I retraced my steps to the top of old “Federal HILL," | for Eve to sin by, or to kick up the row among the godto behold one of the finest views of this charming town, desses on Mount Ida. I can't think they have done lying round; and binding in, as with a hoop of dwell-much good in the world, even when they caused Sir ings, its beautiful harbor fringed with masts at this Isaac to discover gravitation. There is something rebusy season, from Fell's Point to the innermost curve pulsive to an ardent mind, in the calculating deliberaof the Basin. Beyond this watery line the town lies in tion with which your apple seems to ripen. It convinthe narrow valley, its regular lines broken by spires ces me, without tasting, of its cold bloodedness,--and and towers and domes, whilst, immediately in the rear, I'm sure there is great analogy between fruit and “hurises an amphitheatre of hills of gentle slope, brown mans." with the heathery hues of Autumn, dotted with white villas and cottages, and belted with the old patrician trees so great and good, And, for their quiet nests, and plenteous food- THE APPLE puts out his blossoms in early spring, bright and fresh,-scenting the air with sweet perfunie, 'till away they are rifled by the ungentle wind. Weeks after, out swells a little green coated protuberance--like a minute emerald gem--on every twig, and, then, the airs come wooingly and nourishing, and the sun shines warmly, but he swells and fattens to his proper size with as much caution as an alderman afraid of apoThe trees about the City, and as far as the eye can plexy. One by one he hangs his rosy streaks, like reach along the shores of the bay and river, which steal threads of rubys, around his cheeks; or blushes, like a like threads of silver all around this promontory, lacing well trained woman, shade by shade, till the color flies the lawns and fields--the trees are in their richest live-down to his neck like steam. Pluck him not yet-'tis a ry--dying, like so many monarchs, in their most gor- deceitful blush. 'Tis no evidence of love or sweetnessgeous attire. The beech is still brightly green, the shu-no soft confession of passion's ripeness!--He's as sour mach has its crimson fringe, the oak its russet and the as a critic-and will wrinkle your lips like a purse hickory its golden leaf;--and then the small vines cling like webs of fire to the evergreen pines, overrun the crumbling banks of streamlets, or bind up, as it were, the wounds of fallen and decaying trunks. Here--is a patch of verdure untouched by the early frosts; there the new wheat, green as infancy in the lap of age;--beyond, glitters the stubble of last year's harvest; and over all is spread the gauzy veil of the Indian Sum-light through the pale green leaves; till, at length, on mer air, softening the quiet landscape with its gold and purple mist. Every where there is a lavish magnificence of color and wavy ease of outline, to which the eye of a "city man" is entirely unaccustomed after gazing for a twelvemonth on bricks or granite, relieved only occasionally, by the tall, antique, formal, gothic, ungraciousness of Poplars--or the wilted foliage of dwarfish elms. I know no town in our country, where hill and valley, water and woodland--the architectural grandeur of the Church and Column, and the matter-of-fact lines of the dwelling and warehouse-mingle so gracefully as they do in a beautiful picture--as seen from old "Federal Hill." Let the Baltimoreans preserve this eminence as an antique MoUND MONUMENT--of which they may be as proud, as of the structures in marble, raised by their munificence to the Great and the Brave! mouth. Days-months he takes to complete his education-to arrive at the perfection of his mallic intelligence! July, August, September, pour their showery tears, and kiss him with their warm wooing breath, yet he takes their advances with a sturdy bachelor's coldness. There he rests, swelling, drawing, sucking the sap from his parent tree, and coquetting with the sun some gusty Autumn evening, when it gets too cold to be dangling like a felon from the naked bough, down he drops on the breast of his mother earth, returning like a prodigal, when forsaken by all others, to the heart that first warmed him into life. Down he drops, and soon is he drilled away among the bright uniformed ranks of his fellows, in some goodly housewife's garner-for the winter's stores. Now sir, your Peach-or your Fig, or your Grape ;your Plum, or your Nectarine, or your Pear-are honest, impetuous, high-blooded CAVALIERS; not Philosophers or Hermits, like your Apple. Filling their veins with fiery juices in the early year, they rush in heaping crowds to our feasts the live-long Summer. Prodigal, open, generous, confiding gentry! Not hoarding their sweets, or, dallying with the season, enjoying every fair day and gleam of sunshine, till the Autumn winds implore our compassion. But if these excellent FRUIT PEOPLE-the grasshopBut verily a walk--a walk to the " old hill," createth pers of the orchard-sing out their Summer day in revan appetite! So, I went to dine, diving, with a bache-elry-the Apple-poor gentleman-is not without his lor's freedom, into one of those "conchological cabi merits, too. Hath he not New-Ark Cider in his nets," as a wag called an oyster cellar. A Steak--a reins? dozen of "York River," done with a pinch of salt, Pop!