of TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS, containing 'German Lyrics,' translated by Rev. CHARLES T. BROOKS, of Newport, Rhode-Island. It seems to us that Mr. BROOKS must himself be a poet of no common order, to embody, so faithfully as he does, the spirit of the several German bards whose effusions he has rendered into felicitous, English verse. 'The Old Washerwoman,' from the German of CHAMISSO, published in our May number, is included among the many admirable poems in the copious collection before us. We commend it to all lovers of true poetry, and especially to all students of the deep and thoughtful German Muse. 'Wild Flowers: Sacred Poetry,' by the Abbé ADRIAN ROUQUETTE, which reaches us from the press of T. O'DONNELL, New-Orleans, bears evidence, on the part of the author, of a fervent love of nature, and a susceptibility to tender and pure influences. We have seen a great deal better verse in these latter days, but few rhymes whose spirit and inculcation were less objectionable. We gather from a brief poem, in a crisp measure, bearing this motto from BYron:

THOUGH the strained mast should quiver as a reed,

And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,

Still must I on!'

that the author has found adversaries, who have treated him rather harshly in times gone by:

'IN all my bitter woes and fears,

Though left alone,

And though my heart should steep in tears, •Still must I on!'

'Though blamed by those who should protect, Approved by none,

In thorny paths with the Elect 'Still must I on!'

To persecute though all agree,

Ah there is ONE,

A Friend above, who cries to me:
'Still must thou on!'

'Yes, though thy life in wo should end,
In woe begun,

To heaven, thy realm, thy blissful land,
'Still must thou on!" ,

A NEW publishing firm, Messrs. MOORE, ANDERSON, WILTSTACH, AND KEYSE, of Cincinnati, Ohio, have sent us the 'Life of the Rev. Dr. Chalmers,' edited by JAMES C. MOFFAT, M. A., Professor in the College of New-Jersey, at Princeton; and also 'The Poetry of the Vegetable World,' a popular exposition of the science of botany and its relations to man, etc. These books are got up with all the taste and neatness which distinguish the best eastern publications. They are books of great value. following stanzas were omitted from the notice in our last number of the little poetical brochure by Messrs. WAINWRIGHT and GAGE. They are extracted from a playfully-satical effusion entitled 'A Smell of the Hawthorne :'

'Now I'm not one who babbles of green fields,'
Or for a rural life e'er had a craving:

There's not a butter-cup the pasture yields

So pleasant to me as a round-stone paving:
Perhaps my taste's depraved-if so, 't is pity,
But I prefer a very crowded city.

"T would have been death to me some months ago,
Finding that urgent business summoned me
From this gay town a hundred miles or so,

Had I possessed not sweet Philosophy -
For no church penance seems one half so hard
As rustication to a Cockney bard.

'What must be, must be!

therefore, like a man,

I packed my trunk without a single sigh,
(Never to fret, I find the wisest plan ;)
Called not on any one to say good-bye,
But bought a box of very nice cigars,

And BULWER's last, and jumped into the cars.

'A week passed on, my business was completed,
And I still lingered- singular to say--

With hospitality I was treated;

Yet 't was not that alone which made me stay,
But in the mansion where I had my quarters

Dwelt one of Mother EvE's most lovely daughters.

THE

The fine, firm white paper and beautiful typography of this little volume, so creditable to the liberality and good taste of the publishers, will add to the pleasure of all who peruse it. It is for sale in this city by Messrs. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

OUR neighborhood is prolific in geniuses. But all our diamonds are in the rough, and live and die unknown to fame, except in their own little circle of friends and critics. It is a question not easily decided, whether they are fortunate or unfortunate in their seclusion from the praise or blame of the great world. They have a great deal of harmless vanity which it would be cruelty to wound, as it is accompanied by so much simplicity, and an entire ignorance of the real value of the talents they possess. Knowledge might make them unhappy: reviewers would miss the poor little buds before they had a chance to become fruit. It is best their light should be hidden under a bushel, where there is not much likelihood of it being extinguished before its time by the cold breath of criticism. Of all those gifted individuals, famous for native talent, in our precincts, 'Ik Custis' was undeniably the most deserving of the name of genius: I say was, for, poor fellow, he is no more a genius of this world. I remember being much struck by his originality of appearance and character, when I first had the happiness of seeing him. It was at the house of an old friend, who had lately arrived in the country with his family: a very attractive house, for he had three or four pleasant daughters, and I was one of the 'smiled-upon.'

I was sitting, one delightful summer-morning, on the piazza, enjoying a meditative pipe with my old friend, and thinking of his pretty daughters, when I was awakened from my abstraction by a voice, with the sharp, nasal twang of a genuine 'Down-Easter,' making the courteous inquiry: 'Any thin' I can dew for you to-day, Mister?"

