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while little Mademoiselle Louise wants to run away, and pulls her bonne by the skirt, to keep her from going near the nasty great cannon. But Jeannette, the bonne, magnetized by the basilisk eye of a trooper in the crowd, stands her ground, and says, as she administers a wholesome shake to little missy: “We must stay here, because people must n't be cowards; and beside, when the gun shoots off, there is no more fear of thieves nor nothing. Just as Jeannette has arrived at this logical conclusion, the gentlemen who do a conveyancing business in watches, handkerchiefs, and snuff-boxes, and who never lose an opportunity of exercising their professional abilities, enter the garden, and mingle with the crowd assembled about the gun.

The moment arrives; every body is on tip-toe; and just as every body is about to give it up, bang! goes the gun. · Then the gamins jump and shout for joy; and the stout gentleman who has his watch out returns it complacently to his large fob, and smiles with satisfaction as he says to himself: "Just with the gun: I have the sun in my pocket.'

A fat old lady who is passing through the garden with her poodle, never thinking about the time of day, starts with a shriek, and cries in faltering accents: Heaven preserve us ! what on earth can that be!" The poodle yells, and runs a short way with his tail down: then stops short, out of wind, and barks wheezily at himself for being such a fool.

A cynical-looking elderly gentleman turns, pulls out an ancient chronometer of the fashion known as “Nuremburg Eggs, and finding it about ten minutes slow, makes a face up at the sky, and says: 'How fast the sun is to-day!'

Look at Jeannette, the pretty nursery-maid, who insisted upon remaining near the great gun with her little charge. She is so intent upon the shot, or upon that basilisk of a trooper, that she is quite insensible to the neighborly attentions of a chevalier who has just helped himself to her pocket-handkerchief; and so she leads the children away, saying: “Ha! ha! that was a fine shot. I hope you a' n't afraid of thieves nor nothing after that!'



'Tis mid night hour: the world in sleep

Is gently borne through empty space,
Whilst I å restless vigil keep,

Still haunted by thy face.
But, dear one, rest, and dream that we

Are arm-in-arm in yonder grove,
Whilst I am whispering low to thee

My simple tale of love!
'Tis mid-night hour: the breezes sigh;

The rippling stream glides smooth along,
And seems to murmur sweet reply,

To cheer my lonely song.
Then, dear one, rest, and dream that we

Are arm-in-arm in yonder grove,
Whilst I am whispering low to thee

My simple tale of love!

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All books, like the languages in which they are written, may be divided into two classes : the living and the dead; into those which, at their birth, became “living souls' by the inspiration of their creators, and those — the far greater number — that have nothing but a "name to live,' without a solitary spark of inherent vitality, and incapable even of galvanic life ; mere mummy-forms, appearing above ground only to burden the earth with their presence, when they ought rather to be quietly sleeping in their proper place below it. Truth compels us unwillingly to say, that too large a proportion of our books of history belong to this latter class. Hitherto, Dr. Dryasdust has been suffered to stand as the representative of the great body of historical writers and antiquaries, and it is high time for him to yield his place to a more genial successor. We can discover no valid reason for the common dryness and dusty deadness of historical literature. It is not evident to us that even a genealogical tree, for example, should so uniformly stand a sapless congeries of naked branches, with neither leaf, nor flower, nor fruit, save always a super-sufficient quantity of dates, very hard and very dry, and not easily digestible by the most eupeptic' intellectual stomach. The historian, assuming as he does the office of Recording Angel, should go farther still, and borrow some little power, at least, from the Angel of Resurrection; so that when he blows his trumpet, the dead millions of the past shall be made to rise again and march visibly before us ; not bloodless and bodiless phantoms; not sheeted ghosts, nor bandaged mummies; but real, personal, living, breathing, acting men, conquered from the grave's oblivion, and born again into historic life, years, centuries, and perhaps millenniums after their toughest bones have mouldered.

* HARTFORD IN THE OLDEN TIME: Its First Thirty Years. By ScÆva. Edited by W. M. B. HARTLEY. With Illustrations. Hartford : F. A. Brown. 1853.

