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All this, so far as the Abbe is concerned, is delivered with some hesitation. Let it pass for what it is worth, and no more. The following anecdote may serve to shed some light on the subject.

When Lady Morgan's France made its appearance, I was highly delighted with it, in spite of the glaring folly that pervades its pages, of the constant introduction of French, apropos des bottes, a folly too common with many authors of the present day, but with none to such an absurd extent as this lady.

This folly I overlooked, in consequence of the striking and exhilarating picture she drew of the melioration of the condition of the great mass of the nation, and the improvement of the morals of the higher orders of society; both of which advantages appeared prominently through the work, and inclined me to regard them as in some degree atoning for the tremendous horrors of the revolution. While I was in this mood, as regarded her work, the Abbe came one day into my store, and I asked him what he thought of it? "Why, sir," says he, with that dictatorial air which he well knew how to assume, on all questions of literature, "it is a mere catch-penny. She had a basket of names on one side of her desk, and a basket of anecdotes on the other-and she picked up a name and an anecdote, and tacked them together pretty much at random." Indignant at this absurd criticism, I observed how very extraordinary it must have been, that a lady so long before the public, and with a respectable character as a writer, notwithstanding the affectation by which her writings were occasionally disfigured, should thus commit herself, being so immediately open to detection, if guilty of such outrageous imposture; having given the names of persons and places well known to the literary world. "Pray, sir," says I, “will you be so good as to point out one or two of those cases? as I am really anxious to satisfy my mind respecting a work which has afforded me so much gratification." This was a poser. The Abbe took the booktossed over some of its pages for three or four minutes-took out his watch-pleaded an engagement-went off without stating one instance in proof of the correctness of his ill-natured criticism-and I never saw him more. A tete-a-tete conversation, which I had had with him some time before, was not calculated to induce me to subscribe to the general opinion entertained of his intellectual powers. I believed, and still believe, that a nice tact, great address, skillful management, and a commanding tone, had accomplished for him, what they have effected for thousands before him; that is to say, operated with the effect of a microscope on the endowments bestowed on him by nature.

A man of sense may artifice disdain;

As men of wealth may venture to go plain.

The true Pathos. To an importunate mendicant, whom I had sometimes relieved, I said one day, on giving him a trifle-" Do not let me see you again for a long time." He conformed to the direction, and refrained from applying for seven months. At length he ventured to bring and hand me a billet, of which I annex a copy, verbatim et literatim:

"Sir-You desired me, last time you relieved me, not to call for a long time. It was a few days after Easter. To a wretch in distress "it is a very long time!" Yours, gratefully, R. W.

Νου. 14.

I had been five or six years writing on the subject of Cotton Crops, Cotton Manufactures, Cotton Tariffs, and Cotton Prices Current, when, about nine or ten years since, traveling through Maryland in a stage with Mr. J. Gales, jun. and several members of Congress, I saw a plant, of a species that I had never seen before, and asked Mr. Gales what it was. He satisfied my curiosity by the information that it was the very plant which had furnished matter for so many of my lucubrations. M. CAREY.

Philadelphia, June 12, 1834.

MY LODGINGS.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. SHAKSPEare.

"BLESS me! what a world it is!—all ups and downs, and downs and ups." Such was a sample of my cogitations as I reached the last step of the fourth flight leading to my Attic-my quiet, sublime Attic, commanding a noble view of the Hudson river, and sundry small sloops,which view, by the way, is greatly improved by the church-yard, which lies vis à vis in melancholy repose.

I have always had a dash of philosophy about me, and Heaven knows how many fine reflections I might have made, had my foothold not given way as I touched the threshold of my aerial paradise, and had not I, by the force of rotary motion, and to my entire inconvenience, been sent to the shades below,-for it was pitch dark.

"Are you hurt much, Mr. B- ?" said Timothy Vocal, issuing from his narrow cubby-hole, which he, to the utter violation of truth and plausibility, denominated his "room," and sometimes, in virtue of a small closet where his three shirts were deposited, his "apartments."

Timothy was a clever fellow, after his fashion,-but Timothy was, beyond controversy, an insufferable bore-he had caught the epidemic too, and was eternally buzzing into your ears, "Rise, gentle moon," or, "Mild as the moonbeam," without regard to time, place, or presence. I hate a mere musical character, with a most sincere inveteracy-from the bottom of my soul, I do detest and abhor him—and more than once did I threaten Timothy with a petition to the Corporation, to have him abated as a nuisance. "6 Rise, gentle moon," quoth Timthe musical puppy!

