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and who viewed all events in aspects so opposite, that while one laughed at every thing which happened, and deemed it a good joke, the other cried at every occurrence, and deemed it only a fresh calamity. These antagonistic results evinced that mirth and sorrow are not necessary consequences of any given event. While I was thus musing I must have fallen into a dream, for I saw a little old woman with a very high cap on her head, and a prodigously long nose on her face. She seemed to be almost all cap and nose. Her appearance was so irresistibly grotesque, that I could not help watching her movements.

She saw my intention, and at once kindly undertook to relieve my curiosity. She informed me that Providence had blessed her with two granddaughters, and for which she supposed she ought to be thankful; but one of them occasioned her much trouble. The troublesome one was named Crybella, and she was always in tears; things never occurring exactly as she desired. Nature had given her a pretty face, but she had so distorted her features by frequent crying, that they had become crooked; just as the trees of a forest will eventually obtain an oblique inclination when they are too frequently subjected to strong winds from any one point of the compass. The other granddaughter was named Smilianna, and she was always smiling. The habit seemed to agree with her health ; and it also influenced her features, making them look bright, plump and frolicksome.

The old woman performed a weekly visit to her granddaughters, who resided at different boarding schools; and she being thus engaged now, I determined to accompany her. At her last visit she had taken to each of the girls a silver fruit-knife as a present; and she now carried a large basket which contained another present. We found poor Crybella in great distress. Whether her tears commenced their How as soon as she saw her grandmother, I could not ascertain ; but they continued to flow all the time we were with her. She insisted that her grandmother should take back the fruit-knife and retain it safely, as she was sure it would be stolen or broken, or subjected to some other mischance, if it remained at the school. The poor grandmother received back the knife, and was sorry it had occasioned so much trouble; and as Crybella had heretofore complained of sleeping without a pillow, the old woman had brought one in the basket; and hoping the granddaughter would thenceforth sleep more comfortably, gave the little girl the pillow, and departed to visit Smilianna.

Smilianna knew her grandmother's knock, and came bounding to the street door. She seemed delighted with the old lady's visit, and hugged her with so much apparent good will, and looked so happy, that I thought she was the most lovely girl I had ever seen.

Smilianna ran up stairs, and soon returned with her fruit-knife. She had greatly improved its appearance by washing its pearl handle, and polishing its silver blade; and she declared that every apple which she had eaten with it, tasted more delicious than any former apples, by reason of its being peeled and cut with a silver knife. The old woman could not help smiling herself, at the good humor and kind feelings of her granddaughter; and she ended her visit by leaving with her just such a pillow as she had left with Crybella.



Time soon passes away when we are asleep. I thought a week had already vanished, and that the old lady again appeared and invited me to accompany her to her granddaughter's. On we walked till we came to the boarding-school of Crybella. We knocked several times before the door was opened, and we waited no short time in the parlor before the little girl was ready to meet us. She appeared at length, but was quite unwell

, owing, as we soon found, to the pillow. It had been made of new feathers, and possessed accordingly so unpleasant an odor, that the

poor child had been sadly annoyed. She had attempted to correct the evil by throwing over the pillow case a quantity of cologne water; but that remedied the defect for only a few moments, and then made it worse by contrast; hence instead of using the pillow to sleep on, she had used it to cry on till her head ached and she could obtain no rest. The poor old woman was grieved at this unfortunate result of her intended kindness ; but she had brought a new present which was very opportune, and could not fail from yielding delight. She had brought a fine fresh orange, rosy and fragrant; and taking it out of her basket delivered it to the granddaughter.

I saw that Crybella was disappointed at this present, her grandmother's remarks having induced her to expect something better. She therefore, only cried still more violently than previously; though she attempted to conceal the cause, and attributed the increased tears to an increase of head-ache. We next went to the other boarding-school and saw Smilianna, who was gay and pleasant as usual. She received her orange with unusual pleasure, because she could experiment on it with her silver knife, which she doubted not would greatly improve the flavor of the orange. She expressed also unbounded delight from lying on her new pillow, except that it enticed her to sleep longer than the rules of the school would permit, and made her too desirous for the arrival of bed-time.

Another week flew away, and I again accompanied the old woman to see her granddaughters. We went first to Smilianna, who was all gaiety as usual. She showed us a flower-pot in which she had planted some of the seeds of the orange with the intention of raising an orange tree. She had been happy the whole week in procuring the flowerpot, preparing the loam and in anticipating the maturity of the tree, which was to gratify her and her companions with oranges; not forgetting that the first fine ripe orange was to be given to her grandmother.

Poor Crybella, whom we next visited, was as unhappy as usual. Having no fruit-knife, she had employed her teeth in taking off the the rind of the orange, and it had blistered her under lip. She had also discovered a small pimple on the tip of her nose, and it must in some way, she thought have proceeded from the acrimony of the orange peel. She cried piteously at this double affliction, and entreated her grandmother to take her from school, where nothing occurred but a succession of misfortunes. The old woman listened with impatience to these unfounded complaints. I saw she was struggling hard to suppress her feelings, but they eventually overcame her judgment. She stamped on the floor with wonderful energy, and raising her hand to her face, she pulled at her big nose till it broke off: when she threw it at her granddaughter, and it fixed itself firmly where the pimple was alleged to be situated. There, exclaimed savagely the old woman, take that and wear it during the rest of your days. I have been happy despite of it, and you have not been happy though exempt from it. If it shall bring you to your senses you may still be happy, as I have been; and if it shall not, you may as well be unhappy with some cause, as to be unhappy without a cause.' Crybella felt that something had happened to her, she knew not what; till turning toward a looking-glass, she saw the immense nose of her grandmother standing prominently and permanently on her own. She shrieked till all the household ran into the room to ascertain the cause of so much disturbance, and amid the noise I awoke; and immediately wrote out the dream for the amusement of the thoughtless, the instruction of the thoughtful, and a fitting finale of our queer philosophical trialogue.

