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dices give way, error hides its head, and the cherished traditions of superstition are ridiculed or forgotten.

And now, gentlemen, that we may form such a catholic and scientifically-correct estimate of the whole animal creation as will enable us to look upon the pig with an enlightened and unprejudiced eye, let me read you an extract from the celebrated geologist, Mr. Sedgwick, as quoted in the Review I hold in my hand — the London Quarterly for October, 1851:

“The elevation of the Fauna of successive periods was not made by transmutation, but by creative additions; and it is by watching these additions that we get some insight into Nature's true historical progress. Judging by our evidence, (and by what else have we any right to judge?) there was a time when Cephalopoda were the highest types of animal life. They were then the Primates of this world, and, corresponding to their office and position, some of them were of noble structure and gigantic size. But these creatures were degraded from their rank at the head of Nature, and Fishes next took the lead: and they did not rise up in Nature in some degenerate form, as if they were but the transmuted progeny of the Cephalopoda, but they started into life in the very highest ichthyic type ever created. Following our history chronologically, Reptiles next took the lead; and (with some almost evanescent exceptions) they fourished during the countless ages of the secondary period as the lords and despots of the world; and they had an organic perfection corresponding to their exalted rank in Nature's kingdom; for their highest orders were not merely great in strength and stature, but were anatomically raised far above any forms of the Reptile class now living in the world. This class was, however, in its turn to lose its rank; what is more, it underwent (when considered collectively) a positive organic degradation before the end of the secondary period — and this took place countless ages before terrestrial mammals of any living type had been called into being. Mammals were added next, (near the commencement of the tertiary period,) and seem to have been added suddenly. Some of the early extinct forms of this class, which we now know only by ransacking the ancient catacombs of Nature, were powerful and gigantic, and we believe they were collectively well-fitted for the place they filled. But they, in their turn, were to be degraded from their place at the head of Nature, and she became what she now is, by the addition of Man. By this last addition she is more exalted than she was before. Man stands by himself, the despotic lord of the living world; not so great in organic strength as many of the despots that went before him in Nature's chronicle, but raised far above them all by a higher development of the brain; by a framework'--etc. etc. 'Such is the history of creation.' --

- SEDGWICK: p. 216. · Yes, gen-tle-men, such is the history of creation ; not handed down to us by vain tradition, but written before language had existence, and traced by royal hands in the solid rock.

"Such are the sermons that science extorts from stones! Man, the present primate and lord of the creation, has taken the throne successively occupied by the cephalopoda, fishes, reptiles, and mammals; and, as Cuvier

, I remember, holds, is in his turn to yield the sceptre to some yet uncreated class. There are a thousand curious questions that present themselves upon the reception of these great truths. Perhaps the most serious and affecting are: What kind of creatures shall succeed us in our reign? At about what period will they make their appearance? Will they look upon their fallen predecessors with compassion, and treat them with kindness? Will they understand our spoken language and read our books, or will our words be to them as brutish sounds, our alphabet but hieroglyphics? Will they be carnivorous; and if so, will the creatures they immediately succeed be pleasant to their taste ?

. But without turning aside to pursue these and other interesting inquiries, let us apply the light that science thus lets in upon us to the subject of our recent investigation; and what a halo does it shed upon the name of Brown - martyr to compassion for a royal though degraded order!


How does it illuminate his motives; how begild even his empty purse ! We remember his admiration of high birth, his partiality for noble blood. Probably, gentlemen, very probably, among the creatures who reigned before our lordships, and who were then all potentates, the Pig ranked high; perhaps he was the greatest mammal of them all — the

mighty Paramount. If size gave importance, as it undoubtedly did, how noble must he have been! Even in these, his degenerate days, his capacity of growth is almost illimitable : conceive of his greatness in the prime and preëminence of his powers! If blood was then a test among peers, how readily must the supremacy have been yielded to him! Even in this, his era of serfdom, the stream that courses through his veins tints his flesh like jewels, and gives it an ambrosial tang!

*Gentlemen! while the rest of the world admire and applaud the man who — laudably indeed — spends his time in protecting and pampering the strongest and handsomest individuals, descendants of a class or an order of whilom monarchs, be it for us to honor him who has nobly devoted himself to the most miserable of their progeny: I refer to Brown. I desire Smith, as a payment of the fine I have this night imposed on him, to prepare some account of our absent friend's self-denials for the public eye; to which, if he chooses, he may add these brief remarks of my own.

