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inclining to his adversary, he would sometimes come down' on the worthy SHALLOW with such a torrent of invective as would almost annihilate him, and furnish a rich treat for the crowd. One, more learned than usual, threatened that if he continued to abuse the court, he should commit him. He boldly defied the dispenser of the statutes, and avowed that he did not know enough to write a 'mittimus.' The magistrate proceeded at once with the laborious task of copying from 'EDWARDS' Treatise' the terrible instrument, and BALDWIN continued pouring out the vials of his wrath upon the leatherheaded dignitary. As the threatening document was about being completed with those terrible words, 'Hereof fail not at your peril,' BALDWIN deliber. ately picks up the ink-stand and dashes it up-side down upon the commitment, the contents of which, like the recording angel's tear, 'blotted it out for ever.' "There,' says BALDWIN: 'I shall be out of the county before you can boil down oak-bark ink enough to write another!'rand before the astonished sage had recovered his sight, (for sundry drops of the murky shower had flown into his eyes,) the great expunger had mounted his horse, and escaped from the jurisdiction.' - -Now that the melancholy days are come,' and Winter, with lingering step, comes stealing on, the fol. lowing lines, "Spring is Afar,' ('Der Lenz ist Fern,') rendered from the German of Gustav. PFARRIUS, by an accomplished correspondent, will be considered appropriate and timely:

*Wren the forest is ready to go to the Dead,

He dons, as for bridal, his gaudiest wreath;
And in wedding-apparel of gold and of red,

Thus bravely he waiteth for Death.
‘And the sun saunters out from the breast of a cloud,

To smile on his pomp-a smile sickly and dim:
For the Spring is afar: soon, the storm cometh loud,

To dance the death-dance with hinı.

Then what wrestlings fierce, and what blusterings strong!

And each death-throe shakes showers of leaves from his head:
Soon a low voice of moaning awakes its sad song,

And the beautiful forest is dead!

"Some time since,' writes ‘KARL BENEDICT,' (from whom we shall be pleased frequently to hear,) from a pleasant town in Ohio, which shall be nameless, ‘Dr. STEVENSON, whom you may remember from a copy of one of his “Tak nottis'-es sent you months ago, presented me with several pages of his life and trials, with the request that I should send the manuscript to you for publication. The paper will be too long for your use, if you felt disposed to use it, and I therefore have extracted brief paragraphs here and there, containing the pith of the contents. If it will suit any purpose, it is at your disposal The thing is no fiction. Dr. STEVENSON is a fact, and so is his literature. He told me the other day, that the old notice of him did more good for him and for the cause of Christianity than any thing that ever happened. A powerful revival was the consequence, in which a pilot on the river, and an old retailer of oranges in the Diamond,' both 'hard cases,' had been brought under concern.' In giving this 'curtailed synopsis' of the Doctor's autobiography, we trust it is not necessary for us to say, that we are far from

sanctioning any disrespect of sacred things. But, in the words of the Rev. SYDNEY SMITH, we do not hesitate to rescue religious observances from the hands of a 'consecrated cobbler;' and in this, we believe, with him, that we are 'rendering a useful service to the cause of rational religion :

You may bear in mind a morsel sent you some time since, duly served upon a leaf of your Table, which was carved out of the case of the Rt. Rev. Dr. STEVENSON,' itinerant bishop and expounder of mysteries in these neighborhoods. The following

fax,' gathered from several pages of detail, drawn åp by the apostle himself, in view of your generous mention of him on the occasion referred to, to be transmitted for like treatment, will serve a purpose to the cause,' if they prove matter worthy of your metal, and are accorded the privilege of appearance in your Magazine. The sketch is biographical, and opens with the announcement: ‘i was bore on the widdo --'s plase in the yeare of our LORDE ano domminy 18 hunderd & 12 Being 9th of nov. the nite being varey Boistrous and the Storm varey Grate.' Some specifications follow, of the earlier portion of his life, which is so interwoven with the threads of second-party experiences, that to pursue it closely would involve other characters, whose claims upon the public are quite too insignificant to justify special advertisement.

'Information is announced, farther on, that his father removed to a Smal plase whitch he leasted durin' his life-time at the Sume of 15 dols pr anum and during that periad i com to town being 14 yeares and 28 days old, and was Bowned to learne taylerin' for the terme of 6 yeares 2 mupths & 28 dayes.'