-phiz-z-z-z z-z z-z!-There's love in the but no butter, in their own liquor, over a slow fire-glass!-Venus was not born of brighter foam! and the repast crowned with a bunch of Grapes--an APPLE, and a SHERRY COBBLER! Soft, sweet, luscious, loving, glorious, peaches,-a parting kiss-farewell, good bye to ye. The "last of your animal race," are bitter as asceticks-just like old maids, left too long on the bush-very yellow and devilish sour. Then the long Winter nights-the curtains let downthe sofa wheel'd round-the hickory blazing (confound your scorching anthracite)-the round table cleared of its literary rubbish-its Books of Beauty and Books of Loveliness, and gold-bound humbug,--and in place thereof-on its broad brown smiling face reposing the I have always been of opinion, hitherto-and I don't brilliant Astoral-the crystal glasses-the golden Maknow but I think so yet--that APPLES were only made [deira, whence the imprisoned light seems quivering VOL. V.-106 struggling to be free-and the heaped baskets of Nuts and Apples. Apples-bright polished Apples-with their healthy Summer cheeks-witnesses of their quiet, temperate life--blushing with surprize at the goodly company and the warm welcome they recieve, released from their cold prison in the garret. Then comes the gathering knot around the board, and the soft stolen pressure of the hand beneath it;-then the "naming of the Apple”—the peeling-the counting seeds-the telling fortunes-and then, "last stage of all," the plunging of the knife into his very heart, and the passage of his pale remains over the ruby bridge of lips-through the ivory gate-and-and so-farewell! I could write of "Michlemas Grove" and "Applesauce" and "Apple-butter" and "Apple pies," and "Apple dumplings"-aye-and " Apple toddy ;"-but, I won't dishonor the names of the abused fruit by torturing them through a purgatory of fire, or the debasing conceptions of the kitchen. I take leave of you, cold, worldly fruit, on a lady's lip-with a merry party at your funeral-a ringing laugh for your dirge-and so write your decent epitaph! Dry work this-Now for a SHERRY COBBLER! Old Bachelor as I am, and vagrant, too;-without tie or home-I suppose I may be allowed to give the "receipt" for the greatest "liquorary” invention of the day. How happens it that 'twas not discovered before?-'Tis the most cooling, refreshing, luscious, unin. toxicating liquid, that ever grew into ripeness under the warm, fanciful incubation of a thirsty soul. Who claims the conception I know not; but, man or womanthe author ('tis a LITERARY treat) deserves well of his country for giving it to the people without the protection of copyright or patent. 'Tis a fragmentary world of sweets in a little palace of glass. "Waiter,-a SHERRY COBBLER!" Powder your fine white sugar, or crystal candy, and sprinkle the mass through a sieve, over a tumbler of pounded ice-every particle of which is broken into Jumps not larger than a pea. In another vessel, pour two wine glasses of pale gold sherry over the fine cut peelings of half a lemon--peelings which have suck'd into their pores sufficient acid from the ripened pulp, to make the pungent rind flavored like a China orange-and then, for a minute or so, suffer the spirit of the wine to extract the rich aroma. Next, dash the contents of one tumbler to the other, till fruit and fluid, ice and sugar, swect and sour, warmth and frost, are mixed and married by this delicate "runaway" process, and the dew of their bridal-kiss coats the sides of the vessel with a creamy veil. Then-allowing the new married couples to cool from the first extatic moments of their swimming embrace,-you sip the delicious pair in the dreamy elysium of their "honey moon!" 'Tis a raving mad "receipt," this--I know you will say so-but as a friend used to exclaim about my poor, dear mother's Pigeon pies--"I'll write poetry about it yet!" Now--friend White--for a mild, brown, freckleskin'd Havannah !