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Man, the lord of creation, will extirpate the noble creatures of the earth, but he himself will ever

MRS. SOMERVILL.. be the slave of the canker-worm and the fly.'

How full are we of majesty and might!

We bid the proudest beasts our menials be,

And blithesome birds, forsaking courses free,
With our commissions laden, plume for flight;
We grasp and guide the pencils of the light;

We sweep triumphant o'er the surging seas;

And our uplifted eyes unblenchingly
Find servitors in starry hosts of night.

The subtile lightnings, on the vibrant wire,
Our faithful heralds, swift and silent, thrill ;

Wind, wave and wood submissively conspire
To work the mandates of a potent will;

Yet doth the Soul, like flames of rushing fire,
Grow, by consuming, more insatiate still !

How frail we are, and full of impotence !

A twinging nerve, an insect's tiny sting,

Hot throbs of keenest agony may bring,
Wherefrom our strength awards us no defence.
The faintest whisper of malevolence,

A glance, a curling lip may fling,

Despite our loftiness and glorying,
Drear darkness on the spirit's sunny sense.

No blossom trembling in the embrace of air
More insecurely clings to life than we;

When ruthless winds enclasp the floweret fair,
Its odorous beauty and its being flee;

So Death's chill fingers touch us unaware,

And where is all our vaunting majesty! Dover, (N. H.,) June, 1850.

8. J, P.

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Great war-god! mighty Ares! hear our hymn,
Sung to thee in the wood recesses dim,
Of dusky Canà, near the Scavian wave!
When war's red storms in lurid fury rave,
And the fierce billows of his hungry tide
Over the groaning land sweep far and wide;
When his wild legions clad in gleaming steel,
And bristling thick with javelins madly reel
In desperate conflict; while the mighty roar
Peals upward, shaking Heaven's great golden floor,
Even as the tumult of the maddened sea
Shakes granite towers, when Fear and AGONY
And DESPERATION riot hand in hand,
And fire and famine waste the lean, lank land;
Then thou rejoicing ragest through the field ;
Like mountain thunder clangs thy brazen shield,
Thy falchion, like the lightning, flashes far ;
The frightened earth, under thy sounding car,
(Wheeled swiftly by thy brazen-footed steeds,
Flight and mad TERROR) shuddering quakes and shivers,

And even as the war's red surge recedes,
Swelled brooks of blood run downward to red rivers.

Turn thy wild coursers from our lovely land ! Let not their hoofs trample our golden strand; Shake not thy spear above our fruitful hills, Nor turn to blood the waters of our rills; Crush not our flowers with thy remorseless wheels, Nor let our grain be trod by armed heels, That the poor starve! Let not thy sister ride, With PESTILENCE and Famine, by thy side ! But come with Venus, in thy nervous arms Enfolded, radiant with a thousand charms, Her lovely head leaned on thy massive chest, Her sweet eyes soothing into placid rest Thy fiery passions; while her doves glide through The sparkling atmosphere. Bring with thee too Thy lovely children, at their mother's side, Eros, whose form expands and wings grow wide When his sweet brother Anteros is near, The God of tenderest love, and faith sincere, With fair Harmonia clinging to thy neck, And breathing music with her glad caresses, While the young graces hover round, and deck With dew-enjewelled flowers thy loved one's golden tresses.

Let thy harsh wheels roll through Abarimon,
Where Mount Imaus glitters in the sun,

Throned like a king in solitary state;
Make these more rugged and more desolate
Than frozen Scythian wildernesses ; grind
To dust the Indian rocks; and, like the wind,
Drive thy fleet coursers through the Persian plains,
And over Bactria's barbarous domains.
But spare the isles of our beloved Greece,
And leave them sleeping tranquilly in peace !
Here, under an old, stately, branching oak,
Thiné altar sendeth to the clouds its smoke,
Where'er the wolf and hungry vulture breed,
The magpie and the bold and generous steed.
We bow in adoration at thy shrine,
Dark-bearded God, majestic and divine !
Our incense burning loads the eddying air,
And thy Cytheris joins us in our prayer.
Wilt thou not listen kindly to the strain
Which now around our vine-clad hills is pealing,

For when did Beauty ever sue in vain,
Even in his sternest mood meekly to Valor kneeling ?


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In the catalogue of the recent dead, many will look back with affectionate regret upon the name of Thomas Hood. It would be ungrateful not to remember an author who has done so much to captivate our silent hours, and, from the very ills of his own life to inculcate the lessons of cheerfulness and love. When with the continual corruscations of his wit there came also the melancholy token that it hovered over decay, and in the midst of sympathetic smiles the light went out, the tears which followed him vindicated, in his last hour, that he had equal power over both. In some of his latest poetical compositions he may be said to have woven a proper garland for his own grave,

and the interest of those who watched his departure, even from this distance over the water, is well represented in those exquisite lines written in the death chamber of a young woman. Thomas Hood is no more. The periodical visitings of his welcome face shall never come again to enhance the pleasures of the winter fireside; and alas! thel egacy of his winnowed works, rich as it is, testifies rather what he might have been. There was the inherent power to do better things when the occasion should be granted. No man could hold the rank of a professed humoristwhich, if force must be applied, is for the most part a melancholy calling- and so well adhere to the legitimate. Not that he always did or could, under such circumstances; for a compulsory smile will exagge

TO THE EDITOR. — The above essay, like the previous one on LAMB, having been somewhat marred in the printing, and interpolated when it first appeared in print, is sent to you in the hope that in its corrected state it may find a place in the pages of the KNICKERBOCKER.

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