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countenance, not alone by sending the blood to the face, or concentrating it about the heart, but by some chemical change in the fluids beneath the skin. The leaves change their color, because they change their nature. The same rays of light fall upon them, and at one time they absorb some rays and reflect others, and again, quite the contrary. Light consists of seven colors, and objects appear to be of that hue which they reflect.* Black is the absorption of all the colors, and white is the reflection of all. As the fluids of the body change by age, by passion, and suffering, they of course are subject to absorb and reflect different colored rays. The hair has been known to change to pure white in a single night, from intense emotion. Care turns the hair gray. 'Pale melancholy sits retired.' 'Livid rage,' the glowing cheek of hope, the transparent skin of joy and happiness, the haggard color of guilt, do not weaken our theory.

To recur to animals: every one is aware that the color of horses, dogs, and cattle, is some guide to their qualities. The iron-gray steed is generally remarkable for his endurance and bottom. The chesnut horse, with a star in his forehead, and white feet, is good for speed, and often is a kind family beast. Few celebrated horses have been black. Novelists and poets have been fond of talking of 'a mailed knight on a black charger,' who is made to appear at some important crisis, and with these sombre colors to cast fear and dismay about him; but your horse-jockeys know better.

'Every one,' says Gardner, 'who has attentively listened to sounds, must have noticed, that beside their acuteness and gravity, loudness or softness, shape and figure, there is another quality belonging to them, which musicians have agreed to denominate color. The answer of the blind man, who, on being asked what idea he had of scarlet, replied, that it was like the sound of a trumpet, is less absurd than may at first be apprehended.' We might extract the whole chapter upon color, but must content our readers with a simple outline. The lowest notes of every instrument partake of the darkest shades of its color, and as they ascend, they become of a lighter hue. The sinfonio in the Creation, which represents the rising sun, exemplifies this theory. First, our attention is attracted by a soft streaming note from the violins, which is scarcely discernible, till the rays of sound which issue from the second violin, diverge into the chord of the second; to which is gradually imparted a greater fulness of color, as the viols and violoncellos steal in with expanding harmony.' 'Then the oboes begin to shed their yellow lustre, while the flute silvers the mounting rays of the violin; the orange, the scarlet, and purple, unite in the increasing splendor, and at length the glorious orb appears, refulgent with the brightest beams of harmony."

*A CURIOUS fact is mentioned in 'Music and Friends,' in a notice of a lecture before the Leicester (England) Royal Institute: 'Let a ray of light pass through small hole into a darkened room; falling upon a plane surface, it will produce a brilliant spot. Let another ray pass through a similar aperture, and be made to fall on the same luminous point, and it will be found that the vibrations destroy each other, and an intense black spot is the result. The great affinity between the laws of light and sound have long been known, and this experiment has led to the discovery that a similar law operates in sounds. Vibrate a key-fork over the air, in a phial bottle, of the same pitch as the fork, and it will return an audible sound. Place another bottle, of the same pitch, at right angles from the first, vibrate the key-fork so that the air can be agitated in both, and the sounds are destroyed.' EDS. KKICKERBOCKER.

In the human voice, the low notes formed in the chest are sombre; bright and cheerful colors express mirth and joy. There is, then, independently of words, a language of nature, in which the passions are universally and instinctively uttered. The colors are given thus :

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III.

We must reserve the further consideration of this subject for another paper.

J. N. B.

I.

SOFT falls the velvet foot of ghostly Death,

When past the lintel, by Consumption led,
He steals, to catch the last expiring breath,
From patient saint escaped, on lowly bed.

IN MEMORY OF MRS. C. M: BY HON. D. D. BARNARD.

II.

Oh! who can tell how gentle his approach,
The king of tyrants and of terrors even,
When humble faith prepares the ruffled couch,
Spread for the sick before the gate of heaven!

Red;

Deep crimson red.

Sky blue;
Deeper blue;
Purple ;
Violet.

One step there seemed, and only one, between
Deserted pains, and upper paradise;

One trembling breath expired, would change the scene
From darkened earth, to visions in the skies!

IV.

When chill disease had wasted all her frame,
And thirty fevers drank her vital blood,
And pain had ceased its work, with brighter flame
Burned holy faith, shedding a wide spread flood.