--Sip-sip-and draw-draw-turn and turn about! As a Siesta, is the bright Angel that stands on the top-round of this sensual ladder of dreams. I bid you good bye--before I drop into her tender arms. Addio-Addio! Baltimore, Nov. 1, 1939. B. M. ISAIAH II. 4. BY REV. E. H. CHAPIN. And they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. THERE Sweeps a rush of armies past with banners proud and high, And clarions waft their thrilling strains triumphant to the sky: No dread munition in their ranks, no fearful steel, they bear; No "warrior-garments rolled in blood," no panoply they wear; But on each brow the olive-wreath is twining fresh and green, And in each lifted eye the light of peace and joy is And merry groups are rushing out from cots and shady | thusiasm which true genius ever excites as he pauses bowers: "There is no sword our hearths to stain, no flame our roofs to spoil; There are no robber-hordes to seize the treasures of our toil: The Ethiop, 'neath the burning sun, its gentle impulse knows: From every tribe, in kneeling ranks, upon the silent air Up to the "Throne of Thrones," go forth the sacred words of prayer,— "All praise to him, whose hand alone, whose own right hand hath done This blessed work, and made the hearts of all his children one!" Then, like the strains Ephratah heard hynined by the angel choir, From every lip a song breaks forth and sweeps o'er every lyre; The peopled mart, the temple-arch sends out the jubi lee: Hyperion, a Romance; by the Author of "Outre-Mer." New York: S. Colman: 1839. Literature owes its true charm to mind. This constitutes its power and its imperishable beauty. This is the cunning spell, the weird mystery, by which genius thrills the rudest human heart, moves at its will the vast physical strength of the multitude, and, beyond death and in defiance of time, triumphs forever. This is the reason why, in a thousand years to come, the poems of old blind Homer shall be read by kindling hearts and tuneful lips, and why, in all languages of "the vocal earth," Shakspeare would be understood. It is not enough that your book is "well-written," that the rules of rhetoric are not violated, that the grammar is all correct and the punctuation faultless. But breathing thought, mental power, must be its soul, and without this it is lifeless. It is so with all art. You may take the rough stone and chisel it into shape and resemblance. But this is not enough. The colossal monuments of Egypt have been thus wrought. And there they sit, stiff, upright, and with their everlasting, stony, unearthly gaze. Yet who admiring, as he must, the labor, and wondering at the magnitude of the work, who glows with that en and sense, as you stand before a Phidian statue, or gaze to look upon them? But what is it that entrances soul upon some creation of Angelo? What holds you there with a mysterious, undefinable feeling, like that which possesses one who is rooted to the spot by the meaning smile and glittering eye of a Sybil? Is it the perfect symmetry of the outstretched arm ?-the exactness of the brawny muscle?-the imperturbable expression upon the face? Is it so much one or all of these, as it is the mind, the creative intellect of the artist, that breathes in every part and pervades the whole, and is there nothing here but mere obedience to the rules of tells us that there has been the hand of a master? And art, to distinguish it from the copy of the amateur ?—is there nothing beside this, and the material, by which you would know it from the plastered bust that is hawked about the streets? Genius, then, leaves its unfailing witness wherever it lays its hand, and it can only be imitated or equalled by genius. Hear this ye tribe of writers-ye troubled with the "cacathes scribendi"-who crowd and glut the market at the present day, and oppress us with novel, essay, play, and poem-so that in this twofold pressure, we look around us and know not which to deplore the most, the scarcity of money or the scarcity of wit;hear this, although it comes from one who, perhaps, lacks both as much as any among ye ;—hear this, from Oregon to the celestial Empire, from the centre of every literary Emporium to the remotest garret in its Grub street;-and be it remembered. The great fault of the writers of our age, and for aught that we know of every other, would seem to be that they think authorship only mechanical. They appear to suppose that it merely consists in obedience to certain rules of composition; which may be learned as easily as they would learn to dance by taking the steps-"one, two, three, four." For instance-lines of a certain length, ending, in course or alternately, or as the case may be, in words that have a similar sound, like "rhyme," and "chime," and " once" and "dunce," extended to a certain length, and filled up with words, constitute a poem. Walker's rhyming dictionary and Webster's quarto, will, therefore, "set up" a Poet. Or, again; a story long enough to be eked out into two volumes, with [perhaps] a plot, a hero and a heroine and a few et ceteras, of which one of the most important is a publisher, will surely inflict upon the public a novel. If such is not the actual reasoning, does it not seem to be the principle upon which many writers virtually act? As well attempt to become a Patrick Henry, by merely practising declamation-or a Mozart, by only scraping a violin !