*And now, gentlemen, one more duty. It is not ours, perhaps, to harbor and sustain, on so large a scale as Brown has done, the scions of an unfortunate race. It was not ours, in the least particular, to aid our friend in his benevolent projects. Let us, at any rate, show our sympathy with his efforts, and our respect for their object. I propose, gentlemen — to be drunk in silence The memory of Brown's Pigs!!

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Come, stand in this temple fair,

Oh, come where Nature holds
'Neath these arches of brown and gold, Her glorious carnival !
And watch the light ; how it shimmers down, Where the fringy boughs are playing low
And chequers the russet mould..

A hymn to the Beautiful: llow it trembles, and creeps along

Yes, come to the gray old woods,
Mong the mosses and star-flowers blue ; Come to the forest trees,
First here, then there, afraid to stay,

And hear the warm breath of summer
Then lost in the shade and dew.

Sigh through the silvery leaves !

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Dim grows the sky, and dusk the air,

And shadows settle every where, You ask me, love, to sing of you,

Save where the embers streak the wall Dear heart! but what, and why?

With flames that soon in darkness fall.
Songs are but skilful-woven words
That tinkle unto certain chords,

Pensive I sit, relapsing fast
And are but born to die!

Into the dead and silent Past.

The Past returns - the dead are here; Words cannot show my burning love, Was that a whisper in my ear?

My spirit's secret fire ;
I try to speak, and make it plain

No, dear one, no! I did not sigh,
About my pleasure and my pain:

Nor does a tear bedim mine eye;
But speech and song expire!

'T was the officious lights you brought,

And something alien to my thought: There is more eloquence in looks,

But even if my tears do flow,
More poesy in sighs,

I weep for pleasure, not for woe :
Than ever yet in speech was framed,

I weep because I love thee so !
Or any song of poet famed,

Though lit at ladies' eyes.
Then bid me sing of love no more,

The day is cold and dreary,
But let me silent he;

The house is full of gloom;
For silence is the speech of love,

But out of doors, in the blessed air,
The music of the spheres above,

The sun is warm, the sky is fair,
That best befitteth thee!

And the flowers are still in bloom.

A moment ago, in the garden,

I scattered the shining dew;

The wind was soft in the swaying trees, I SEE thee, sweet, in the world of thought; The morning-glories were full of bees,

I meet thee, dear, in the world of dreams, So bold, that they never flew!
And I hear thy voice in my inmost soul,
Like the music of hidden streams.

Yet I left them unmolested,

Draining their honey-wine,
There is nothing in all the wide, wide world, And entered the weary house again,

Nor in heaven above, that I love like thee; To sit, as now, by a bed of pain,
But much that is worthless in both, I fear, With a fevered hand in mine!

That thou lovest better than me. Yet art thou sure of my thoughts and dreams, A Few frail summers had touched thee,

And sure of my love, whatever thou art ; For the least little glance of thy sorrowful eyes Not so bright as thy hair the sun-shine,

As they touch the fruit ; Is a spell on my brain and my heart!

Not so sweet as thy voice, the lute.

Hushed the voice, shorn the hair; all is over : NIGHT BEFORE TEE BRIDAL.

An urn of white ashes remains :

Nothing else, save the tears in our eyes, The bridal-flower you gave me,

And our bitterest, bitterest pains !
The rose so pure and white,
I kiss it o'er and o'er, love,

We garland the urn with white roses,
With tears of soft delight!

Burn incense and gums on the shrine,

Play old tunes with the saddest of closes, Its odor is so heavy,

Dear tunes that were thine!
It makes me faint and pine ;

But in vain, all in vain ;
It is thy kisses freight it,

Thou art gone -- we remain!
That sweet, sweet love of thine!
*To-morrow thou wilt give me,

WRECKS of clouds of a sombre gray,
For a spell of joy and power,

Like the ribbed remains of a mastodon, Thy whiter hand, my darling,

Were piled in masses along the west,
And thy heart, a richer flower:

And a streak of red stretched over the sun. *Then this may fade and wither,

I stood on the deck of the ferry-boat,
No longer kissed by me;

As the summer evening deepened to night, For these, my burning kisses,

Where the tides of the river ran.darkly past, Will then be showered on thee!

Through lengthening pillars of crinkled light. The wind blew over the briny waves,

With its salt sea-breath, and a country balm,
And it seemed to cool my fevered brain,

And lend my spirit its gusty calm.
The forest of masts, the dark-hulled ships,

The twinkling lights, and the sea of men,
No longer a riddle, read themselves,

And I knew their inner meaning then! For while the beautiful moon arose,

And drifted the boat in her yellow beams, My soul went down the river of thought

That flows in the mystic land of dreams.