I glanced up and perceived a tall, lank, meagre-visaged figure, on a sprained old roan mare, which seemed hardly able to carry the weight of her rider, much less the enormous pair of saddle-bags which nearly hid her from view.

'Any cradlin', any mowin' standin', or any rail-splittin'-ye ha'n't engaged?'-asked the scare-crow apparition, with an expansive and benign smile, divided between my friend and me.

The old gentleman gave a most laconic 'No!' for answer, and resumed his pipe, to signify that he wished no farther conversation with the gifted individual before him: but he, however, was not to be so easily put off; for he dismounted leisurely, and picking up a chip, seated himself on the porch-rail, with the old mare's bridle over his arm, and commenced whittling and talking:

'Well, now, Mister, guess you'd like tew hev' your pieter done, or may-be the women-folks would? Here's the feller can do it for ye, if ye would.' Finding no answer forthcoming, he continued: If ye jest want a small specification of how I dew it, why there's the old Jidge's-old Jidge Harris, over in the Grove: I took his'n, and it can't be beat, no how! Ye see, he hung off about it, jist like yourself, at fust. But now I'll set a spell, and tell you 'zactly how it was: I went one day, when I was dreadful short o' cash, to borrer a dollar from the Jidge, but the old cuss was so cussed mean, he would n't gin it to me no how. He swore he had n't a shillin' to-hum. I know'd better; so I sot a gabbin' some time, and at last sez I, 'Jidge! did you ever hev your portrait tuck?' "No!' sez he, ugly as you please, 'nor never mean to, nuther.' "Dew tell!' sez I; 'why, you ha'n't got no young uns as I knows on, nor a' n't likely to hev, and now you 're a goin' down to the silent tomb, without leavin' any memorial whatsumever of your hevin' been Jidge seven year nor more.' 'Now

you

'd better believe that match went off like nothin'! "Why,' sez he, a settin' straight up, 'I never thought o' that afore: conscience! - ef I hev!'

"Time enough, Jidge,' sez I; 'and I'm the feller can dew it for you, easy as butcherin'!'

What's the cost?' sez he.

"Why,' sez I, 'seein' you 're an old friend, and ha'n't got no ha'r, I'll do it cheap say twelve shillin'.'

"Done!' sez he: 'but whar's your fixins?'

"I hev' 'em out here convenient,' sez I: 'I allers carries 'em along with me, in case some one might be taken of a suddent with a notion to hev their picter 'specially the women-folks.'

"Well, you get ready,' sez he, and I'll go and slick up a bit.'

'Well, I set to, and worked like smoke, till I come to the shiny old head of the critter. It a' n't o' no use, Jidge,' sez I: 'it won't work, no ways. I must give you some kiverin'.'

66

old wig.'

Betsy,' sez he, a-callin' to old Marm Harris, 'fitch me my 'Heavenly marcies !' sez she,' if that don't beat creation! When you guv it to the masons yourself last fall, to mix the plasterin' for the new back kitching, when they could n't get no ha'r any whar!'

"What's to be done now, Ik?' sez he.

"Never mind,' sez I: 'I'll gin you a head of ha'r'll astonish the natives.' Arter a spell, old Marm Harris come a-peakin' over my shoulder, and bursts out a larfin:

"Why,' sez she, 'you've made his top parts as black as the old bellwether's, and he was allers as red about the head as a turkey-gobbler!'

Hold your tongue, Mammy, can't you?' sez the Jidge: can't I get a black wig when I goes east next spring?'

'Old Marm shut up, but I seed she war n't pleased: she went off to wash the dishes, grumblin' at me. But I knowed how to come round the old lady. Marm Harris,' sez I, kind o' coaxin-like, 'jest you stand as you are now, and I'll find room for ye:' and I jest tuk a view of her back parts as she was a washin' the dishes; and I tell ye now, it was as like as life, and more. There was the hooks a-bustin' off her dress: you could a'most hear 'em crack; and the dish-water a drip, drip, drip-pin' from the table all about twice as nat'ral as life. It was the best picter I ever took, and no mistake.'

As he finished his story, his eyes remained on me; and putting his hand in his pocket, with a peculiarly knowing look, he drew forth a crumpled piece of paper, and said, with an insinuating smile, 'P'r'aps you'd like me to write an acrostic on your young woman's name. Here's one

on the names of Ameliar Ann, and her young man, William Jones. It's hardly a fair sample, though, for I made it all while I was up in the timber, a-splittin' rails for old Hiram Powers, and I had n't no dictionary, nor nothin', to find the rhymes to it.'

