vanced communities, I see only the quaint belfry of the new Presbyterian church and the modest cupola of the City Hall. We are worshippers of MAMMON here, and there is nothing about his temples to point heavenward. Prominent in view is the Grand Plaza, ‘Portsmouth Square,' tastefully ornamented with ancient boots, broken bottles, and superannuated counters, with the joint indications of an Artesian well in the centre, commenced some time since with great zeal by our city fathers, but speedily discontinued; doubtless on the principle that 'all's well that ends well.' Conspicuous, also, is the high form of the Union Hotel;' not much, certainly, in the way of architecture, but not to be excelled in any land for 'creature-comforts;' the 'Eldorado,' chief shrine of those who 'buck at monté,' and otherwise disport themselves; and the new jail, gorgeous with granite and marble, on which the chain-gang have just commenced work, with most rebellious stomach. Hard by is Pacific-street, so called by reason of numberless rows, and the classic precincts of 'CLARK'S Point,' where the sons of NEPTUNE most do congregate. Even at this far distance come to my ears, on this calm afternoon, the tones of a gloomy fiddle, and a sound of most portentous dancing.

It is a curious sight to see noble ships engulphed in the very heart of a populous city, but such a remarkable spectacle is presented here. In the olden time they were dragged far up into the mud to serve as store-ships, and the gigantic improvements of the money-making 'Yankees' have surrounded them with sand, and the city has reached and passed them in its wonderful progress. To a sailor it is indeed most pitiful to see these gallant ships doomed to such an ignominious fate, never more to bound 'o'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,' but to rot ingloriously in these 'yellow sands.' At the foot of the hill upon which I recline are the white tents of the peaceful and enlightened 'Sydney coves,' gleaming in the sun-light like virgin snow; emblematic perhaps of the purity of the occupants. On the hills behind the city, I see houses in every stage of elevation, and some of them are of considerable pretensions. We are not civilized enough, as yet, for TUDOR cottages, but there are some faint imitations of Swiss châlets, standing boldly out from the barren hill, guiltless of foliage. Now I look again upon the noble bay, filled with a vast assemblage of vessels, of every clime and kindred and tongue. JOHN BULL' is here, sturdy and dogmatical; the noisy and garrrulous Frenchman; the swarthy Italian; and all the other nations with their appropriate adjectives. The old heathen gods and heroes are here in full force: JUPITER is setting up his back-stays; APOLLO is full of candles; MARS has grown domestic, and holds a choice assortment of furniture; ARIADNE still lies sad and solitary on the shore, while THESEUS rides doggedly at anchor on the other side of the bay, regardless of her woe. Nor is SHAKSPEARE unrepresented, for 'OTHELLO' is here, seeking new adventures to beguile the ear of DESDEMONA; HAMLET' has given up his moody speculations and gone rashly into the lumber-trade; ‘BRUTUS' is‘up' for Panama; 'CLEOPATRA ' is taking in ballast; and I notice MIRANDA' with her fore-topmast gone, having been roughly treated in a late tempest. 'BYRON' also sleeps here in a muddy grave. Apart from these are anchored the government-vessels, in sullen state, disdaining communion with the common herd. A Dutchman, with an unpronounceable name, is coming up, escorted by one of those fiery and vindictive little iron steamers, shrieking malignantly, as if fretting and fuming within herself that she cannot get on faster; like the workings of a proud and restless spirit in a feeble frame.

'But now I behold the long black form of the mail-steamer, as she threads her way through the mazy throng, rushing boldly outward on her certain though trackless course, regardless of the gathering mist and darkness, bearing her precious freight

that shall move the very heart-strings of mankind. As I gaze upon her receding form, I muse upon the varied contents of those grim-looking mail-bags. What tales of weal and woe do they not contain! - some of them gilded with the bright rays of hope and promise, and many, too many, the dark and despairing sentiments of those who have sunk beneath the influence of a malignant star! What gloomy returns of consignees; what out-pourings of love and devotion from the weary exile to fond hearts at home! All this, in every language, and addressed to every land, is contained within the narrow compass of that long black steamer. God protect that gallant ship, and may no link of the chain that binds millions of warm hearts to the Fatherland ever be broken!

'It is a good thing and a pleasant to meditate at eventide in this calm retreat. I love to withdraw from the plank-roads and bustling throngs, and gain, ANTÆUS-like, new vigor from every touch of earth. . . . But the blue waters of the bay are fast changing to a dull green; the top of 'Mount Diabolo' is veiled from mortal eyes; the Golden Gates' are golden no longer; the breeze comes in chill with the evening fog. I leave my 'bad eminence,' and mingle once more with the busy throng.