Whatever else may be said of the book before us, of which we have undertaken to give some account - this History of Hartford's First Thirty Years — no one can hesitate to acknowledge that it is vital in every part;' full, even to overflowing, of rich intellectual life. Were it not for the manly force of thought and utterance which stamps itself on every page, its exuberant vitality would vividly remind us of the romping, frolicking, rioting gambols of a child; such a child as we sometimes see, perfectly healthy and vigorous, and constantly expressing its vital power in all possible forms of strength and gracefulness. But we shall by and by speak more particularly of the 'interior life' of this volume. For the present, let us give the history of its origin, together with a just word or two regarding its external aspect.

The several chapters which compose the book appeared originally as articles in the Hartford Daily Courant, with the signature of SÆVA;' the significance of which name will be apparent to those who remember the Epistle of Horace, 'Ad Scavam. We betray no confidence, for the fact is generally known, when we add that 'Scæva'is the nominal representative of the Hon. J. W. STUART, a gentleman who has devoted much of his abundant leisure to historic researches ; incited thereunto, perhaps, by the circumstance that upon his grounds and beneath his windows stands the famous 'Charter Oak,' that noble tree which, nearly two hundred years ago, held fruit within its old gnarled body far richer than that which the ' Royal Oak' of England once hid among its branches.

These articles, as they appeared from time to time, were received with interest and admiration by all intelligent readers; and as the series drew near its close, a general prayer was uttered (the muse of Mrs. Sigourney adding her poetic petition) that the author would gather them up and reproduce them in the permanent form of a book. Mr. Stuart did not hold himself at liberty to refuse a request so just and so earnestly urged; and taking to himself an editor, W. M. B. Hartley, Esq., the book in due time made its appearance. Editor Hartley, we must say in passing, has performed his part of the task well. He has contributed a graceful and appropriate preface, a few notes in the body of the work, and we are also informed that its graphic illustrations were all engraved from original sketches by his practised pencil.

It is always pleasant to find a beautiful spirit beautifully embodied; and if the internal matter is worthy to be so clothed upon, we experience a certain esthetic delight whenever the vision of fine, white paper, clear type, and tasteful decorations generally, greets our eyes in the shape of a book. For the credit of our friends and towns-men, F. A. Brown, the publisher, and Case, Tiffany and Company, the printers, we are happy to say that few books have ever appeared from the press in this country, conceived in better taste, and executed with more perfect success, than