-But this is, after all, a serious subject. We repeat the idea with which we set out. Mind is the charm of true literature. It is not necessary that this should be developed in the form of deep philosophy, of profound reasoning, but, still, we say, a writer who would attain just celebrity, must possess creative intellect. If he would wear his laurels fresh amid all the changes of life, and have them green around his tomb in after ages, he must quaff from living streams of inspiration-he must go out under the holy stars, and amid the free, glorious existences of nature; and he must study human feeling in all its phases, its hidden 840 workings and its outward manifestations;-this must he do, until the depths of his soul are stirred, and the exhaustless springs of thought are quickened within him, and then he will be prepared to address the world with a heart throbbing and full of eloquent thoughts. He must have something to write about, and then what he writes will always be read. But, if he determines first to write and find a subject afterwards, ten to one, he lays hold of something common-place, uninteresting, or merely exciting, and when the world has become used to the glare of his book and ascertains that it is only caused by tinsel-when the excitement has passed by, or the melodious words become familiar--it will be pronounced dull and tedious; it will be forgotten and sent to Lethe. If such prove not the result, it may be he handles his subject so awkwardly (possessing not even the charm of manner,) that it drops still-born from the press. broader shadow. We look forward into the coming, losel night. The soul withdraws into itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy." And to this personification of the Rhine: "If I were a German I would be proud of it too; and of the clustering grapes, that hang about its temples, as it reels onward through vineyards, in a triumphal march, like Bacchus, crowned and drunken." The author speaks thus of his Lero: "It would have been well if he could have forgotten the past; that he might not so mournfully have lived in it, but might have enjoyed and improved the present. But this his heart refused to do; and ever, as he floated upon the great sea of life, be looked down through the transparent waters, checkered with sunshine and shade, into the vast chambers of the mighty deep, in which his happier days had sunk, and wherein they were lying still visible, like golden sands, and precious stores, and pearls; and, half in despair, half in hope, he grasped downward after them again, and drew back his hand, filled only with seaweed, and dripping with briny tears! * * "Yet there was much in him which was good; for underneath the flowers and green-sward of poetry, and the good principles which would have taken root, had he given them time, The true writer, then, has something to write about. He is stirred by thoughts, and as they gush forth and find language he enstamps them as upon adamant. there lay a strong and healthy soil of common sense,-freshAnd in whatever form or connection he embodies them,ened by living springs of feeling, and enriched by many faded they will distinguish him, they will constitute an essen- hopes, that had fallen upon it like dead leaves. tial part of the true literary excellence of his produc tions, they will gain him admiration from discriminating and kindred minds. Such an one, and such an one only, of all the aspirants for literary fame, will secure a reputation which shall survive his ashes and his mar ble monument. The following observations are up in Jean Paul Richter. "When you read his works, it is as if you were climbing a high mountain, in merry company, to see the sun rise. At times you are enveloped in mist,-the moring wind sweeps by you with a shout,-you hear the far-off muttering thunders. Wide beneath you spreads the landscape,-field, meadow, town, and winding river. The ringing of distant church-bells, er the sound of solemn village clock, reaches you;-then arises the sweet and manifold fragrance of flowers.—the birds begin to you revel like the lark in the sunshine and bright blue heaven, ets, and dashes, brave and base, high and low, all in their mot Professor Longfellow's book, it is probable, will fail to please many. Those who are merely and strictly of the novel-reading class-who look with eagerness for incident and plot and dramatic effect, and are dissatis-sing,-the vapors rol! away,-up comes the glorious sun,-fied if they do not find them-will lay it down after and all is a delirious dream of soul and sense,--when suddenly they have read a few pages. But those who appreciate a friend at your elbow laughs aloud, and offers you a pece of the creations of intellect, who love the stamp of genius Bologna sausage. As in real life, so in his writings,-the seri and know it when they see it, will pore over its beau-ous and the comic, the sublime and the grotesque, the pathetic tifully-printed pages with delight. Its plot is simple and the ludicrous are mingled together. At times he is senten tious, energetic, simple; then again, obscure and diffuse. His enough. A mere thread upon which the pearls are thoughts are like munimies embalmed in spices, and wrapped strung. But these are