Well, says Tim," Are you hurt much?" Should I confess it to him, thought I, though I were murdered?-Never.

"Hurt!" cried I; "a good joke, to be sure, if a gentleman can't roll down stairs for his amusement, without exciting the tender solicitude of all his acquaintance;" and here I rubbed my shin, under the pretence of adjusting my strap.

Timothy opened his eyes; the divertisement I had chosen must have seemed somewhat unique. I hate to be questioned about facts, so I bade Tim a good night, and pleasant dreams, whilst he reluctantly retreated into his box, with a stave of "Rise, gentle moon," rising to his lips.

I reached my room, lighted my lucifer, and communicated the flame to an especial tallow candle. Now, thought I, for a little quiet. In a

moment the key was turned, and, with my flannel dressing robe about me, I threw my battered body into an antique arm chair, and, after lighting a cigar, took up the Anatomy of Melancholy, by way of soothing my spirits.

Murder! murder! there's that horrid woman, the mistress of the house, scolding at her Irish handmaiden, from the head of the stairs, and, of course, at the top of her voice. I wish the devil had all the scolding women in the universe.

"Fire! fire! fire!" cries a croaking vagabond, just under my window; "fire! fire! fire!" echo a hundred voices at once, catching the favorite and familiar sound. Good heavens! how the fire, the cry, I mean, spreads in all directions; every watchman is bawling, every urchin is yelping, "fire! fire!" "Go ahead, 23." Curse 23, I wish 23 and her whole company were in the ocean. Well, at last all is quiet

once more.

What impertinent scoundrel, can that be, knocking at my door? Down goes the Anatomy, round goes the key, and in walks Mr. Massachusetts Smith, a species of exquisite and would-be litterateur.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Smith; (God forgive me,) pray be seated." Smith is horribly tonguey, but his words are like water, spread over a wide surface he was never guilty of a pointed remark in his life; he is my fellow-lodger, however, and I must treat him with decency. I draw the cork of some particular hock of the vintage of '22; the green glasses are filled to the brim. Mr. Massachusetts Smith, does n't smoke, it makes him sick, tant pis; so much the less chance of arresting the volubility of his tongue. At first the scene stands thus

Smith, loquitur,—no matter what he says.

B—, drinks.

Smith, loquitur.

B—, smokes,-puff-puff.

"Apropos," cries Smith, "did I ever read you a story of mine, called Lionel the Lawless ?"

Heaven forbid! I inwardly ejaculated. "No, my dear Sir, you never did; but I have no doubt, that I shall see it soon in print, and I should lose half the pleasure of reading it, by hearing it read."

"Oh! you need n't mind that; I want your opinion of it, I'll go and

get it."

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Worthy reader, with honest sincerity, I can put my hand upon my heart, and declare, by all my hopes of heaven, that I envy no man the feelings which I experienced, during the little space which intervened between the departure and return of my torture. A cold perspiration burst over my frame, and my very hair bristled at the thought of what I was about to endure, and that too in my own citadel, my chosen sanctuary: it was too, too abominable. Sorrow is vain, however, and I was forced to screw my courage to the sticking point," nolens volens, for the thing was past praying for. I had one consolation left, my cigars, and I did not spare them. All things must have an end,-so Smith's story had, though my recollection does not go so far back as its beginning. I approved it highly, deplored that it had been kept so long from the world, and joined the gifted author in regrets, that another story of his had been lent out, to my damage, I suppose, of another evening,-the deuce take it. (Exit Smith.)

Let me see, what shall I read,—a chapter in Job, or a few pages of Priestley's Autobiography?-bah! I shall never get over this shock. Striking twelve, eh! well, I'll go to bed, and try to sleep it off.

"Dingle, dingle, dingle!" Now what can that little bell mean? it can't be breakfast time yet. I rub my eyes, yawn, stretch, rush to the window. A rainy morning, delicious climate, charming May, exquisite Spring. Fire and fury! what a dull, scraping, tearing apology for a razor. I shall certainly see-saw all the skin off my chin. What democratic linen! it might pass for bombazine. I wish I knew who invented shirts; I would burn him in effigy every morning.