W. H. F.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. We make the following extract from a letter recently received from an old (nay, by 'r Lady, not old, but 'venerable !') and esteemed friend, who dates at 'Locust-Farm, Westmoreland county, Virginia :'

'MY DEAR KNICK.: It was only a few days ago that I shook hands with you in New-York. I am now away down here, on the northern neck of Virginia, and not far from the spot on which WASHINGTON Was born; and scattered here and there, and all around me, are the birth-places of MADISON, MONROE, RICHARD HENRY LEE, FRANCIS LIGHTFOOT LEE, etc., etc. Yesterday I was on the ground upon which rest the ruins of the former residence of RICHARD HENRY LEE. All that stands upright of this once imposing mansion is the kitchen-chimney. In front, scarcely half a mile distant, is the shore of the lordly Potomac, here about nine miles across, upon whose beach roll its billows. LEE is gone; his house is in the dust, his garden a wild; but here are the same sky, the same lands, the same Potomac, and the same dirge that of yore broke in murmurs on the shore. The remains of LEE lie in the midst of a corn-field, some five miles distant, over which, I am told, is a small stone, with his name engraven upon it. What a leveller is TIME! Talk of that ancient personage as you may, his foot-prints, although soft as down, crumble the hardest substances, and bury all things. Where is Carthage?'

'My friend, to whom I am indebted for many civilities, in returning from a ride over the grounds once cultivated by LEE, took the road home by the old Yeocomico church. This relic of the past I had seen a few days before. I wish I could send you a drawing of it, inside as well as out. It was built Anno DOMINI 1706,' some twenty-six years before the birth of WASHINGTON. Think, for a moment, of the events that have happened since the sounds of the hammer, the saw, and the trowel were heard at the building of this church, now one hundred and fortyfive years old; of the themes that have been handled in this ancient pulpit; of the hearts that have pulsated within these walls; of the eyes that have shone in hope, or been dimmed by despair; of the trains of sorrowing mourners that have followed, in sad step, one after the other, the beloved ones of whom death had bereft them; of the plighted vows at that altar; of the baptisms in that font ;* - and what crowds of images stand before one! And yet, like some sound in the stillness of the midnight hour, or some vision of the dreaming fancy, all, all are past-all is now vacant and still, and for ever vanished! What a 'ruin' is this church! It would seem, to look at its glazed and unglazed bricks, its massy timbers, and its brick floor and passage-ways, that TIME could not, in a thousand years, have worked so mighty a change in it.

THIS font, I am told, was long used by a Mr. TURBERVILLE as a punch-bowl. Many hundreds of lips have been regaled by the beverage once prepared in this now sacred appendage o the church.

But it has required only the years I have named to effect so signal a ruin.
COWPER sings:

WE build with what we deem eternal brass

How true it is, as

A distant age asks where the fabric stood;
But sifted, alas, and searched in vain,
The undiscoverable secret sleeps.'

'I forgot to mention that few tomb-stones mark the spots where the dead lie; and those which remain are so broken up and scattered, and have the inscriptions so effaced, as to render them useless. The name of 'CARTER' is on the stone that has suffered least. Nor are the graves raised or sodded. How melancholy is all this, friend C ——, and what a lesson it teaches! "Our fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors.'

THERE is that in the ensuing effusion which cannot fail to rouse the slumbering patriotism of every American heart. It was composed by a western poet, in 'one hour, by a Connecticut clock:'

"WHAT! bu'st this glorious Union up,

An' go to drawin' triggers,

Just for a thunderin' passel of
Emancipated niggers?

The eagle of Ammeriky,

That flue across the sees,

An' throw'd the bluddy British lion

Ker-slump upon his knees:

Say! shall we rend him lim from lim,

Wun wing wun way, and wun t'other,
And every sepperit pin-fether

A flying at the other?'

