Where the huge heap lies centered in the hall,
The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall,
Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-hand-
ed beaux,

Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows,
Assume their seats, the solid mass attack;
The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack;
The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound,
And the sweet cider trips in silence round.

The laws of husking every wight can tell;
And sure no laws he ever keeps so well:
For each red ear a general kiss he gains,
With each smut ear she smuts the luckless swains;
But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast,
Red as her lips, and taper as her waist,
She walks the round, and culls one favored beau,
Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow.
Various the sport, as are the wits and brains
Of well pleased lasses and contending swains:
Till the vast mound of corn is swept away,
And he that gets the last ear, wins the day.

Meanwhile the house-wife urges all her care,
The well-earned feast to hasten and prepare.
The sifted meal already waits her hand,
The milk is strained, the bowls in order stand,
The fire flames high; and, as a pool that takes
The headlong stream that o'er the mill-dam
breaks,

Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils,
So the vex, cauldron rages, roars, and boils.
First with clean salt she seasons well the food,
Then strews the flour, and thickens all the flood,
Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand:
To stir it well demands a stronger hand; [round
The husband takes his turn; and round and
The ladle flies; at last the toil is crowned ;
When to the board the thronging huskers pour,
And take their seats as at the corn before.

I leave them to their feast. There still belong
More copious matters to my faithful song.
For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded yet,
Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate.
Some with molasses line the luscious treat,
And mix, like bards, the useful with the sweet.
A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise,
A great resource in those bleak wintry days,
When the chilled earth lies buried deep in snow,
And raging boreas drives the shivering cow.
Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ,
Great source of health, the only source of joy ;
How oft thy teats these pious hands have prest!
How oft thy bounties prove my only feast!

How oft I've fed thee with my favorite grain!
And roared like thee, to find thy children slain !
Ye swains who know her various worth to prize,
Ah! house her well from winter's angry skies,
Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer,
Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer;
When spring returns, she 'll well acquit the loan,
And nurse at once your infants and her own.

Milk then with pudding I should always choose;
To this in future I confine my muse,
Till she in haste some farther hints unfold,
Well for the young, nor useless to the old.
First in your bowl the milk abundant take,
Then drop with care along the silver lake
Your flakes of pudding; these at first will hide
Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide;
But when their growing mass no more can sink,
When the soft island looms above the brink,
Then check your hand: you've got the portion's
due,

So taught our sires, and what they taught is true.

There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me 't is clear;
The deep bowled Gallic spoon, contrived to
scoop

In ample draughts the thin diluted soup,
Performs not well in those substantial things,
Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace,
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space.
With ease to enter and discharge the freight,
A bowl less concave but still more dilate,
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rests unknown to vulgar eyes.
Experienced feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of art.
These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have
tried,

With just precision could the point decide,
Though not in song; the muse but poorly shines
In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines.
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose egg-shell.
Which in two equal portions shall divide-
The distance from the centre to the side.
Fear hot to slobber;' 't is no deadly sin.
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin; or, like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;
Just in the zenith your wise head project,
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heeds no drops that fall,
The wide mouth'd bowl will surelycatch them all,

'CRITICISM: ITS USE AND ABUSE.' An admirable essay, thus entitled, from the pen of SAMUEL F. GLENN, Esq., of Washington, has been sent us by the publisher. The writer seems to have been led into his train of reflection and reasoning, by two criticisms of Burton, or the Sieges,' one of which pronounced the highest eulogiums on that production, while the other-from the pen of a gentleman of high literary authority regretted that the editor had misspent his time in bestowing even a hasty glance upon the work.' Our author cites this as an evidence of 'varied taste.' This, we may assure him, is an error, and one well understood by too many conductors of literary periodicals. The lamented Colonel KNAPP, in an elaborate article in an early number of this Magazine, entitled 'Uses and Abuses of Criticism,' regarded this important subject in its proper light. We are glad to believe, with Mr. GLENN, that the light of intelligence is increasing rapidly in this country, and that soon the solid and the natural will be hidden no more beneath the labored and artificial; and that secondrate poetasters and miscalled novelists, without imagination or genius, wit or learning, 'will ere long play the part of the peacock described by the elder PLINY, who, in morti. fication for having lost his tail, sought to hide himself.'