pearls. Hyperion gives full about with curious envelopments; but within these the thoughts evidence that its author is a man of refined intellect-it themselves are kings. At times glad, beautiful images, any bears the impress of which we have spoken--of mind forms, move by you, graceful, harmonious;--at times the glar It will therefore be read, and it will survive the emphe-ing, wild-looking fancies, chained together by hyphens, brackmeral productions of the day. But the plot, we say, is simple. We can present the reader with it in a few words. Flemming, the hero, a young American, oppressed with grief for the loss of a dear friend, makes a tour to Germany. Here he passes some time with a "And ever faster fell the snow, a roaring torrent from those young German Baron, and then sets out for Switzer- mountainous clouds. The setting sun glared wildly from the land. He falls in love there and is rejected--but the summit of the hills, and sank like a burning ship at sea, wrecked tone of his mind becomes, finally, restored, and the in the tempest. Thus the evening set in; and winter stood at the gate wagging his white and shaggy beard, like an old harper, book leaves him on the eve of returning to his native chanting an old rhyme :-- How cold it is! how cold it is!" land. This is the story, but this is the mere vehicle for We pass over much that we had marked of the canbeautiful simile, aphorism, thought and description.versation between Flemming and his German friend, the Extracts have already been made from this work to some extent, and we may, therefore, intrude upon the notice of our readers much that they have already seen; but we marked several passages as we went through it, without reference to these prior selections, and we shall therefore give a portion of them, and one or two which we have marked since, notwithstanding. Baron, simply because our limits will not admit of their insertion, and proceed to the following from the reverie of the former: "It has become a common saying, that men of genins are always in advance of their age; which is true. There is some. thing equally true, yet not so common; namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but of every age. As the German prose-poet says, every possible future is behind them. We cannot sup. pose, that a period of time will ever come, when the world, or The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall any considerable portion of it shall have come up abreast with We direct attention to the following simile: around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection,-itself a these great minds, so as fully to comprehend them. "And oh! how majestically they walk in history; some like | few and simple. She rejected the doctrine that it was a place the sun, with all his travelling glories round him; others wrap- of constant activity, and not of repose, and believed, that, when ped in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. Through the she at length reached it, she should work no more, but sit alelse silent darkness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and ways in a clean white apron, and sing psalms." solemn footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen in the sublime vision of an earthly Paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, and, above and behind, the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils!" A description of a spring night: "And at night so cloudless and so still! Not a voice of living thing, not a whisper of leaf or waving bough,--not a breath of wind,--not a sound upon the earth nor in the air! And over head bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innumerable stars, like the inverted bell of some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing fragrance. Or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and rain; but clouds that melt and fall in showers. One does not wish to sleep; but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of the dropping rain." Ballads, the Baron says, "Are the gypsy-children of song, born under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes and by-paths of literature,―in the genial summer time" A true simile this: "No more! O how majestically mournful are those words! They sound like the roar of the wind through a forest of pines!" We assure our readers that we have gathered, as it were, from clusters;—we have omitted much, for reasons already given. With these remarks, we take our leave of Hyperion, heartily commending it to the public as a book worth reading and re-reading. General Instructions to the Consuls and Commercial Agents of the United States. Blair & Rives: Washington, 1839. A small pamphlet, with the above title, has recently come under our observation. It is intended that these instructions should supersede all others by which these officers have heretofore been guided. If these laws are Flemming thus remarks of a tree, that had been trans- in an amended state, it