Here happened the first crisis in the Doctor's life. He was not in the line of duty marked out for him by destiny. That became his settled conviction: during the periad of a Shorte time i felt inclined to warne siners to flea from the rath: tailerin' was a good Traid in its way, but i fownd i could n't fite the Battels of sin and remain at that Bisness.' The business was accordingly abandoned, and with a view to qualify himself for loftier enterprise: ‘i got sum bookes and went to the studdy of morril filosiphia & CRUDEN's concordins.

Observe “filosiphia.' There are those who would prescribe a different orthography; but the Doctor has learned a lesson in filidelfy which protects him from being led astray by false direction. Necessity compelled a suspension of his studies, and he entered the

bute & shew-mendin' line,' which presently, 'in consequens of a cut i got wun mornin' when i got up to prepear my brecfast i persisted from follerin' of trade of whitch i tuk up the esans bisness, seling esansis of all kindes, mostly sinamont, which was most in demand, also medasin and fig-sav for burns and blisters.'

'In the pursuit of barter, the Doctor never lost sight of his better calling, 'warning siners evry whare, wharever my lot was cast.' But of the Doctor 'more anon."

BY-THE-WAY,' interpolates a Brookville (Indiana) correspondent, in a letter recently received by the EDITOR, 'the demise of SHANGHAI has produced quite a sensation in this region, and your «Up-River correspondent' has the credit of being extensively quoted in our western papers. K. N. PEPPER, Esq., is quite a favorite; but he has a formidable rival near this place. His last Pome' was delivered before a literary society, on The Downfall of Hungary,' and this was the chorus thereof:


Shall be free,

And so shall be we;
And all shall sit under the Liberty-tree!'

'It was a 'thrilling production,' and, in point of pathos, equal to the ‘Berd on the Fens.'' - - - Is not our friend 'J. E. O.,' of Boston, aware that 'Youth as it Is' has already appeared in the KNICKERBOCKER? He must take less interest than others in his acceptable effusions. · · · MR. T. W. WHITLEY, an accomplished writer and artist, has established a weekly 'Journal' in Hoboken, which well deserves the liberal subscriptions and advertising-patronage of that flourishing and fast-increasing village. It is neatly printed, well edited, and replete with a good variety. We wish the editor the amplest success in his deserving enterprise. · · · The following 'Song' is taken from an autograph-letter of BARRY CORNWALL, addressed to a correspondent in Michigan. It now appears for the first time in print:

You are soaring to the sun;

I rest in shade:
Your delights are never won;
My couch is made
Underneath the evening Hours,
Amid sweet (the sweetest) flowers.

*Your road is strewn with strife;

Mine with perfume:
You burn the rose of life;

I nurse its bloom,
Safe from sun, and snows, and showers,
Through all the circling Hours.

Baker Coaswali

The friends of Alderman James Grant, of San-Francisco, formerly of NewYork, (and he has very many in this city,) will be glad to hear of his recent elevation to the responsible and lucrative office of State Register. A man of tried fidelity and unblemished character, he will reflect credit upon the choice of his constituents. - - · Some of the many sporting-songs of

Old England’are spirited and refreshing, and stir the pleasant 'animal'in man as with the sound of a trumpet, with the 'tan-tarra, tan-tarra' of the huntsman's horn, while a pack of imaginary hounds are following in fullcry. But we are afraid American poetical sporting-literature is deficient in some important particulars; at least, if we may judge from a specimen which has been forwarded to us, and which commences in this wise:

He took his dog and gun,

And went into the field;
He hunted all the day,

But nothing did he kill!'

Bad luck, and worse poetry! Coming home from this 'sorry day's sport, an accident befel, the nature of which may be gathered from the following quatrain :

"The black horses did run, and the wagon did spill:
Plague take the black horses !--for sell 'em I will!'

Then some body else will be the worse off. We respect the feeling which prompted that 'benign cerulean,' Miss MARTINEAU, to say that she always felt a kind of regret when she heard a person remark that he had made a

capital bargain ;' it was a sure sign that some body else had made a capital bad one.' What can that unfortunate purchaser do with that black span, that spill wagons along the street? ..An advertisement of January and June' will be found upon the cover of the present number.