Here I am, at last, seated at the breakfast table, as it is called. "Very sorry," squeaks my landlady, for the three hundred and sixtyfourth time, during the last year, to my certain knowledge, “very sorry, ladies and gentlemen, that the coffee is burnt, especially as I have nothing but Graham bread in the house."

Merciful Heavens! was ever such an imposition heard of. Coffee! quoth a'-three kernels of burnt rye, to a gallon of Manhattan water, is the modest beverage before my landlady, if that may be styled Coffee! But n'importe; she was once (alas!) in better circumstances, and my mother insists upon my starving with her, in common with the rats and mice of the family. This system of starvation is no joke, though I never relished the idea of erecting the empire of the mind over the deserted caverns of the stomach it makes me feel pathetic to think of it.

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Just hear Bellamy, at the other end of the table, attempting a witticism it is enough to make a man melancholy for a month, to hear wit squandered before such sorry fare; the very fact is prima facie evidence of the want of wit. Observe that dirty fellow opposite, picking his teeth, with all the gusto of enjoyment: he subsists on Graham bread, and would not eat cake at his own wedding, for fear there should be brandy in it. His motto, he says, is, "No alcohol, tea, or coffee ;" and his coat of arms is, probably, a skeleton rampant, quartered on his favorite loaf.

I am the most miserable dog in creation. I go about my business with an aching heart, and shudder at the return of nightfall.

Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred,
Nor taste the fruits, that the sun's genial rays
Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach,
Nor walnut in rough furrowed coat secured,
Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay ;—
Afflictions great!

New York, June, 1834.

J. Phillips.

B.

SCENES IN EUROPE.

VALLEY OF THE RHONE.

JOURNEY OVER THE SIMPLON.

On a beautiful afternoon in August, I left Geneva, in company with a Tuscan lady, who was on her way to Florence. We followed the road along the northern shore of lake Leman, and, going by easy journies, reached the little village of Aigle, at the close of the second day. We had now lost sight of the lake; inaccessible mountains rose up on each side, leaving a narrow, but fertile valley, through which the Rhone flows. We traveled along the banks of the river, crossing and recrossing several times, till we reached Brieg, where the road begins to ascend. On the way, we passed many beautiful and romantic spots; the bridge of St. Maurice, a single arch of two hundred feet, thrown across the Rhone, the cascade of Pissevache, which falls from the alps, into the valley beneath, displaying a thousand rainbow hues in the sunlight, and the Tourtemagne, another cataract, less lofty, but even more picturesque, tumbling over the mountain side, and hurrying to the valley.

One afternoon, we halted at the little city of Sion, one of the most remarkable places I ever saw. It is situated in the valley, about midway between the Alps on one hand, and the continued chain of the Jura on the other; it has the appearance of the greatest antiquity; a lofty wall, with indented battlements, encompasses it entirely, so that the only approach is through a few gateways, whose time-worn stones seem tottering to their fall. It is an aristocratic little city, the residence of a Bishop; and the houses have an air of grandeur rarely to be met with in the towns of Switzerland.

On the eastern side, two hills, entirely distinct from each other, yet not more than half a mile apart, rise suddenly from the plain, to the height of four or five hundred feet, and apparently inaccessible except on the side towards the city. The summit of each of these hills, or rather mountains, is crowned with the ruins of an immense castle. With much ado, we mounted up to one of these ruins by a footpath, which winds along the side of the hill. We had toiled upward for some time, but still, as we looked up, there was the immense castle far, far above us, the formidable walls resting on the very verge of a perpendicular rock, and apparently an eagle's flight alone could reach them. My companion, fatigued with having already mounted to a great height, sat down on the grass in despair; but I determined to look a little farther, before I gave up the point. Ascending somewhat higher, I came to the eastern side of the hill, where I found myself on a small platform, which looks down upon the valley and terminates in a precipice of several hundred feet, perpendicular, at the foot of which, the stormy Rhone sweeps furiously by. Still I found no access to the castle which stood far above me, the rocks of its foundation setting hope at defiance. At length I spied at the foot of the rock, a low, narrow gateway, which I passed, and, turning to the left, and then to the right, saw before me a stairway, so long that it seemed to mount up to the very heavens. The steps were formed of rude stone, yet broad; and the ascent was so gradual, that a horse might easily pass up and down. Satisfied that this was the only entrance, I returned for my companion, and we ascended together. A large and strong gate, seemed anciently 10

VOL. VII.

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