his first waking moment till the close of the day, are calculated to quicken the imagination and train the eye. The first sound which he hears in the morning, mingling with his latest dreams, is the dash of a fountain in a neighboring square. When he opens his window, he sees the sun resting upon some dome or tower, grey with time, and heavily freighted with traditions. He takes his breakfast in the ground-floor of an old palazzo, still bearing the stamp of faded splendor, and looks out upon a sheltered garden, in which orange and lemon trees grow side by side with oleanders and roses. While he is sipping his coffee, a little girl glides in, and lays a bunch of violets by the side of his plate, with an expression in her serious black eyes which would make his fortune if he could transfer it to canvas. During the day, his only difficulty is how to employ his boundless wealth of opportunity. There are the Vatican and the Capitol, with treasures of art enough to occupy a patriarchal life of observation and study. There are the palaces of the nobility, with their stately architecture, and their rich collections of painting and sculpture. Of the three hundred and sixty churches in Rome, there is not one which does not contain some picture, statue, mosaic, or monumental structure, either of positive excellence or historical interest. And when the full mind can receive no more impressions, and he comes into the open air for repose, he finds himself surrounded with objects which quicken and feed the sense of art. The dreary monotony of uniform brick walls, out of which doors and windows are cut at regular inter vals, no longer disheartens the eye, but the view is everywhere varied by churches, palaces, public buildings, and monuments, not always of positive architectural merit, but each with a distinctive character of its own. The very fronts of the houses have as individual an expression as human faces in a crowd. His walks are full of exhilarating surprises. He comes unawares upon a fountain, a column, or an obelisk-a pine or a cypress-a ruin or a statue. The living forms which he meets are such as he would gladly pause and transfer to his sketch-book -ecclesiastics with garments of flowing black, and shovel-hats upon their heads-capuchins in robes of brown-peasant girls from Albano, in their holiday boddices, with black hair lying in massive braids, large brown eyes, and broad, low foreheads-beggars with white beards, whose rags flutter picturesquely in the breeze, and who ask alms with the dignity of Roman senators. Beyond the walls are the villas, with their grounds and gardens, like landscapes sitting for their pictures; and then the infinite, inexhaustible Campagna, set in its splendid frame of mountains, with its tombs and aqueducts, its skeleton cities and nameless ruins, its clouds and cloud-shadows, its memories and traditions. He sees the sun go down behind the dome of St. Peter's, and light up the windows of the drum with his red blaze, and the dusky veil of twilight gradually ex

tend over the whole horizon. In the moonlight evenings he walks to the Colosseum, or to the piazza of St. Peter's, or to the ruins of the Forum, and under a light which conceals all that is unsightly, and idealizes all that is impressive, may call up the spirit of the past, and bid the buried majesty of old Rome start from its tomb.

To these incidental influences which train the hand and eye of an artist, indirectly, and through the mind, are to be added many substantial and direct advantages,-such as the abundance of models to draw from, the facility of obtaining assistance and instruction, the presence of an atmosphere of art, and the quickening impulse communicated by constant contact with others engaged in the same pursuits, and animated with the same hopes. If, besides all these external influences, the mind of the young artist be at peace,—if he be exempt from the corrosion of anxious thoughts, and live in the light of hope, there would seem to be nothing wanting to develope every germ of power, and to secure the amplest harvest of beauty.

HUGH MOORE,

A SELF-EDUCATED man, and practical printer, was born in Amherst, N. H., Nov. 19, 1808. He served his time as an apprentice with his brother-in-law, Elijah Mansur, at Amherst; published Time's Mirror, a weekly newspaper, at Concord for a short time, in the autumn of 1828; commenced the Democratic Spy at Sanbornton, October, 1829, which was removed to Gilford in 1830, and discontinued in June, the same year. He was afterwards editor of the Burlington Centinel, and at one time connected with the Custom House in Boston. He died at Amherst, February 13, 1837.

The New Hampshire Book, which gives two specimens of his poetical pieces, which were written when he was quite young, speaks of his death as occurring when he was "about entering upon a station of increased honor and responsibility."

OLD WINTER IS COMING.

Old Winter is coming again-alack!
How icy and cold is he!

He cares not a pin for a shivering back-
He's a saucy old chap to white and black-
He whistles his chills with a wonderful knack,
For he comes from a cold countree!

A witty old fellow this Winter is

A mighty old fellow for glee!

