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ceedingly sharp shirt-collars, straight-brimmed hat and plaid tights, who mouths his words and says 'I de-say,' and 'It's very odd,' and 'nice person,' and who talks easily about VICTY' and 'The Duke,' he will bewitch half the women of the town. And if he can manage to drop a compliment, not too clumsily contrived, into the ear of some respectable, established lady, who doats upon herself, her suppers, and her equipage, he will be heralded presently in the town gossip as a distinguished son of Albion,' with supposed acquirements enough to make him a ten days' wonder. Of course, if a shrewd fellow, his acquaintance at home will be all be-duked and be-duchessed, and he will prove a rare trump for such ladies as turn up their noses at 'money' and who have a keen scent for blood.''

Here is graphically sketched a travelled lady, a subject for salon celebrity:

"SHE wears an air of most captivating impudence, and pronounces the names of a great many foreign towns unexceptionably, even to the Gaelic guttural in Munich.' She wears gloves from BOIVIN'S in the Rue de la Paix, and hopes she shall never be obliged to wear any others; she subscribes to the 'Courrier des Etats-Unis, and criticises the American translations of French authors. She drops her cards about town, dating from the Rue Lavoisier, or de Lille, and leaves a regret with the servant that she has no American cards about her. She talks in a hurried, broken, epigrammatic way of Paris shops and soirées; assumes that air of easy languor which becomes the elegant faineant weary of admiration, and gives such interesting details of city life abroad as dazzle her beardless devotees, but which it is plain to see are picked up from a gossipping French femme de chambre. It is wonderful how much pretty talk of travel, and scandal of Paris life, can be accumulated from the morning chats with a little piquant grisette; and if any ambitious conversationist is desirous of lighting up her evenings with richer foreign tattle than can be gathered from any 'scissorings from foreign files,' there could scarce be a happier method hit upon than to import for private service a middle-aged, faded Paris femme de chambre.'

'If thou never wast at court,' says TOUCHSTONE, 'thou never saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation.' Many of our would-be fashionables think as highly of Paris, as a school for manners, as TOUCHSTONE did of the court. Well does TIMON of 'The Lorgnette' say:

ARE we not, under GOD, the administrators of a grand political, and even social experiment? and shall we not have pride enough to reckon successes by their agreement with the great principles of freedom and equality, of manly dignity and individual earnestness, rather than the factitious standards which belong to an older, and what we righteously deem a false system of polity? Let us not bow down to courts, though we have warmed our vanities in their blaze; and let us not bespeak courtly sanction, though it rise like sweet incense in our nostrils. When shall we cease to be provincial in our tastes and judgments, and begin to be American, and earnest? . . . When, in the name of heaven, are we to have an honest, simple, republican basis for our socialities, which shall not need nor ask the meretricious adornments of foreign style, and which shall reject all miserable pilferers of those trappings which belong to the lordly state of the Old World, as incapable of manly intent and a severe republican dignity? The jackdaw may steal peacocks' feathers, but they will not make him an eagle.'

'The Lorgnette' is beautifully printed, and we believe its general diffusion would exercise a favorable influence upon the town. . . How much more pleasant is is to the true heart to do good; to kindle the more gentle and noble feelings of our nature, than by misrepresentations, hints, or dark inuendoes, to break in upon longestablished friendship, and disturb the feeling of years of intimacy! In all our associations, commend us to him who ever presents the sunny side of life's picture to the gaze; he who has always a 'pleasant word to speak,' and is ever disposed to fling the mantle of oblivion over the foibles of erring man. Such a man we could wear in our heart's core, ay, in our heart of hearts.' But from the mischief-maker, whose bosom is filled with a canker-worm, which knows no other pleasure except that which torments others, 'Good LORD, deliver us!' . . . 'Uses and Abuses of Air,' by DR. JOHN H. GRISCOM, is the title of a volume just published by Mr. J. S. Redfield, Clinton-Hall. It is a treatise, by one who thoroughly understands his subject, upon the influence of air in sustaining life and producing disease; with remarks on the ventilation of houses, and the best methods of securing a pure and wholesome atmosphere in dwellings, churches, work-shops, and buildings of all kinds. The work is one of exceeding value to the public, and we look to see it obtain a circulation commensurate with the great importance of the subjects whereof it treats. . . . THESE are pathetic sentences by a modern German author, and will remind the reader of