In some old wood my nest I'd build,

From other birds apart:
No wing among the boughs would be
So swift as mine, no song so free;

So pure, no human heart!
The sun-light dripping through the leaves,

The leaves themselves a-stir-
The rain-drops pattering on the roof,
The queenly moon, the pearléd woof

The moon doth drag with her, -
These joys, and those that songs impart,

The rarest ever heard,
The lark's, the nightingale's divine,
And also mine, would all be mine,

Were I a happy bird !
But now!- I'm very like a bird,

Above this ledger's page;
And those dry masts are woods along
The sounding sea, and this a song! -
The city is my cage!

Were I a little winged bird,

As oft I wish to be,
I would not live another day
In this dark city, but away

To lands beyond the sea.


Partix O'CONNOR was defeated and slain at Atkupree, by WINITAN DE IORGE), on the 10th of August, :3:5. EDWARD the Second then reigned in England

He stood before young EDWARD's throne,

The chief of Erin's minstrel-band,
O'Connor's bard, unprized, alone,

A captive in the stranger's land;
But still he laughed in fierce disdain,

And weaved full oft a scornful verse,
Unmindful of the spoiler's chain,

And heedless of the foeman's curse.
He looked on England's cross, revealed

When hosts went forth in martial pride,
And thought but of the distant field

On which his King and kindred died:
He gazed on England's great and fair,

In many a proud and bannered hall,
But saw no grace or glory there:

He mused but on his country's fall.
Who shall that wayward captive blame?

Or marvel that his soul abhorred
Stern men who loved but steel and flame,

Apostles of the torch and sword;
Men, whom his sires had ever seen

Where bonds were forged and blood was spilt ;
Whose gift to him and his had been

Long, joyless years of strise and guilt?
IIe waked, at last, a glorious song;

A strain of ages passed away,
While yet O'Connor's house was strong,

Nor feared DE BURGHO's iron sway;
IIe thought of Erin, spurned and crushed,

Her mightiest sons, ihe chained, the dead,
And ere the trembling chords were hushed,

That minstrel's lofty spirit fled.
Nor, Erin, thou his loss deplore,

Nor at one heart's quenched hopes repine:
His was the fate of thousands more;

The blight which lies on all that's thine!
The galling bond, and rebel's tomb,

Have ever been, and yet must be,
The sole reward, the certain doom
of him who dares to feel for thee. JAMES GILBORNE LIONS


ISAAC T. HOPPER: A TRUE LIFE. With a Portrait. By L. MARIA CHILD. In one rol

ume: pp. 493. Boston: Joux P. JEWETT AND COMPANY. New-York : LEWIS COLBY AND COMPANY.

Who is there, for the last twenty years a resident in New York, that does not remember the compact, shortish, stout-built, active Quaker, whose portrait-an excellent one, by Page— fronts the title-page of the well-printed book before us? In our mind's eye we see him now, as we have seen him a thousand times, with his cocked hat, his dead-drab coat, his spotless linen, his sturdy calves, encased in a pair of close-fitting fine stockings, into which his legs seemed to have been run, as into a mould; with that imperturbable countenance, lips compressed with a kind of circumventice expression, and eye ever looking straight forward. That was Isaac T. HOPPER, with whom we never exchanged a word in the world, but whom, now that he is dead, we cannot help thinking we knew as well, from his appearance, and the public reports of his character, as if we had been on intimate terms with him for years. JOSEPI BONAPARTE once remarked to a friend, on board a steamboat bound up the Delaware to his residence at Bordentown, that he bore an extremely strong resemblance to his brother the Emperor NAPOLEON. (He did n't look so much like Louis, probably.) Mrs. Child's admiration for her subject has caused her to make a big work for so simple a biography; but it is largely made up of the narratives and anecdotes of fugitive slaves which were originally written by himself, and published in a weekly journal, under the title of Tales of Oppression.' Several of these we remember having read at the time of their first appearance, and many of them are doubtless familiar to the public. Mrs. Child has re-modelled them all; partly, she says, because she wished to present them in a more concise form, and partly because the principal actor could be spoken of more freely by a third person than he could speak of himself;' added to which, her subject had a much more dramatic way of telling a story, than of writing it; and this unwritten style she has endeavored to embody, as nearly as she could remember it.

'Friend IIOPPER,' as he was called, was a sort of Old HAYES ' among fugitive slave-claimers; and in this regard was as well known as the townpump,' both in Philadelphia and New-York. Ilis sympathies were so strong,

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