He cracks his jokes on the pretty, sweet miss,
The wrinkled old maiden, unfit to kiss,
And freezes the dew of their lips: for this
Is the way with old fellows like he!
Old Winter's a frolicsome blade I wot-
He is wild in his humor, and free!
He'll whistle along, for "the want of thought,"
And set all the warmth of our furs at naught,
And ruffle the laces by pretty girls bought-
A frolicsome fellow is he!

Old winter is blowing his gusts along,
And merrily shaking the tree!
From morning 'till night he will sing his song-
Now moaning, and short-now howling, and long,
His voice is loud-for his lungs are strong-
A merry old fellow is he!

Old Winter's a tough old fellow for blows,
As tough as ever you see!

He will trip up our trotters, and rend our clothes,
And stiffen our limbs from our fingers to toes-
He minds not the cries of his friends or his foes-
A tough old fellow is he!

A cunning old fellow is Winter, they say,
A cunning old fellow is hel

He peeps in the crevices day by day,
To see how we're passing our time away-
And marks all our doings from grave to gay
I'm afraid he is peeping at me!

SPRING IS COMING.

Every breeze that passes o'er us,
Every stream that leaps before us,
Every tree in silvan brightness
Bending to the soft winds' lightness;
Every bird and insect humming
Whispers sweetly, "Spring is coming!"
Rouse thee, boy! the sun is beaming
Brightly in thy chamber now;
Rouse thee, boy! nor slumber, dreaming
Of sweet maiden's eye and brow.
See! o'er Nature's wide dominions,
Beauty revels as a bride;
All the plumage of her pinions

In the rainbow's hues is dyed!
Gentle maiden, vainly weeping

O'er some loved and faithless one; Rouse thee! give thy tears in keeping

To the glorious morning sun! Roam thou where the flowers are springing, Where the whiriing stream goes by; Where the birds are sweetly singing

Underneath a blushing sky!

Rouse thee, hoary man of sorrow!

Let thy grief no more subdue;
God will cheer thee on the morrow,
With a prospect ever new.
Though you now weep tears of sadness,
Like a withered flower bedewed;
Soon thy heart shall smile in gladness
With the holy, just, and good!
Frosty Winter, cold and dreary,
Totters to the arms of Spring,
Like the spirit, sad and weary,
Taking an immortal wing.
Cold the grave to every bosom,

As the Winter's keenest breath;
Yet the buds of joy will blossom
Even in the vale of Death!

B. B. THATCHER.

BENJAMIN B. THATCHER was born in the state of Maine in the year 1809. His father was a distinguished lawyer, and for many years a representative in Congress. The son, on the completion of his course at Bowdoin College in 1826, commenced the study of law, and was admitted to practice at Boston, where he resided during the remainder of his life. He was a constant contributor to the leading literary periodicals of the day, and in 1832 published a work entitled Indian Biography, which forms two volumes of Harpers' Family Library. He afterwards prepared two volumes on Indian Traits, for a juvenile series, "The Boys' and Girls' Library," issued by the same house. He also wrote a brief memoir of Phillis Wheatley. In 1838 he visited Europe for the benefit of his health, but returned after passing nearly two years in England, in a worse state than that in which he left home.

HANNAH FLAGG GOULD is the daughter of a soldier of the Revolution, who fought in the battle of Lexington, and served in the army throughout the war. She was born at Lancaster, Vermont, but removed soon after to Newburyport, Mass. While yet a child she lost her mother. Her father survived for several years, his declining age being tenderly cared for and cheered by his constant companion, his daughter, whose subsequent poems contain many touching traces of their intercourse.

Hannah Flagg Goulds

Miss Gould's poems, after a favorable reception in several periodicals, were collected in a volume in 1832. By 1835, a second had accumulated, and a third appeared in 1841. In 1846, she collected a volume of her prose contributions, entitled Gathered Leaves.

Miss Gould's poems are all in subject, form, and expression. ral, harmonious, and sprightly. VOL. II.-32

short, and simple They are natuShe treats of the

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
In diamond beads-and over the breast
Of the quivering lake, he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,

By the light of the morn were seen

Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees, There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers; and these

All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair-
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,

66

Now, just to set them a-thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three;
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"

MARY DOW.