similar thoughts in verse by the Bishop of Chichester: Why should I die after thee, thou faithful, good wife? Every morning and every evening I shall calculate how deep thy grave is — how much thy form is crumbled away, ere mine shall lie near it. Ah! how lonesome I am!—there is nothing to listen to me now, and she hears me not!' . . . 'Rambledom in Brief,' a friend and correspondent entitles an epistle just received, dated 'Caldwell, Lake George,' and written on the sixth day of June' instimo.' Would we were gazing at this moment upon the matchless view to be commanded from the windows of the apartment whence our friend addresses us his pleasant missive! It is just one year ago this very day, ' of all the days in the year,' since, in company with two or three cherished friends, we inscribed our names upon the window-pane 'hereinafter mentioned :'

'HAVE you any recollection of diamonding your name on a nine-by-twelve pane of glass in room number 63, SHERRILL'S 'Lake House,' on the fourteenth day of June, 1849? If you were not the marker, some fellow, regarding your immortality above writing it in the sand, has thus forged your

name.

You see, by what is written, that I am again on the shores of our beloved and glorious Hori con, gentlest and fairest of lakes; and curious coincidence has roomed me where it did you a year ago. The fact inspires me with a delightful feeling of nearness to you. I think I hear you on the piazza, cachinating over some clever joke, while your eyes wander over balcony and lawn to drink in a pomp and beauty of mountains and waters such as old Earth hoards nowhere else. Last June you were a first guest at SHERRILL'S - SHERRILL's the renowned - than whom was never better landlord or man. This June I am the first. The spirit of Spring, not untinctured with frost, still lingers over the hills and valleys; EOLUS puffeth his cool breath hugely, and travel is not yet come abroad to luxuriate on the shores of Horicon; but the spirit of surpassing beauty is here, and the loss is to those who come not to drink it in. Is not the lawn before me a spot such as described by SHELLEY, where one could

'Lie down like a tired child, And sleep away this life of care?'

Is not all this abounding glory of Nature, in all her elements, a fit altar-place for the beauty-loving heart? I deem it so. Whether I lie upon the lawn, cast my line among the trout, sail among isles laughing in the sunshine in the yacht 'GAYLORD CLARK,' or hold me in communion with the spirits of the old battle-fields near by, I feel the same deep joy pervade me. Could I live as now forever, that joy would be perpetual. 'Old KNICK.' is held in devout as well as merry memory here. As WAGSTAFF Would say, every 'suckumstans' touching his visit is noted down, and the query now is, 'When will he come again ?* SHERRILL has entirely and superbly refitted his 'Lake House' for the coming season. Every thing, from table to sleeping-room, is comme il faut. He is ready to welcome his friends and 'the rest of mankind' to Horicon, and such fare and such sleep as he will give can't be beat in these 'United'n States'n.' This is my private opinion, and I believe you can swear to it. He has engaged most of his family rooms for the season, but there are always a 'few more of the same sort left,' and nobody who is deserving will be turned away. The new steamer 'JOHN JAY,' Captain H. B. FARR, begins regular trips on the tenth instant: 'The CALDWELL' commences on the first of July. On the tenth, therefore, the lake season will be fairly open; and who will tarry in Saratoga when Horicon lies (over a beautiful plank-road) only a few miles beyond? Who will swelter elsewhere, when all is so cool at Horicon? Travellers will regret the absence of Captain LARRABEE, so long Commodore of the Lake, this season. He will tell his stories and quote the poets in some other region. All the 'boys' are at their posts: Commodore SHERRILL, Captain GALE, Lieutenant WELCH, etc., etc., all send their love to Old KNICK.,' wishing him GoD-speed in every good word and work, and the writer of this 'joins in' to the same effect. Whoso wishes to see the beauty-spot of the world must come to Horicon.'

OBSERVE the touching simplicity, true feeling, and natural grouping of picturesque accessories, in the following stanzas by our old and fresh-hearted country correspondent. But for the late rainy weather, which kept the writer from planting corn, and other out-of-door avocations, we should not, it seems, have been favored with his

* Oн, pshaw! now you git eöut! "Taint so, is it?-ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

effusion. We do not lament, with him, nor will our readers, that the 'wet cold weeks' brought out his pen and ink-horn.

We are right glad it rained:

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ON a green grassy knoll, by the banks of the brook
That so long and so often has watered his flock,
The old farmer rests in his long and last sleep,
While the waters a low, lapsing lullaby keep :

He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
No morn shall awake him to labor again.