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Many years since, there was a sequestered little town about twentyfive miles from the city of New-York, and situated in the most unfrequented part of that remote quarter of the world called Queens county. It was at that time an out-of-the-way, unexplored region, utterly unknown to the world at large, and half smothered in fable and Indian tradition. Long after ghosts had been exorcised and laid at rest in other parts of the world, they maintained their foot-hold here. A quiet, shadowy lane, which ran through a wood near the village, had a goblin reputation, and was said to be haunted by the ghost of a hard-drinking miller, who had finished his life and his bottle at the foot of a large oak tree which grew there. Whether this last tradition be true or not, it is certain that this little town was more subject to supernatural visitations than any town of its size on Long-Island.

In those days, too, there was an old mill on the border of a tree-fringed lake on which the village stands. It belonged to a hard-fisted, hardswearing, roystering fellow, named Billy Harold, who feared neither ghost nor devil, but had a peculiar eye to his own interest. It was a ruinous building, roofless and without sashes; the water-wheel had rotted and fallen into the pool below it; and the race-way had become broken, and discharged its foaming waters at random. The heavy beams of the building bad sagged and settled away, and piles of rubbish, caused by the tumbling in of the roof and the gradual decay of the structure, had gathered in it. Dark granaries and store-rooms, and gloomy passages, made for no one knows what, were still standing.

The mill, however, bore the same goblin reputation with the lane. On certain nights in the year, when the wind howled through the trees, and a storm was raging, strange and unearthly sounds were heard issuing from it, and it became rumored about that it was tenanted by unearthly visitants of rather cracked reputation.

These reports at last reached Billy's ears, and fairly excited his choler; for although he felt personally indifferent to the character of those who VOL. XLII.


occupied bis mill, yet, as tenants of that description are very apt to omit the payment of rent, he had no idea of having his property depreciated by their presence. Accordingly, on one stormy night, when the thunder was crashing through the sky, the blue-lights dancing about the old ruin, and the hobgoblins were said to be in high revel, he sallied out with his cudgel, and disappeared in the thick of the storm, directing his steps toward the mill, determined,' as he said, 'to put a stop to such goingson. What took place there was never known; but above the roar of the elements the listening neighbors heard Billy's voice bellowing out curses and execrations; and as the lightning lighted up the interior of the roofless building, they caught sight of the undaunted Billy laying lustily about him, as if beset by a legion of adversaries. He did not desert his post until the bellowing of the storm had sunk into distant mutterings, and the forked lightning had subsided into a dim flickering in the distant horizon. Then Billy returned, with his cudgel under his arm, and his hands in his breeches-pockets. He gave no account of his adventure, but merely shook his head, and said that if they came to his mill again, they'd catch it.'

Whether the fear of catching it’ kept off his visitors or not, we cannot tell; but it is certain that from that time the building lost much of its wizard-reputation, and subsided into a mere common-place ruin.

But this is a history of times past. Billy long since went swearing to bis grave. Like all iron-souled characters, he left his mark in the memories of those about him; and as the green hillock which rested over his once sturdy breast was pointed out, the simple villagers seemed to wonder that the grass could grow so quietly over the grave of one so redoubted; and not a few of the veterans who remembered Billy in his prime, when they were boys, ventured the prediction that when old, Nick got hold of him, he'd meet his match.”

After Billy's days, the mill became more and more dilapidated. Time and Storm wrote their story upon it in strong characters. Every thing about it ran wild; the grass formed into a green sod in its chambers; and creepers and parasitic plants clambered over its walls; the trees which had been young in the days of Harold, grew to be giants, and drooped over the ruin; and the willows trailed their thread-like branches in the quiet lake whose waters once turned its wheel. Things remained thus until a new-comer arrived in the village. He was a plain, unpretending man, a black-smith by trade. He took a fancy to the ruin because he found that it could be got at a low rent, and his means were limited. He paid no attention to the tales attached to it, but hired it of the descendants of Billy Harold, and in good earnest set about converting it into a smithy. In a very short time the black smoke from the chimney and the roar of his forge told that he had commenced his work, and the clink of his hammer could be heard from morning till night. He was a stalwart, powerful wan, heavily hung together, slow of motion, and earnest of speech. His hair was short and slightly grizzled, and his features were heavy and massive, and bore a harsh and forbidding expression that belied his character.

The traditions respecting the mill were still fresh in memory, and many looked askance at one who could venture thus recklessly to plant himself

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