Stuart's History of Hartford. This is high praise indeed, but no competent critic will pronounce it at all extravagant. Returning to the matter of the volume, it is possible that some will object to the peculiar style in which it is written, as below the dignity of history; or if not below, then at least on one side of it. But in adopting this somewhat fantastic dress, this Joseph's coat of many colors, wherein to clothe his thoughts, the author did not act out of mere eccentricity or caprice. The first necessity, as well as the highest merit of all writers, is to be read; and Mr. Stuart was well aware that to secure this result, something more was needed in the present case, than the stately, solemn, respectable march of the historic pen. Respectability, we are sorry to say, is very apt to be dull in literature as elsewhere. Hence the free and fearless caracoling of Scaeva; sometimes extravagant, perhaps, but never ungraceful; and the more readily pardonable, inasmuch as he is careful, in all his prancings and curvetings, not to leave the firm foundation of fact. Articles written, as these were, for a daily paper, must have something in them to seize and fix the roving eyes of newspaper-readers, a class of persons not greatly distinguished for patient study of the more profound productions of literature. For ourselves, we are grateful for the book as it is, and have no desire to indulge in critical comment. We must be allowed, however, to express some slight dissatisfaction with its super-abundance of classical quotation and allusion. This doubtless shows the extensive reading and tenacious memory of the writer; but a mindso rich in original wealth as his, had no need to adorn its works so lavishly with poetic garlands, woven by the hands of others. Mr. Stuart's volume is substantially much more than it claims to be. He calls it the history of a town; but it is in fact the history of a State, during the period which he embraces; since at that time Hartford was Connecticut in a more perfect sense than Paris is France. We have long needed a new history of Connecticut, for the tedious Trumbull is not readable by the present generation, and in the volume before us we have a most valuable contribution toward such a work. Might we whisper a word of counsel in Mr. Stuart's ear, we would say, ‘Friend, go up higher; let your pen take a wider sweep; let your “Thirty Years’ become two hundred and thirty, and give us what we so much want, a complete history of our native State.’ The great merit of this book, in our eyes, is its life-like presentation, not only of the acts of the founders of Connecticut, but of the men themselves. Noble men they were, the flower of the New-England colonists, uniting with the rigid Puritan virtues, broader and more liberal views of public policy than characterized the majority of their brethren. In Connecticut, church-membership was never made the sine qua non of citizenship; Connecticut was wholly free from the great stain of religious persecution; we wish we could also say, as Trumbull does, that Connecticut murdered no witches; but the accurate Kingsley has discovered two cases of the kind, and the journal of Goffe, the regicide, as quoted by Hutchinson, alludes to another. Such men as these deserve not simply an annalist, but a true historian, and in our author they have found the very man. Mr. Stuart is a painter. He belongs to that highest class of artists who need no brush nor canvas for their pictures. His book has constantly recalled to us that only epic poem of our age, or rather that grand historical painting, by Carlyle, which he calls the History of the French Revolution. Under the magic touch of his pen—a mightier wand than witch or wizard ever yet wielded—the graves of two centuries give up their dead, and the men that lay therein repeat for us the heroic parts they acted long ago. Let us now venture a rapid outline-sketch of Scaeva's historic pictures. First of all, he shows us a company of men, women, and children, numbering about one hundred souls, on the march from their old homes in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to the Promised Land by the river Connecticut. The chief fathers of the expedition, Hooker, Haynes, Stone and others, are pictured with a glowing yet discriminating hand; and we seem to see, in bodily presence before us, the whole company, as they slowly advance, step by step, through the wilderness, over the same ground where now the “iron horse' madly rushes with his thundering train, achieving in a single hour what to them was a four days’ journey. Their toilsome progress, with all its detail of peril and difficulty, is vividly painted, till they reach at last that beautiful river on whose banks they are henceforth to live, and, when their work on earth is done, to die. Next comes a picture of the Connecticut valley, as it lay in its wild, native beauty, before the charmed eyes of the colonizing band. It is June, the most magnificent month of all the year. At the bottom of the valley, the calm waters of the river wind their silver way. Beneath its waves, the sturgeon, the salmon, and an infinite variety of smaller fish are playing; the wild-goose, the wild-duck, and numerous other fowl that love the water are sporting on its surface, intermixed with such aquatic animals as the otter, the beaver, the mink, and the musk-rat. The fires of the Indian have swept the trees from its banks, leaving long reaches of open meadow-land, rich with the alluvial deposit of centuries; but back upon all the hills, the primeval forest still frowns in its deep, grand gloom. atural fruits burden the trees, and nuts of all kinds proper for the soil and climate are abundant. Roots and herbs, for esculent and medicinal use, are scattered all around. Wild game; the bear, the moose, the deer, the turkey, the partridge, the quail, and pigeons in clouds that hide the sun, assure the pioneers that if their chosen land flows not with milk and honey, they nevertheless need fear no want of more substantial food. And, master still of what is so soon to pass away from him for ever, the Red Man wanders through the forest and paddles his light canoe upon the stream; absorbed, like a child, in the present, and happily ignorant of the dark future before him. Of the purchase of the land, the disposition of it, and the general plan of the new town, we need not speak, except to state the gratifying fact that the land was purchased of the aboriginal owners; though the ‘consideration’ which they received does not appear. But at this point of the history, a note is interposed relating to ‘Black Governors of Connecticut,’ which demands a passing remark. From a period anterior to the Revolution down to 1820 or thereabout, it was the custom of the colored people of Connecticut annually to elect one of their number as the occupant of a supposititious gubernatorial chair. In the mode of election, in the subsequent public parade,

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