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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:

SONG

“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.'

man

Tue 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. 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 had 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.

36

occupied his 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 his

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 man, 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 in such an ill-omened spot; and rumors became rife that he and the ghostly frequenters of the place were on terms of better fellowship than they should be. He however took no notice of the rumors, nor of the cold looks that frequently met him, but went on with his business, hammering away at his horse-shoes, and patiently waiting for better times. His only companion was a child of about seven years of age, who seemed as lonely and unpretending as the old man. He took no part in the plays of the other boys of the place, but sat patiently at the door of the forge watching his father at his work, and helping him in such things as his strength would allow; and when the day's labor was over, he would put his hand in that of the old man, and walk with him quietly to a small house which he had hired in the out-skirts of the village. As time waned, and the shop was daily opened, and the smith was seen at work at his forge, and it was also seen that he remained unmolested, the tide of public opinion changed, and it was then openly asserted that none but a man of good repute could thus stand his ground against the powers of darkness; that it was a shame that he should not be encouraged. And thus by degrees John Biggs became one of themselves ; part and parcel of the town; and his shop became the gathering-place of all the idlers and gossips of the village. Gradually, too, the urchins of the place began to seek the acquaintance of little Tom Biggs — for so the boy was named — and his quiet, gentle ways soon won them. They saw that he was but a feeble, sickly little fellow; and wben he stood looking patiently on at their boisterous games, they not unfrequently changed them to those of a more quiet description, in order that he might join them. There seemed some tie, however, to link him to his father, more close than that which usually exists between parent and child; and although his actions were unchecked, and he came and went as he pleased, he usually stole away from his play-fellows, and passed his time at the forge, watching his father at work, with eyes that seemed never to weary.

The shop was dusty and dark, and begrimed with soot and smoke, and full of dim corners and odd angles, in which were heaped old iron, and broken barrels, and odds and ends of rubbish which had remained there from the time when the place had been used as a mill, and which, as there was much more room than he knew what to do with, John had never removed. In the midst of it rose the huge chimney of the forge, built upon the bare earth, and extending upward until its end was lost in the smoke which eddied about the rafters of the roof. Horse-shoes, hinges, bolts, and various articles of iron-ware were hung on pegs, or ranged about in different parts of the place.

In the dim recesses of the shop, and in the dark passages of the mill, and in the old ruined chambers, the boy used to pass much of his time, until he seemed to grow almost as strange and goblin-like as the former unearthly tenants who had made the place their haunt.

Time waned, and he grew more quiet and still. He no longer joined the other boys at their play, but was seen the most of the time sitting at the door of the smithy, or lying beneath the shade of the trees which over-hung it. His pale cheek and feeble gait, and the painfully patient look which sat upon his young face, told that all was not well with him. John, too, worked less assiduously at his forge, for he might be seen at times sitting under the trees, with the child's head resting on his knee, endeavoring to amuse him with tales of other times and other lands; for John had lived abroad.

By degrees summer passed away, and the brown shade of autumn crept among the leaves. Little Tom no longer walked to the forge, but his father carried him there in his arms; and as yet they were as much together as before : but the child's cheek grew more and more wan, his eye more lustrous, and the sad, quiet expression on his face deepened ; but he never complained. Time passed by, and John came to his work alone, for little Tom had taken to his bed.

It was at about eight o'clock on a bright star-light night at this time, that John Biggs was at work in this shop. He had a heavy job on hand, and was laboring earnestly to finish it, his face fairly glowing with exertion and with the reflection of the fire. Gathered about the forge, but far enugh off to be out of reach of the red sparks as they flew from beneath the blows of the ponderous hammer, might be seen the indistinct forms of two or three idlers, who had dropped in to chat over the news of the place, and to watch the labors of the untiring artisan, who, with his arms bare to the elbow, and with a thick leathern apron to keep off the sparks, kept steadily on at his work. It might have been observed that his whole manner was restless and uneasy, and there was occasionally an anxious glance at the door, as if he expected or feared the arrival of some one.

How is little Tom?' inquired one of his visitors, upon whom his look was not lost. It's a long time since he was here.

'A month,' replied John; but he's better now; he'll be out soon, very

soon.'

As he spoke, he struck a heavy blow upon the red-hot iron which he held, and bent his head down as if to examine it; then turning away, went back into the shop to search for something.

A meaning glance passed between the former speaker and one of the group, but nothing more was said. When John came back, he did not go the fire, but went to the door and looked up at the sky.

The night bas set in dark, John, has n't it?' said the other. “Yes, very dark — dark indeed,' said John, partly to himself and partly in reply to the question.

He stood at the door for some time, and was just turning to reënter, when the sharp sound of a galloping horse caught his ear, and he stopped to listen. In a minute afterward, a horseman checked his horse in front of the door, and holding his hand before his eyes, to shut out the bright light of the forge, called out:

John Biggs, are you here?? 'Ay,' replied John, laconically.

"Mr. Lindsey wants to see you to-night. He's very ill. Can you come ??

“Ay, replied John, in the same laconic way.

‘And can you bring Harry Lindsey with you? He's been with little Tom all day.

Has he? God bless him !' ejaculated John. 'I'll bring him.'

The man gave his horse a sharp cut of the whip, and galloped off. John walked into the shop and took up his ponderous hammer, but he

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