III.

Of heavenly glories on her raptured view;

But mortal vision might not bear the sight:
She closed her eye, and well her spirit knew
'T would wake to being in immortal light!

Well dost thou, Muse, thy willing tribute pay
To genius, beauty, and exalted worth;
She was thy daughter, though the modest lay

Which erst she sung, has ceased its strain on earth.

VII.

On earth, indeed; but ah! the harp whose sound
To virtue's cause, while here below, was given,
Shall thence in deepest, noblest strains abound,
And wake its longest, sweetest note in heaven!

COTTAGE FLOWERS.

1.

Oн look ye on the damask rose!-she is the garden's pride,
With her fragrant buds unfolding in beauty by her side;
How like a crownéd queen she sits, upon her graceful stem,
And the dew-drops of the morning are her fairy diadem!
The lily standeth near her, with her breast of stainless white,
And the jasmine flowers, that gleam like stars amid the silent night;
Her scented breath upon the air the honeysuckle flings,
And midst the grass beneath our feet, the lowly violet springs.

IT.

Oh, flowers are ever beautiful, but loveliest I ween,

When clustering round some cottage-door, their graceful forms are seen;
Lending to poverty a grace, a charm without alloy,

And gladdening hearts that may, perchance, have little else of joy.
The wealth, the pride of lordly halls, the peasant knoweth not,
His hopes, his fears, are gathered round one lone and lowly spot;
Yet there the glancing sunbeams play, the dews as softly fall:
And the flowers, a blessed boon are they, that God hath given to all.
Albany, February, 1839.

Z. BARTON STOUT.

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

KNICKERBOCKER.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE

SIR: I have observed that as a man advances in life, he is subject to a kind of plethora of the mind, doubtless occasioned by the vast accumulation of wisdom and experience upon the brain. Hence he is apt to become narrative and admonitory, that is to say, fond of telling long stories, and of doling out advice, to the small profit and great annoyance of his friends. As I have a great horror of becoming the oracle, or, more technically speaking, the 'bore,' of the domestic circle, and would much rather bestow my wisdom and tediousness upon the world at large, I have always sought to ease off this surcharge of the intellect by means of my pen, and hence have inflicted divers gossipping volumes upon the patience of the public. I am tired, however, of writing volumes; they do not afford exactly the relief I require; there is too much preparation, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of coming before the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious for any thing that requires labor or display. I have thought, therefore, of securing to myself a snug corner in some periodical work, where I might, as it were, loll at my ease in my elbow chair, and chat sociably with the public, as with an old friend, on any chance subject that might pop into my brain.

In looking around, for this purpose, upon the various excellent periodicals with which our country abounds, my eye was struck by the title of your work—THE KNICKERBOCKER.' My heart leaped at the sight.

DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, Sir, was one of my earliest and most valued friends, and the recollection of him is associated with some of the pleasantest scenes of my youthful days. To explain this, and to show how I came into possession of sundry of his posthumous works,

which I have from time to time given to the world, permit me to relate a few particulars of our early intercourse. I give them with the more confidence, as I know the interest you take in that departed worthy, whose name and effigy are stamped upon your title-page, and as they will be found important to the better understanding and relishing divers communications I may have to make to you.

My first acquaintance with that great and good man, for such I may venture to call him, now that the lapse of some thirty years has shrouded his name with venerable antiquity, and the popular voice has elevated him to the rank of the classic historians of yore, my first acquaintance with him was formed on the banks of the Hudson, not far from the wizard region of Sleepy Hollow. He had come there in the course of his researches among the Dutch neighborhoods for materials for his immortal history. For this purpose, he was ransacking the archives of one of the most ancient and historical mansions in the country. It was a lowly edifice, built in the time of the Dutch dynasty, and stood on a green bank, overshadowed by trees, from which it peeped forth upon the Great Tappan Zee, so famous among early Dutch navigators. A bright pure spring welled up at the foot of the green bank; a wild brook came babbling down a neighboring ravine, and threw itself into a little woody cove, in front of the mansion. It was indeed as quiet and sheltered a nook as the heart of man could require, in which to take refuge from the cares and troubles of the world; and as such, it had been chosen in old times, by Wolfert Acker, one of the privy councillors of the renowned Peter Stuyvesant.

