Hill school. Those delineations of the Yankee have long ceased to be faithful portraits of the great mass of the sons of New-England, and it is evident enough to the most unpractised vision that in a very few years long, perhaps, ere the Pennsylvania German or Southern Cracker shall have lost the dialect of his fathers- Mr. Doolittle and Lot Sap Sags will be among the things that were. It is not, in fact, until a type of character begins to vanish, that it becomes universally known and understood.

.

ENTRANCE OF THE CRIME AN HEROES INTO

PARIS.

BY ISAAC MAOLELLAN.

'WHILE passing down the Boulevards to witness the entrance of the Crimean heroes, I met a friend looking on the fête with a gravity mingled of sternness and melancholy. Before his German imagination there was passing down the Boulevards3-not seen by French eyes, dazzleď by the halo of French glory, that surrounded the war-worn soldiers- a ghostly procession of the thousands who will not return from the Crimea! His vision was filled with a terrible dance of death.' NEW-YORK PAPER.

THEY Come! the Imperial cohorts come!
With clanging trump, with rolling drum;
With musket-clash, with sabre-clank;
Troop after troop, rank upon rank!

Beneath thy splendid Arch d'Etoile
See the Imperial bands defile:
Dragoon, Chasseur, and Cuirassier;
The grim, stern-visaged grenadier;
The Voltigeurs of St. Antoine;
The dashing Zouaves' brilliant line;

While the thronged pavements ring and reel
Beneath the artillery's iron wheel.

These be no gala-troops, I ween,
Marching with warlike port and mien
By thy fair borders, lovely Seine !
For as the lightning scathes the oak,
So is each helm by sabre-stroke
And bullet-dint all rent in twain;
Each gay garb soiled by battle-stain.
Yet proudly their brave banners fly,
And proud their step, and brave their eye,
Though scored with gashes rough and grim,
With bandaged brow, and shattered limb.

A stranger gazed upon that scene
With folded arm and gloomy mien:
He saw not in that proud parade

The tossing plume, the brandished blade,
Nor were there present to his gaze
Brows radiant with victorious bays.

Forth, where the Black Sea's billows roar
Around the rough Crimean shore;
Far forth, where Russian tempests blow
Horrid with drifts of blinding snow;
Forth, where the flames of conflict roll
O'er thy rent walls, Sebastopol;

Forth, where the shattered rocks are strown
With purple gore, and mouldering bone;

Forth, where the sparkling snows are spread

With anguished life, with mangled dead;
There forth, his mournful fancy flees:

The dead, the lost, alone he sees!

He views those gallant regiments

Swarm from their countless huts and tents:

He views them on that flaming height,
The Mamelon, in stormy fight;

He marks their thousands disappear
Beneath the murderous strife's career;
The blazing mine, the ensanguined wall,
The bayonet-thrust, the splintering ball,
The cannoneers, all grimed with smoke,
The bursting shell, the gashing stroke;
And all those frightful scenes of hell
Where Death and Vengeance toll the knell!

On thy stern heights, dark Inkermann !
He sees Death lead the battle-van;
The Redan reddens with its flood,
And Alma is baptized in blood;
Fierce Balaklava's waving grass
Reeks where the steps of Slaughter pass;
The Gaul, the Briton, and the Turk
Are toiling at their dreadful work!

He sees no brave heroic crowd;
He sees the spectre and the shroud:
He sees no manly form of life;
He sees the dagger and the knife:
He sees in place of flags displayed,
The dripping bayonet-the blade:
He sees no laurelled conquerors there,
But desolation and despair!

Schediasms.

BY PAUL SIOG VOLK.

MUSINGS OF A CITY RAIL-ROAD CONDUCTOR.

PART ONE.

I was not born for this. No. One odd circumstance with another, a lack of self-reliance and an infirmity of will, (signal vices of my character,) have stranded me upon this queer occupation. My friends say of me: He has no energy, and he is fit for nothing better.'

Well,

so be it. Here I am, and here I seem likely to be. Lucky perhaps I am, and better cared for in these hard times, than many a poor fellow with more than twice my deserts. My life has been a rambling and unsteady one. I have read and seen much of men and manners, and something of books. Having a tenacious memory, and being accustomed to minute observation, and possessing a taciturn disposition, a habit of musing upon what is passing around me has grown with my years and has become inveterate. My present way of life is surely monotonous enough in its routine: the tread-mill excepted, I can scarcely fancy any more so; yet it affords me much food for my peculiarity to feed upon. I have here a sort of familiar footing with the

extremes and the middle of society in this metropolis. Many trifles are dropped in my hearing in the casual talk of men and women, who are my temporary guests, that give me a clue to dispositions, habits, character, and modes and phases of life and traits of men that might be sought in vain from observation of people in their more studied intercourse with the world. One-half mankind are always wondering how the other half live. From my point of view, I look on as their gaze of wondering curiosity is fixed upon each other, and by a mystery of my own can often unravel the secret web of both, as they thus unconsciously betray it to me. When I was much younger, I had a passion for omnibus-riding. However, the rattling noise of the huge wheels over uneven pavements, and the shortness of the ride, often interrupted my opportunities for observation, and cut short my meditations sometimes in the very crisis of the little dramas my characters were performing. In my rail-car much of this difficulty is obviated. Here I have an endless chain: beside, I see more, and hear more, and muse more: whether my musings be worth the jotting down, with a doubting mind I leave others to determine.