I politely but positively declined the poetical assistance of Mr. Custis: and rising lazily from his seat, with a look of blank disappointment, the man of genius moved slowly away. But suddenly a bright thought seemed to strike him: he returned, and again addressed the old gentleman. Taking a handful of boxes out of his pocket, he began briskly : 'Any body got the agur here? It looks as though there was a dreadful smart chance for it here, it's so low and ma'shy.' He looked at the beautiful prairie, sloping down to the river, as he spoke. This remark elicited a short, angry negative from my old friend:

'Oh, you ha'n't?' said the imperturbable Yankee. 'Well, may-be you'll ketch it some time, and these 'ere pills was made by a bully-good doctor. They'll cure the agur, sure as shootin'. Why, now, let me tell ye, I've hed it, on and off, more 'n a year, or may-be three, and if I had n't taken fifteen boxes of these 'ere pills, may-be I would n't 'a bin no wheres now. They've done me a heap o' good. Say, old gentleman, hev a box?'

My old friend closed his eyes and made no response: so the poor pillvender lingeringly mounted his Rosinante, and went off muttering wrathfully to himself: That old hoss's a dotin', or somethin' wuss: but I guess the agur 'll shake it out of him yet!'

Strange and ignorant as poor Ik Custis appeared, he was as great, perhaps a greater genius, than many who have a niche in the temple of Fame. In fact, it is a certain proof of talent that a man like him, brought up in the lowest walks of life, should evince such tastes, and prosecute them as far as his means and advantages allowed. Poor Custis! he was happier that he never knew his real worth, or experienced the heart-burning which more knowledge gives to genius.

It is some years ago since we sustained an almost irreparable loss in the death (by drowning) of a little red-headed carpenter, who shone as an author of pathetic and satirical poems, and a composer of western melodies, the words of which were interlarded by very singular French: in fact, it was necessary he should sing his own songs, (which he did with much emphasis,) and to interpret the French aforesaid, before the most

learned could comprehend the wit and beauty of his productions. His minstrelsy, both words and music, died with the author. His place has never been supplied, and never will be, in these enlightened hum-drum days of the west.

Our rare, our truly original geniuses, or genii, are all vanishing before civilization. They have ceased to be content. They learn a little, and failing in their endeavors to learn more, become misanthropes, and write bitter nothings against all mankind, or bewail, in weak egotistical rhymes, their own hard fortune. True it is, a little learning is a dangerous thing.'

We have several of this sort now, I am sorry to say, unhappy in themselves, and a nuisance to their friends and country-editors. They feel or imagine they feel, which amounts to the same thing-that they are predestined to shine as great lights to illumine the world, instead of being content, as heretofore, to brighten their own small circle, like respectable candles which the first breath of criticism could puff out. No! they must all be Byrons or Nortons, without the genius of either, or enduring the trials which perhaps made those two luminaries. But really, a poet has a very hard life in the west. The country is too new for your gilt-edged-paper poets; too full of actualities and necessities for the abstracted; too simple and home-like for the terrible and magnificent; too few of the luxuries and elegances of life for the sentimentalist. For instance, here is a scene in the house of a young poetess, who has all the work to do, from an inability to find a servant, a luxury very hard to keep in the west.

Young poetess engaged in writing an impassioned poem. Husband standing in an unsympathizing attitude, endeavoring to make himself heard:

POETESS: 'Tell me, my heart, whence springs this bitter tear?' HUSBAND: 'I've asked you for my slippers twice, my dear.' POETESS, in provoked prose: Oh! they're some where, Charles: do ook for them yourself, and let me write!'

Tell me, my heart, whence springs this bitter tear?' HUSBAND: I tell you what, Jane, bacon's scarce this year!' POETESS, angrily: 'Oh! Charles, I wish you would save your bacon, nd let me write. You keep putting the rhyme out of my head.' HUSBAND, pathetically: 'Ah! my dear, I wish I could do that!' POETESS: Tell me, my heart, whence springs this bitter tear?' One of the children coughs violently in bed.

HUSBAND, distractedly: Poor Tommy's got the whooping-cough, I

fear!'

POETESS throws down her pen in desperation, and exclaims: Well; I wish you were all any where but here!'

Now I ask any of the poetical fraternity, could they endure this, and continue poets? Our native genius was the only kind that could flourish here, and it has generally become sadly adulterated of later years. There are no more Ik Custises and musical carpenters at the present day, to enchant Yenest country-folks with their simple talents. No more! no more! oh are gone, good old innocent days and all our rough diamonds are disappearing too.