·

This worthy but ill-starred man had led a weary and worried life, throughout the stormy reign of the chivalric Peter, being one of those unlucky wights with whom the world is ever at variance, and who are kept in a continual fume and fret, by the wickedness of mankind. At the time of the subjugation of the province by the English, he retired hither in high dudgeon; with the bitter determination to bury himself from the world, and live here in peace and quietness for the remainder of his days. In token of this fixed resolution, he inscribed over his door the favorite Dutch motto, Lust in Rust,' (pleasure in repose.) The mansion was thence called Wolfert's Rust'-Wolfert's Rest; but in process of time, the name was vitiated into Wolfert's Roost, probably from its quaint cock-loft look, or from its having a weather-cock perched on every gable. This name it continued to bear, long after the unlucky Wolfert was driven forth once more upon a wrangling world, by the tongue of a termagant wife; for it passed into a proverb through the neighborhood, and has been handed down by tradition, that the cock of the Roost was the most hen-pecked bird in the country.

This primitive and historical mansion has since passed through many changes and trials, which it may be my lot hereafter to notice. At the time of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker, it was in possession of the gallant family of the Van Tassels, who have figured so conspicuously in his writings. What appears to have given it peculiar value, in his eyes, was the rich treasury of historical facts here secretly hoarded up, like buried gold; for it is said that Wolfert Acker, when he retreated from New Amsterdam, carried off

with him many of the records and journals of the province, pertaining to the Dutch dynasty; swearing that they should never fall into the hands of the English. These, like the lost books of Livy, had baffled the research of former historians; but these did I find the indefatigable Diedrich diligently deciphering. He was already a sage in years and experience, I but an idle stripling; yet he did not despise my youth and ignorance, but took me kindly by the hand, and led me gently into those paths of local and traditional lore which he was so fond of exploring. I sat with him in his little chamber at the Roost, and watched the antiquarian patience and perseverance with which he deciphered those venerable Dutch documents, worse than Herculanean manuscripts. I sat with him by the spring, at the foot of the green bank, and listened to his heroic tales about the worthies of the olden time, the paladins of New Amsterdam. I accompanied him in his legendary researches about Tarrytown and Sing-Sing, and explored with him the spell-bound recesses of Sleepy Hollow. I was present at many of his conferences with the good old Dutch burghers and their wives, from whom he derived many of those marvellous facts not laid down in books or records, and which give such superior value and authenticity to his history, over all others that have been written concerning the New Netherlands.

But let me check my proneness to dilate upon this favorite theme; I may recur to it hereafter. Suffice it to say, the intimacy thus formed, continued for a considerable time; and in company with the worthy Diedrich, I visited many of the places celebrated by his pen. The currents of our lives at length diverged. He remained at home to complete his mighty work, while a vagrant fancy led me to wander about the world. Many, many years elapsed, before I returned to the parent soil. In the interim, the venerable historian of the New Netherlands had been gathered to his fathers, but his name had risen to renown. His native city, that city in which he so much delighted, had decreed all manner of costly honors to his memory. I found his effigy imprinted upon new-year cakes, and devoured with eager relish by holiday urchins; a great oyster-house bore the name of 'Knickerbocker Hall;' and I narrowly escaped the pleasure of being run over by a Knickerbocker omnibus!

Proud of having associated with a man who had achieved such greatness, I now recalled our early intimacy with tenfold pleasure, and sought to revisit the scenes we had trodden together. The most important of these was the mansion of the Van Tassels, the Roost of the unfortunate Wolfert. Time, which changes all things, is but slow in its operations upon a Dutchman's dwelling. I found the venerable and quaint little edifice much as I had seen it during the sojourn of Diedrich. There stood his elbow-chair in the corner of the room he had occupied; the old-fashioned Dutch writing desk at which he had pored over the chronicles of the Manhattoes; there was the old wooden chest, with the archives left by Wolfert Acker, many of which, however, had been fired off as wadding from the long duck gun of the Van Tassels. The scene around the mansion was still the same; the green bank; the spring beside which I had listened to the legendary narratives of the historian; the wild brook babbling down to the woody cove, and the overshadowing locust trees, half shutting out the prospect of the Great Tappan Zee.

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