which the patronage of our various state organizations, coöperating with individual enterprise, is advancing to maturity. Whether considered with respect to its magnitude as the great thoroughfare for the trade of a continent-as embodying the sagacity and wisdom of men justly revered, some now canonized by deathas concentrating the labor of many willing and industrious citizens, or viewed in reference to its higher political and moral bearings, that system challenges the hearty applause alike of ourselves and others. Completed, it will stand the bond and pride of our confederacy; giving the most liberal facilities to that buoyant and stirring spirit of enterprise which has urged it to its close. But if, dismissing this comprehensive theme, we turn to contemplate the currents of our literature, eloquence and poetry, we shall find these reflecting the ever-present forms of patriotism and hope. A revolution like our own, generated not by the restlessness of a faction, but embodying the elements of universal happiness, was not consummated without sundering many strong ties, and developing new modes and combinations of thought. At its close, there started up a new order of mind, singularly active in its powers, searching in its investigations, fitted to analyze, to arrange and elucidate; unbowed to any intellectual yoke, and uncringing, it was as little disposed to adopt the cyclic reasoning of political sophists, as to submit in deferential silence to those startling calumnies upon our motives and resources, which it seemed a part of duty in some to heap upon us. New materials had accumulated, rich and diverse. Principles of legislation, counter to those elsewhere in vogue, were then adopted; and to explain these to the ignorant, and defend them against the willful, was one of the noblest tasks that ever claimed the pen of the patriot philosopher. A world of beauty, too, unrivaled for its richness and variety, was spread out to the imagination—a country now their own, unsoiled by the crumbling relics of feudal superstition and tyranny, made doubly hallowed as the graves of those who had fallen battling for freedom, or had passed away from posts of civil honor and trust. Here, too, were those living topics, thrown up to the surface by the daily agitations of society, impressed with that freshness and vitality which speak from the silent page with the eloquence of painting and sculpture. All of these, it is easy to conceive, have tended to create a strong national sentiment-all of these, materials for a literature such as England alone can boast, are yet for the most part to be polished, and laid up into a regular and symmetrical structure. What will be its settled characteristics, how far purely national, and how far moulded by other influences, it becomes us not to speculate. Well assured, however, are we, that while a high patriotism thrills in the breasts of our scholars and men of literary character, our literature cannot long need the patronage or commiseration of its detractors. But let not enthusiasm degenerate into vanity; it is then that "haughty spirit which goeth before a fall." Let us, too, guard against its union with bigotry. Now, the guardian angel of our young republic, to quicken and stimulate to a healthy action, it will then become the agent of madness; wasting in hair-brained enterprises the vigor of the people, and subjecting them to convulsions which will quickly end in languor and decay. THE SOUL. [The following lines were suggested by the recollection of an old anecdote of two young men, who, excited to phrenzy by the discussion of the probable destiny of man, agreed to put an end to their own lives in order to solve the mystery, and carried their resolution into effect.] OH! what is there in man that ever craves A nobler destiny than earth's, and higher; Ye countless worlds, that move fore'er on high- A spirit that hath never known control, Nor ever may-an essence which will raise Him higher and higher while endless ages roll- Mysterious thoughts that rise too bright for earth, Thus on the musings of a lofty mind, And from earth's goading cares and follies find Such brightness beamed upon his startled brain, Hid from a fallen world, in shame and folly bowed! Blest moments, when to life the spirit wakes, As drop the scales that dimmed her eyes of old; That veils a higher being, of charms untold! And offer to high heaven thy life, thy love, thy all! MIXUM GATHERUM, ALIAS HOTCH-POTCH. MESSRS. EDITORS,— IMMURED in my own conclave, and deposited as to my corporeal identity, within the benevolently extended arms of my poetically prosing chair of high-backed antiquity, which like many a chattel about our ancient Academia, is venerable enough to have been appropriated to the temporal comfort of many a D. D. before me; or to have come down as an heir-loom from the venerable Yale himself; here have I taken upon my tongue, a great oath! which for your edification, I will record. By the friendship of man, and the love of woman! By the love of goodness, and the goodness of love! By the beard of Allah! By your beards and mine! By all those "certain and stubborn hairs about the chins" of all our grandfathers and grandmothers! By all that is sublimely ridiculous, or ridiculously sublime! And, finally, By the dim light of my astral lamp! which just now begins to burn peculiarly blue! I vow and purpose, here in the presence of "Billy Shakspeare," to bewrite this ill-starred foolscap!! Defunct as to my imagination, and "little blessed in set" phraseology, in practicing the scribbling art; I greatly misgive, that "little shall I grace my cause," yet, strange as it may seem, the very paucity of my ideas, augments the "cacoethes scribendi," and