II.

The blue-bird sings sweet on the gay maple bough,
Its warbling oft cheered him while holding the plough;
And the robins above him hop light on the mould,

For he fed them with crumbs when the season was cold:

He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
No morn shall awake him to labor again.

III.

Yon tree that with fragrance is filling the air,

So rich with its blossoms, so thrifty and fair,

By his own hand was planted, and well did he say

It would live when its planter had mouldered away:

He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
No morn shall awake him to labor again.

IV.

There's the well that he dug, with its water so cold,
With its wet dripping bucket, so mossy and old,
No more from its depths by the patriarch drawn,
For the pitcher is broken- the old man is gone!

He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain ;
No morn shall awake him to labor again.

7.

And the seat where he sat by his own cottage door,
In the still summer eves, when his labors were o'er,
With his eye on the moon, and his pipe in his hand,
Dispensing his truths like a sage of the land:

He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
No morn shall awake him to labor again.

VI.

'T was a gloom-giving day when the old farmer died:
The stout-hearted mourned, the affectionate cried;
And the prayers of the just for his rest did ascend,
For they all lost a BROTHER, a MAN, and a FRIEND:

He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
No morn shall awake him to labor again.

Gill, Mass.

VII.

For upright and honest the old farmer was;
His GOD he revered, he respected the laws;

Though fameless he lived, he has gone where his worth
Will outshine, like pure gold, all the dross of this earth.
He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
No morn shall awake him to labor again.

J. D. C.

To our conception, this is a beautiful tribute to one whose days have been spent in the peaceful pursuit of the most honorable and worthy calling to which man was ap

pointed. Fewer temptations and more pleasures,' says an eloquent modern writer, 'cluster around the path and home of the farmer than of any other man. Of all earthly callings there is none in which there is so much to lead the soul to God, to take it away from the vanities of the world, to train the mind for communion with heaven, and prepare it for unbroken intercourse with heavenly and divine things, as is that of the farmer, who with his own hands tills the field, breaks up the fallow ground, sows the seed, prays and waits for the early and latter rain, watches the springing of the grain, rejoices in the ripening ear, gathers the sheaves in his bosom, and with thankful heart fills his store-house and barn, and sits down content with the competent portion of good things which have fallen to his lot. . . . A FRIEND of ours told us the other evening that he had lately encountered a curious specimen of a Yankee Picture-Exhibitor in a town of the far West. Among his collection was a picture of DANIEL in the den of Lions,' and one of his several minute illustrations to the audience struck him as somewhat unique: 'You see,' said he, 'when you look at that fellow in the red cloak, which is DANIEL, that he do n't care a brass farthin' for the lion, and by lookin' clust you 'll perceive that the lion do n't care a tinker's d —n for him!" That last idea never struck us before as a very remarkable part of the miracle! . . THUS, under date of June seventh, writes a far 'down-east' friend to the EDITOR hereof: 'I have been reading your KNICKERBOCKER this morning by the open office-window. I can put my arm out of the said window and drop a stone into the Kennebec. I can look across the wide waves of this old hearty river, and what do I see? Not buildings and wharves, 'by a good deal;' but green and gloomy pine-trees, glowering into the water, in whose ebony shadows are clustered the dead bodies of their brethren, the pine-logs. How one does love and become attached to an object of nature from long familiarity therewith! I think that I love this river as I should a living, sentient being. The wind blowing in at the window is as if it were dipped in oil; there is a smoky mistiness in the air, and the songs of the 'jolly raftsmen' come faintly and with mellow richness down the waters. Down the river, abreast that bluff, are men hauling in a net, wherein I dare be sworn are the fat, stout, fifteen-pound salmon. To-morrow, an' I live, I track up a certain brook I wot of, and will essay to beguile the speckled beauties from the waters, and will try to forget certain rooted sorrows, in

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THE Sweet reliefs to weariness and care

That friendly streams to fainting spirits bear."'