"Come in, little stranger," I said,

As she tapped at my half-open door, While the blanket pinned over her head, Just reached to the basket she bore. A look full of innocence fell

From her modest and pretty blue eye, As she said, "I have matches to sell, And hope you are willing to buy. "A penny a bunch is the price;

I think you'll not find it too much;
They're tied up so even and nice,
And ready to light with a touch."

I asked, "what's your name, little girl?"
""T is Mary," said she, "Mary Dow."
And carelessly tossed off a curl,

That played o'er her delicate brow.

'My father was lost in the deep,

The ship never got to the shore; And mother is sad, and will weep,

When she hears the wind blow and sea roar.

"She sits there at home without food,

Beside our poor sick Willie's bed; She paid all her money for wood, And so I sell matches for bread.

"For every

time that she tries, Some things she'd be paid for, to make, And lays down the baby, it cries,

And that makes my sick brother wake. "I'd go to the yard and get chips,

But then it would make me too sad;
To see men there building the ships,
And think they had made one so bad.
"I've one other gown, and with care,

We think it may decently pass,
With my bonnet that's put by to wear
To meeting and Sunday-school class.
"I love to go there, where I'm taught
Of One, who 's so wise and so good,
He knows every action and thought,
And gives e'en the raven his food.
"For He, I am sure, who can take
Such fatherly care of a bird,
Will never forget or forsake

The children who trust to his word.

"And now, if I only can sell

very

The matches I brought out to-day, I think I shall do well, And mother 'll rejoice at the pay." "Fly home, little bird," then I thought. Fly home full of joy to your nest!" For I took all the matches she brought, And Mary may tell you the rest.

66

IT SNOWS.

It snows! it snows! from out the sky
The feathered flakes, how fast they fly,
Like little birds, that don't know why
They 're on the chase, from place to place,
While neither can the other trace.
It snows! it snows! a merry play
Is o'er us, on this heavy day!

As dancers in an airy hall,

That hasn't room to hold them all,
While some keep up, and others fall,
The atoms shift, then, thick and swift,
They drive along to form the drift,
That weaving up, so dazzling white,
Is rising like a wall of light

But now the wind comes whistling loud,
To snatch and waft it, as a cloud,
Or giant phantom in a shroud;

It spreads! it curls! it mounts and whirls,
At length a mighty wing unfurls;
And then, away! but, where, none knows,
Or ever will.-It snows! it snows!
To-morrow will the storm be done;
Then, out will come the golden sun:
And we shall see, upon the run

Before his beams, in sparkling streams,
What now a curtain o'er him seems.

And thus, with life, it ever goes;

"Tis shade and shine!-It snows! it snows!

The prattler had stirred, in the veteran's breast,
The embers of fires that had long been at rest.
The blood of his youth rushed anew through his
veins;

The soldier returned to his weary campaigns;
His perilous battles at once fighting o'er,
While the soul of nineteen lit the eye of four-score.

"I carried my musket, as one that must be
But loosed from the hold of the dead, or the free!
And fearless I lifted my good, trusty sword,
In the hand of a mortal, the strength of the Lord!
In battle, my vital flame freely I felt

Should go, but the chains of my country to melt!

"I sprinkled my blood upon Lexington's sod, And Charlestown's green height to the war-drum I trod.

From the fort, on the Hudson, our guns I depressed,
The proud coming sail of the foe to arrest.

I stood at Stillwater, the Lakes and White Plains,
And offered for freedom to empty my veins!
"Dost now ask me, child, since thou hear'st where
I've been,

Why my brow is so furrowed, my locks white and thin

Why this faded eye cannot go by the line,
Trace out little beauties, and sparkle like thine;
Or why so unstable this tremulous knee,

Who bore 'sixty years since,' such perils for thee?
"What! sobbing so quick? are the tears going to

start?

Come! lean thy young head on thy grandfather's

heart!

It has not much longer to glow with the joy

I feel thus to clasp thee, so noble a boy!

But when in earth's bosom it long has been cold,

A man, thou 'lt recall, what, a babe, thou art told."

HYMN OF THE REAPERS.