This is the kind of spirit that is going to preserve our 'great and gel-lorious ked'ntry' from premature dissolution. . . OUR friend DEMPSTER, the distinguished Scottish vocalist, was very successful in his recent entertainments at the south. This must ever be the case, where true feeling, melody, taste and musical expression are properly appreciated. A Charleston (South Carolina) journal closes a notice of his last concert in that capital with the following tribute: The treat of the evening was certainly the May Queen.' Into this song Mr. DEMPSTER threw all the resources of a diversified melody: the strain was prolonged until the ear became entranced with its pathetic sweetness and expressive variety. He has been very happy in marrying the verse of TENNYSON to his own musical strains, making the melody as responsive to the sentiment as the sentiment is worthy of the melody. It must be considered as one of the most felicitous adaptations within the range of musical sympathy or correspondence, while in the execution the vocalist-composer appeared to feel the sweet influence of the voice which is represented to have broke, in melting cadences, from the dying subject of the song. Mr. DEMPSTER possesses fine original capabilities, both as a composer and a vocalist; a voice, if not of the utmost sweetness, yet of varied powers of modulation, and under a complete control; a taste that indicates careful, if not elaborate cultivation; and a talent that we regard as unrivalled for wedding, in happy bonds, melodious sounds to charming poetic inspiration.'... A MOST 'extr'od'nary' production is 'Betton's British Oil. It must be, judging from the very remarkable cures which it has effected, as set forth in the proprietor's circular. Do us the favor to remark the following:

JONAS ROBERTS, Tiler, in BLINKER'S Court, St. JAMES, Bristol, was cured of a violent swelling in his right thigh; insomuch that he was obliged to cut open his breeches with a knife, in three times dressing with British Oil.' Witness my hand,' etc.

JOHN MITCHELL, of Salisbury: Had a violent pain in my hip, so that I went double in both of my legs' with two bottles. Witness my hand,' etc.

'Ax apprentice to Mr. STONE, a Tinker in Taunton: was so deaf that he could n't hear the noise of a drum with three bottles: cured. Witness,' etc.

MR. JARVIS, belonging to the 'Tall Woman,' at Norwich, had his hand bit by a mad dog with two bottles. Witness,' etc.

'Mr. HUMPHREY COTTERILL, of the 'Royal Tun,' Coventry, by a fall from his horse, which

strained his ankle; and likewise his daughter cut desperately in the forehead with two bottles: cured with 'BETTON's British Oil.''

ELIZABETH SLOUGH, of Wellington, in the county of Salop, entirely lost the use of her hand in three times' bathing with this Oil. Witness her hand,' etc.

We have no hesitation in pronouncing these 'very remarkable cures;' and to those who believe them to be veritable, we have no hesitation in commending the 'Oil' in question. . . . We have complied with the desire of E. B.;' but he must study condensation and simplicity of style, to insure due acceptance in these pages. Short expressions and clearly-defined sentences are much better adjuncts of good writing than any display of hard words and involved verbal combinations. A THEOLOGICAL disputant having quoted a passage from one of the Evangelists, his opponent retorted: 'But what says Epistle PAUL!' He was dumb-founded! 'THERE is perhaps no feeling of our nature so vague, so complicated, so mysterious, as that with which we look upon the cold remains of our fellow-mortals. The dignity with which DEATH invests the meanest of his victims inspires us with an awe that no living thing can create. The monarch on his throne sinks beneath the beggar in his shroud. The marble features, the powerless hand, the stiffened limb-oh, who can contemplate these with feelings that can be defined? These are the mockery of all our hopes and fears — our fondest love, our fellest hate. Can it be that we now shrink almost with horror from the touch of the hand that but yesterday was fondly clasped in our own? Is that tongue, whose accents even now dwell in our ears, for ever chained in the silence of death? Those dark and heavy eye-lids, are they for ever to seal up in darkness the eyes whose glance no earthly power could restrain? And the SPIRIT which animated that clay-where is it now? Does it witness our grief; does it share our sorrow? Or is the mysterious tie that linked it with mortality broken for ever? And remembrances of earthly scenes, are they to the enfranchised spirit as the morning dream or the fading cloud? Alas! 'all that we know is, nothing can be known,' until we ourselves shall have passed the dread ordeal. And well will it be, if in looking our last upon the dead body of a departed friend, we can say with the sainted WESLEY, in the full fruition of that faith which reacheth within the veil :'

"THE languishing head is at rest,
Its thinking and aching are o'er;
That quiet, immovable breast

Is heaved by affliction no more:
The heart is no longer the seat

Of sorrow, or shaken with pain;
It ceases to flutter and beat-

It never will flutter again!

'No anger, henceforward, nor shame,
Shall redden that innocent clay;
Extinct is the animal flame,
And passion has vanished away:
The lids he so seldom could close,
By sorrow forbidden to sleep,
Sealed up in eternal repose,
Have strangely forgotten to weep.'