so I am fain to believe, "I have somewhat to write unto you." Surely, gentlemen, "our sufferings is intolerable," owing to the intensely hot beams of the sun, which for many a long day "syne," have been pouring down upon us most torridly, and with most scalding efficacy. On the eve of such a day, is it not good to steal out at a tranquil twilight hour, into the groves and fields, and there create unto ourselves a new creation-catch inspiration from the old oaks and elms-banish this real for an ideal world,—indulge in dreams and reveries, and vegetate in our own fanciful imaginations? May be you have just returned from such a delightful excursion; having enjoyed a long perambulation of pure sentiment. The sun has just gone behind the distant hills, and the whole western sky still blushes with his crimson rays. The day has been to you, warm and sultry, but a cool refreshing breeze has sprung up this evening. As you reënter your domicil, throw up your casement-doff your beaver-stroke away your locks, and welcome the gently fanning zephyr about your brow-a feeling indescribable, uncontrollable, yet exquisitely delightful, rushes to your heart! May be, gentle reader, thou art one of Wordsworth's "silent poets," and though thy sentiments never flow into rhyme or meter, nevertheless, thou hast as much "soul of poetry" as any of the favored few, who are blessed with a full measure of the "fine phrenzy." If so, thou art now imbibing draughts, pure and satisfying, from nature's own fountain. Now perhaps, like Milton, thou entertainest sage "doubts, whether in the fine days of summer, any study can be performed by young men." "In those vernal seasons of the year," says he, "when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against nature, not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicings with heaven and earth.” “There are moments when”— So thought my friend Benthuvius, when sitting a few evenings since in my window, gazing out upon vacuity, and the dear Misss, as at that moment they swept gracefully across the "field of his vision," whereat he suddenly broke out of his abstraction, and abruptly propounded the following poser. It was the language of nature, of the heart, and hence its simplicity. "Anden," says he, "does your heart never pit-pat nor palpitate, at sight of the fair? at the display of beauty? Can you witness, unmoved, a scene like this, view all woman's loveliness-that fine figure, that graceful step, light and free as the antelope upon its native hills; such 'poetry of motion,' those auburn ringlets falling so richly, so profusely upon that snow white neck, that lofty brow of alabaster, indicating superiority, the 'soul speaking through eyes,' so brightly flashing?" "No," says he, raising his right hand to give expression to the thought, as his countenance glowed, and he grew eloquent, "No, that man whose heart is not susceptible of woman's charms, is brutish. He has no taste, no refinement, no generous feeling, no tender sensibility, no common sympathy!" "O! Benthuvius! Benthuvius!" I exclaimed, rising and grasping firmly his hand. "Thou hast struck deep! Thou hast moved a sympathetic chord in my bosom! I declare to thee, my very heart-strings tune themselves anew in unison with that sentiment, and my heart itself seems going out to thee ward. Never before did it so yearn towards mortal man." * * * * "There are moments, when”— At least, so thought my friend, Ralphus Ralbephus, who was once one of a party with me on a water excursion. Among the company, there was one pair of bright eyes, whence shot glances too irresistible, and told too well on the susceptible heart of my friend. I saw the effect upon his countenance, which, always of a pale and intellectual cast, wore on this day, a hue sombre in the extreme. I found him at one time, leaning over the boat's side, and looking down into the dark blue water. He seemed wrapt in his own thoughts and wholly abstracted from all sublunary things. I saw his sadness; approached, and inquired the cause of his melancholy. He sighed, and raising his eyes, rested them not, until they fell upon a lovely form. "Ah! what thinkest thou," says he, "is not this a sad business; is not love the master passion of the soul?" "O consanguinity!" I was compelled to exclaim, "O my dear Ralphus Ralbephus!! "Thou hast it! Surely thou hast it!" "There are moments, when" the soul-when the affections— when-the- A-lack-a-day! I am becoming prosy. * It is however, after many and dubious ruminations, "in this wise," that I now with a trembling hand, and a palpitating heart, present you with this motley hotch-potch. Stare not at my title! It is legitimate-as I shall amply show. "Once, on a time," at the dwelling of an hospitable old farmer, I was kindly invited "to sit by and partake of the homely fare." I accepted the invitation. Now, it came to pass, that on that same day, the frugal board, presented a sort of "ollapod," the meal being composed of the "odds and ends" of many a former repast, which had been "served up" by the "good wife," "times out of mind and memory." "Mine host," essayed an apology, "Wall, Lucy," says he, casting upon his better half," a look of the most imperturbable gravity, "Wall, Lucy, seems to me you have got a kind of 'mixum gatherum' to day!" The effect of this remark, so truly classical, was an irresistible titillation, compelling me to smile "up my sleeve,"―apropos of sleeves. * * * "What an effect," saith Epilegomena, "has been wrought upon the fair ones of town, by the return of spring," and thereupon, most sagely advises, "to let nature be our directrix." Ah! Epilegomena, thou hast e'en touched a heart-string of my own. Surely "an effect," a change has been wrought-and |