PART TWO.

HERE we are at Barclay-street, going up. It is a close damp evening in October. It is growing dark. The car is filling: that is to say, the seats are filled, and some of the sitters are holding children or parcels as large in their laps, or between their feet. Now the aisle is full, and short men are hanging upon the leathern straps pendent from the rails at the top of the car, and tall men are knocking their hats over their eyes against the same rails. Women are crowding in, looking around with any but approving eyes upon the men quietly seated and staring at them as they enter and pry their way wedge-like through the living mass. There is yet standing-room for a few more, by encroaching a little upon the toes of those who are seated. By closely packing, after the manner of smoked herring in a box, still a few more may be accommodated. Accommodated! 'God save the mark !'

On we go, stopping at every corner for more passengers. In and in the crowd pours, and the wonder is that one little car can carry all. The poor little mules strain as they go up the ascending grade, sometimes pulling themselves off their feet before they can move the great load of humanity: finally, aided by a lifting hand from myself and the driver, they stagger on. The car is now getting full: I mean by that, the inside is packed to its utmost capacity, and the platforms are full to overflowing; but there is yet a little hanging-room upon the steps, and this must not be lost. Those who sit by the windows are very likely aged, or feeble, or rheumatic, or consumptive at all events, the windows must be kept shut. Those sitting by the front-door are dapper old clerks in down-town banking or counting-houses, who never take exercise,' and to whose frail carcases a puff of fresh air is as terrible as a blast of keen and nipping nor west wind in January, and so the door must not be opened. The car is air-tight, except at the back-door. The forward motion of the cars prevents the access of air from this direction,

6

and the mis-called ventilators at the top are inoperative and void' as the Missouri Compromise. I stand compressed upon the hinder platform. A hot gust of foul'second-handed' air pours out from the backdoor full in my face. Faugh! it stifles me. The reek of mouldy dripping umbrellas, the aroma of decomposing India-rubber, the exhalations from the bodies and clothing of sixty human beings in various conditions of cleanliness, the odor of innumerable parcels of mysterious contents, fill the atmosphere, if this clammy steam that is stenographing epitaphs upon the windows can be called atmosphere. This vapor in turn is warmed to more than blood-heat by animal contact in passing through the furnaces of so many pairs of lungs in every state of soundness and unsoundness, and is not made more aromatic or savory by the contact. It is hot and moist and stagnant, and sickens me. But this is my cross, and I must bear it. How the passengers endure it voluntarily, passes my comprehension. Surely New-York must be a healthy place if the inhabitants can endure this.

It may be a fancy of mine, but the undertakers' shops always seem to look more bright and cheerily than is their wont as the cars, thus crammed with living freight, labor on and pass their doors. They seem to be on the look-out for a good time coming. If I do n't miss my guess, they'll have it ere long, if we can keep the road and accommodate the public' as we now do. It has been falsely rumored they paid us toll to secure the 'good will' of any little trade in our way. But this is a gross slander, and so far from the truth that I am half-tempted to reveal the truth, that we secretly pay them for holding themselves in readiness in case of any little accident occurring on the road to any passenger being obliged to be set down for want of breath. But I must not betray secrets of my employers.

I open a window occasionally to let loose the pestilential gases, but instantly some lover of fœtid air closes it, with an imprecation against the conductor. I carry my point only in collecting fares of those who have a sense of cleanliness, and prefer to stand upon the front-platform with the driver. It is often a matter of wonder, and always of great impatience to some within, that I am so long occupied in taking these outside fares. I must have the door open to do this, and as the fresh current cools my face and fills my lungs, I am in no hurry to close it. I feign never to perceive the shivering and grimaces and stamping of feet and rubbing of hands of my little shrivelled friend, who always will monopolize the first seat by the door at this end of the car. I know he selects this place so that his gallantry, such as it is, may not be disturbed by seeing the women compelled to stand near the other door while he retains his seat. But a good airing will not harm him. A man whose habits of life have generated in his diseased mind an antipathy to ventilation, has no right to mount guard and keep hermetically sealed the only place the breath of life can enter to those who are famishing for it. If it is necessary to his distempered sense of comfort to inhale the effluvia, it seems to me he has no right to compel his neighbors to endure the nuisance. I may be wrong, but that is my opinion.' It makes me maliciously merry to see him wince and kick and stamp as I let a snow-drift come in upon him on a raw day in January. Now I let the