The disciples of EMANUEL SWEDENBORG regard all death as a translation to a higher state of being. We say,' writes one of their eloquent ministers, of our departed friends, "They are gone!'-the angels say, 'They are come!' We say, 'They are dead!'—the angels say, 'They are alive!' We say, 'They are fallen asleep in JESUS;' the angels say, 'They are awakened to a blissful and joyous resurrection-morning.' And that this faith of the 'New Church' is sufficient to staunch the fountains of parental or fraternal sorrow of its believers, we have ourselves had an opportunity of seeing. It is not many months since we attended the funeral of a young friend, who, with his family, belonged to the church of SWEDENBORG. The scene at the house surprised while it gratified us. There was no dead silence, no darkened windows and darker faces, glooming in the sad habiliments of woe;' but the windows and doors were open; the apartments were light and cheerful; there were no suppressed sobs or violent weeping. Until the minister began to speak, hopefully and cheerfully, of the departed brother, who had gone to another and a

better world, the friends and acquaintances of the deceased gathered about the coffin which stood in the hall, and spoke familiarly and affectionately of the spirit which had so lately informed the passive clay that lay before them. No bitter tears were shed-no heart seemed wrung with anguish. Certainly it was, to our eye, a perfect realization of the strength and sincerity of a faith which could thus 'overcome the darkness of death' and illumine the gloom of the grave. . . 'I SEE you are in black,' said a friend of ours, the other day: 'Are you in mourning for a friend, THOMAS?' 'No; I am in mourning for my sins.' 'I never heard that you had lost any,' was the instant and keen reply. . . . MRS. R. S. NICHOLS, the gifted poetess of Ohio, we are glad to hear, has in complete preparation for the press a volume of her poems. We commend her collection to some of our northern publishers, for hers are writings that tell upon the heart, and for that reason, if for no other, would sell well. We hope by next autumn to see them in a volume which in beauty and chasteness of execution shall rival the internal purity it will set forth and perpetuate. . . . ‘G. T.'s example of literary trifling is ingenious enough, but somewhat too labored to be effective. It reminds us of some lines which we stored away in one of the cells of our remembrance when we were a little younger boy than we are at 'this present writing. They were upon the death of a young lady named ELLEN GEE, who died at Kew, near London, from the sting of a honey-bee in her eye. We can recall but two verses:

'PEERLESS yet hapless maid of Q,
Accomplished L N G,

Never again shall U and I

Together sip our T.

'For ah! the Fates (I know not Y)

Sent midst the flowers a B,
Which, ven'mous, stung her in the I
So that she could not C.'

WILL not some one of our many legal friends-for we have not a few, albeit we very infrequently patronize the calling — inform us what is the law of this case, which we derive from a correspondent learned in that science? An honest Dutchman once lived in one of the 'Rural Districts,' who scarcely knew enough to catch cold, yet could drive home his brother's cows, saw his wood, and do sundry small 'chores' about the house. He had as definite an idea of political principles as a horse has of silk stockings, but at every contested election he was sure to vote. Not because he took any interest in the act, but because the active electioneerers would go for him; and, as it after many years turned out, because he supposed he was obliged to vote. He had no 'sides' in politics, but voted with those who brought him up to the polls. This soon became so well known to the b'hoys thereabout, that when 'BROMMY' made his appearance, there ensued a grand pulling and hauling to see which should lead him to the polls, and of course which party should have his vote. In these affrays, poor 'BROMMY' would sometimes be rather roughly handled; not unfrequently in the final consummation of this highest act of a freeman, he appeared somewhat denuded in his outer man; in plain English, the poor fellow's neck was sometimes almost broke, and his clothes fairly torn off his back. Still 'BROMMY' bore his afflictions with christian fortitude, and year after year thus gave his vote, amidst much tribulation. This however was not 'BROMMY'S' only affliction. He was obliged to 'train' too. At company-training and general-training, BROMMY was duly ‘warned,' and appeared armed and equipped as the law directs. But it was all 'hay-foot, straw-foot' with him. He knew as little of tactics as he did of politics, and with the same imperturbable gravity bore the laugh of the boys and the jeers of 'the unwashed' as a soldier, which he displayed as an elector. But all this time poor' BROMMY' dreaded the election and trainings as he did losing the cows, or sawing a load of swamp-oak. By-and-by the time arrived toward which BROMMY had looked for many a weary year. He attained