Our Father, to fields that are white,
Rejoicing, the sickle we bear,

In praises our voices unite

To thee, who hast made them thy care. The seed, that was dropped in the soil, We left, with a holy belief

In One, who, beholding the toil,

Would crown it at length with the sheaf. And ever our faith shall be firm

In thee, who hast nourished the root;
Whose finger has led up the germ,

And finished the blade and the fruit!
The heads, that are heavy with grain,
Are bowing and asking to fall:
Thy hand is on mountain and plain,
Thou maker and giver of all!
Thy blessings shine bright from the hills,
The valleys thy goodness repeat;
And, Lord, 't is thy bounty that fills
The arms of the reaper with wheat!
Oh! when with the sickle in hand,
The angel thy mandate receives,
To come to the field with his band

To bind up, and bear off thy sheaves,
May we be as free from the blight,
As ripe to be taken away,
As full in the year, to thy sight,

As that which we gather to-day!
Our Father, the heart and the voice

Flow out our fresh off rings to yield. The Reapers! the Reapers rejoice,

And send up their song from the field!

PARK BENJAMIN.

PARK BENJAMIN is descended from a New England family, which came originally from Wales. His father resided as a merchant in Demerara, in British Guiana. The son in his infancy suffered from an illness, the improper treatment of which left him with a permanent lameness. He was brought to America, was educated in New England, studied law at Cambridge, and was admitted to practice in Connecticut. He soon, however, withdrew from the law to the pursuits of literature, embarking in the editorship of the New England Magazine in March, 1835, shortly after the retirement of its projector, Mr. Buckingham. In less than a year he brought the work to New York, continuing it with the publishing house of Dearborn and Co., with which he became connected, as the American Monthly Magazine, five volumes of which were published from January, 1836, to June, 1838. He next published the New Yorker, a weekly journal, in association with Horace Greeley; and in January, 1840, established the New World, a weekly newspaper of large size, which met the wants of the day by its cheap, wholesale republication of the English magazine literature. It was also well sustained by a corps of spirited writers which the editor drew round him in its original departments. Of those more immediately connected with the conduct of the paper were Epes Sargent, James Aldrich, H. C. Deming, and Rufus W. Griswold; while among the frequent contributors were Judge W. A. Duer, Judge J. D. Hammond, author of the Life and Times of Silas Wright, H. W. Herbert, Charles Lanman, W. M. Evarts, John O. Sargent, John Jay, E. S. Gould, and many others.

Mr. Aldrich was a merchant of New York, and the writer of a number of poems which find a place in the collections, though never brought together by the author into a volume. One of the most popular of these is entitled

A DEATH-BED.

Her suff'ring ended with the day, ·
Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away

In statue-like repose.

But when the sun in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through glory's morning-gate,
And walked in Paradise!

The success of the New World led to the cheap publishing enterprises of Winchester, which were conducted with boldness, and had for the time a marked effect on the book trade.* Mr. Benjamin conducted the New World for nearly five years, when it passed into the hands of Mr. Charles Eames, a writer of marked ability, by whom it was edited for a short time in 1845, when it was finally discontinued. In 1846 Mr. Benjamin projected, at Baltimore, The Western Continent, a weekly newspaper on the plan of the New World. It was published only for a short time. The next year

* One of the most extensive of the Winchester publications was an entire reprint in numbers of Johns' translation of Froissart's Chronicles. The success of this work, in popular form, at a low price, was a decided triumph for his system. He also made a hit with the early translation of Sue's Mysteries of Paris, which was executed by Mr. Deining.

he published another weekly paper on a similar plan, involving a liberal outlay of expenditure, The American Mail, of which twelve numbers were issued from June 5 to August 21.

Since the discontinuance of these newspaper enterprises Mr. Benjamin has frequently appeared before the public with favor and success, in different parts of the country, as a lecturer on popular topics and literature.

a

Mr. Benjamin's poems, lyrics, and occasional effusions are numerous, but have not been collected. They are to be found scattered over the entire periodical literature of the country for the last twenty years. His only distinct publications have been several college poems of a descriptive and satirical character. A poem on The Meditation of Nature was delivered before the alumni of Washington College, at Hartford, in 1832; Poetry, a Satire, before the Mercantile Library Association of New York, the same year; Infatuation, before the Mercantile Library of Boston, in 1844.

THE DEPARTED.

The departed! the departed!
They visit us in dreams,

And they glide above our memories

Like shadows over streams,

But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,
The departed, the departed,

Can never more return.

The good, the brave, the beautiful,
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep!

Or where the hurrying night winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above their narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

I look around and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown

I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees,
For the voice of the departed

Is borne upon the breeze.
That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;

I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me

As their remembered words.

I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.

I know that they are happy,

With their angel-plumage on,