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It is not many weeks since, slow-trickling with the still unmelted ice of far-off Maine, there comes us up' at the sanctum an oblong box, from the veritable hands of the writer of the foregoing, containing two trout, which were 'humbly submitted as beauties;' and beauties they were, past all peradventure. They are the picked and culled,' said the kind donor,' of a little batch of thirteen which Toм Land I took out of 'Seven-Mile Stream,' which empties into the Kennebec about fifteen miles north-west of this place. We took them yesterday. The seven-pounder came to land compelled by the nerve of my right arm; the five-pounder with Tom's. They will arrive at New-York on Saturday morning, I hope fresh and in good order; they are stiff as bars of iron now. Do you know FRANK FORRESTER? If yea, tell him when you see him what a couple of youth fresh from BLACKSTONE did — albeit not 'exactly' unused to the rod and angle. The capture of them was most ineffably glorious; but I can't go into particulars, as the mail is closing. Again do I pray

that they may reach you in good order, and if you are a christian, write me and tell me how they did come; and if good, how they tasted.' 'Tasted?'. -a feast for APICIUS! One went, carefully enveloped in a white linen napkin, to ‘John Waters,' best of appreciators; and the other, with its antecedent potage and subsequent courses, alternating with vinous potables in authentic,' educated keeping,' made a repast so delicious that the savor thereof still remains as vividly in the memory of the guests at that table of ours as when they joined in pledging the kindly-thoughtful friend of its host. 'I OBSERVE,' writes a Baltimore correspondent, 'in the June number of your Magazine, a translation of the 'Last Prayer of Mary Queen of Scots.' At college, 'down-east,' we used to have the following, or something like it; although I believe nobody can claim the authorship. It has I think the merit of being tolerably consonant with the original:

.

'O Domine DEUS, speravi in te,

O Care mi JESU, nunc libera me:
In dura catena, in misera pœna,
Desidero te,

Languendo, gemendo, et genuflectendo,
Adoro imploro ut liberes me!'

"O LORD GOD ALMIGHTY, my hope is in THEE:
O dearest LORD JESUS, now liberate me!
In durance repining, in sorrow declining,
I long after THEE:

With sighs never ending, and knee ever bending,
I worship and pray THEE to liberate me!'

ST BERNARD

THE recent death of Mr. DANIEL SEYMOUR, a native and long a resident of this metropolis, involves a loss which is keenly felt and deeply lamented by a wide circle of firmly-attached friends, and by our public generally. We have known Mr SEYMOUR for many years; he was an early and favorite correspondent of this Magazine; always a friend, and not unfrequently a kind and judicious adviser (without perhaps inferring that he was such) of its EDITOR; a young man of rare accomplishments, of various learning, and as modest as he was gifted. We fully and cordially concur in the following tribute to his memory, which we take from the 'Evening Post.' It proceeds from the heart and the pen of one who knew him well; and we judge, from internal evidence only, that it is Mr. GULIAN C. VERPLANCK who thus truly expresses the particular and general regret at the loss of one so qualified by nature, education, and taste, to reflect honor and happiness upon himself and his friends :

'THE sudden death of this excellent and accomplished man has produced a profound sensation of grief in the large circle of his friends. He was a man of rare and extensive literary acquirements. He possessed a mind of the highest cultivation, embracing in its accomplishments an extensive and thorough knowledge of the language and literature of the nations of Europe, and an equally profound acquaintance with the classical literature and languages of antiquity. With an assuidity that never wearied, and an ambition that the temptations of easy enjoyment could never dissipate, he studied thoroughly every thing he undertook, and became, in the prime and vigor of his manhood, one of the most learned and accomplished men we have ever met. Nor did these, his varied acquirements, destroy the practical and thoroughly sensible character of his mind. Possessing the grace and refinement of the scholar, with the energy and aptitude for the ordinary purposes of life of a man of the world, he combined in an eminent degree, qualities which are rarely found among intellectual men, and which peculiarly fitted him for great and extensive usefulness. These accomplishments were united in him with an unaffected modesty that gave a charm to his character, and rendered him the idol of the circle in which he moved.

'Mr. SEYMOUR graduated at Columbia college, where he distinguished himself, and was admired for his extraordinary abilities as a scholar. He pursued the profession of the law for a few years, but relinquished it for other purposes, until ill health induced him to go abroad. While in Europe, where he spent several years of his life, he continued his studies, perfecting himself in a knowledge of the languages, nearly all of which he both spoke and wrote with remarkable precision and correctness. In a knowledge of the literature and intellectual resources of Europe, few men of his age have excelled or equalled him.

'Those who had the pleasure of his acquaintance will bear witness to the truth of these remarks, and will long remember him, as the ornament of a circle in which he was admired and loved for the charms of his conversation, and the modesty and manliness of his character.

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