is difficult for us to fancy how planted from America to the gardens of the Palatinate: imperfect the others may have been which preceded "It reminds me of some captive monarch of a savage tribe, them; we still look upon the whole consular system as brought over the vast ocean for a show, and chained in the pub-being imperfect, and wanting a thorough revisal. No lic market-place of the city, disdainfully silent, or breathing only in melancholy accents a prayer for his native forest, a longing to be free." Here is a truth which it may be well to remember, and therefore we set it down: "There are many speculations in Literature, Philosophy, and Religion, which, though pleasant to walk in, and lying under the shadow of great names, yet lead to no important result." The glacier of the Rhone: Ere long he reached the magnificent glacier of the Rhone; a frozen cataract, more than two thousand feet in height, and many miles broad at its base. It fills the whole valley between two mountains, running back to their summits. At the base it is arched, like a dome; and above, jagged and rough, and resembles a mass of gigantic crystals, of a pale emerald tint, mingled with white. A snowy crust covers its surface; but at every rent and crevice the pale green ice shines clear in the sun. Its shape is that of a glove, lying with the palm downwards, and the fingers crooked and close together. It is a gauntlet of ice, which, centuries ago, Winter, the King of these mountains, threw down in defiance to the Sun; and year by year the Sun strives in vain to lift it from the ground on the point of his glit tering spear." Thus discourses the heroine, Mary Ashburton: "And why need one always explain? Some feelings are quite untranslatable. No language has yet been found for them. improvement, however, can be expected until the subject is brought before Congress, and a committee appointed to recommend another code, which shall be more equal in its bearing-more agreeable to our merchants-and more palatable to most of our consuls. The two main pillars of our constitution are, liberty and equality; and, singular as it may appear, the consuls are the only class of officers in the service of their country, who may truly be said to enjoy neither of these desirable features of our republican creed. The officers of the army and navy of the United States, are appointed yearly; and as time passes on they advance in rank. There is with them, so long as they conduct themselves properly, no fear of being turned out of office, or no chance of being superseded by those whose commissions may be of a more recent date. Each one is sure, should he live long enough, to reach the highest grade of his profession. With him there is some hopesome cause for ambition; but with the foreign representatives of our country none. No consul, however unexceptionable his conduct may be, is certain of retaining his office for a single year. In those situations in which a good income may be realized, the appointment will be made a political gift; and as nothing is more They gleam upon us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy, and yet, when we bring them close to us, and hold them up to the light of reason, lose their beauty, all at once; just as glow-changeable than popular feeling, nothing can be more worms, which gleam with such a spiritual light in the shadows of evening, when brought in where the candles are lighted, are found to be only worms, like so many others." And thus discourses the author, we believe, in propria persona. "The shadows of the mind are like those of the body. In the morning of life they all lie behind us; at noon, we trample them under foot; and in the evening they stretch long, broad, and deepening before us. Are not, then, the sorrows of childhood as dark as those of age? Are not the morning shadows of life as deep and broad as those of its evening? Yes; but morning shadows soon fade away, while those of evening reach forward into the night and mingle with the coming darkness." How simple, how natural, how affecting, the piety of this poor woman: "Her heart was a passion-flower, bearing within it the crown of thorns and the cross of Christ. Her ideas of Heaven were uncertain than the period for which a consul, holding such a situation, may retain his place. When a person has remained for a length of time in office he becomes acquainted with the duties of his situation, and ought not to be removed to make place for another who may be totally ignorant of them; and when it is more than an equal chance, that the incumbent to be displaced may be thrown upon the world too old to enter upon any other profession, and without any means of support for himself or family. Most of the consuls, whose places are worth taking, are every day liable to meet with this reverse of fortune. Between one consul and another there is no equality. This will be proved by an example. 'Tis true both are allowed the same name, and are permitted to wear the |