THE FINE ARTS: WINDOW SHADES. - Perhaps in no article of household furniture, has there been more important improvements, both on the score of beauty and utility, than in the inner shades, or painted muslin curtains, which now so universally adorn the best dwellings of the metropolis; and surely nothing imparts such an air of taste and elegance to a mansion, out of doors as well as within, and more especially the latter; since the quiet, softened light which they admit to the apartment, and the various hues reflected from the paintings upon surrounding objects, counteract the injurious effects of a too powerful light, and present a very novel and pleasing effect. Doubtless the most beautiful 'shades,' of this description, on sale in New-York, may be found at the extensive establishment of Mr. GEORGE PLATT, at Number 12, Spruce-street, near the Park. We have watched the progress of this young artist, with a good deal of interest; and are well pleased to find, that from small beginnings, in an apartment of the printing office of this Magazine, the demands of the public have led him to the occupancy of a spacious building, where he has as many orders' as any of the military noblesse or royal families of France or England. During a recent visit to the establishment in question, we examined a number of shades, the landscapes of which might almost be clipped from their rich borderings, and framed, as parlour pictures. Such, especially, are the views in Italy, convents, mountain passes, lake scenery, etc. The new range of dwellings in Bleecker-street, whose imposing fronts, ample dimensions, and spacious court-yards, have attracted general attention, are supplied from Mr. PLATT's manufactory; and if a view of the 'Temple of the Clitumnus, at Spoletto,' which we had the pleasure of seeing, be a fair representative of those which have been suspended, the whole will form, we venture to say, one of the most attractive features in the furniture of the fine houses they adorn. These shades are of various prices; and when soiled by long exposure, they may in a few moments be restored to their original beauty, and thus preserved for many years. Economy as well as good taste, therefore, may be consulted in the employment of these admirable fabrics.

GEOGRAPHICAL EXTREMES. We found at our desk, on one of the cold mornings of the past month, two letters, that afford a forcible example of the striking contrasts in climate and scenery, which this country presents. The first was from a correspondent in Maine, who, for the sake of adventure, had joined a band of crinigerous backwoods loggers, in one of their 'professional' excursions into an untracked wilderness, for the purpose of felling timber. Nothing can be more wintry than his picture of the solemn forests of pine and hemlock, their branches bending with snow, which the wild wind ever and anon dislodges, in masses, to descend 'like a great white sheet, let down from heaven;' the gleaming tent-fires, lighting up the silent arcades of the woods; the cold aurora-borealis,

That trembles in the northern sky,
And glares on midnight's startled eye,'

shimmering uncertainly high up the zenith; the tramp of deer in herds, the while, with the short, quick bark of the fox, and the long howl of the wolf, ringing in their ears. Look on that picture, and then on this, drawn by the hand of a favorite contributor to these pages, now sojourning at Jacksonville, Florida: 'Our spring has commenced; and while you are pitching Lehigh or black Newport into the glowing grate, I am listening to the notes of the mocking-bird, watching the flowers unfold, or marking the course of flocks of paroquets, that whiz by, like winged creatures, carved from rainbows. Every thing here is different from the north; man, soil, clime, and sky; wind, flower, herb, and tree. Here you see the raw material of manhood; the semi-barbarian, regardless of personal right, and the restraints of law; and there a son of southern chivalry, hospitable, generous, and brave. The sunshine is pleasant; the live oaks,

streaming with moss, are venerable; and winter reigns divested of terror; instead of frosty crown and icy sceptre, wearing a wreath of orange blossoms, and wielding in his effeminate hand a wand of sugar-cane. Among the wonders of this land of flowers, I have seen a live alligator. He was caught by a party of men, and drawn from his watery realm to a sandy bier on shore. The monster was fourteen feet in length, from snout to tail. A sense of horror crept over me, while scanning his vast proportions. His ponderous jaws, when distended, armed with short, stout teeth, revealed a red cavern that would have swallowed up a man of ordinary size. Some mischievous boys had thrust out his eyes with sticks, and the murdered king of the St. John was thereby rendered an object of pity as well as terror. It was a wanton act, and notwithstanding my horror of the reptile, engendered by reading tales of the crocodile of the Nile, to whose maws the mother consigns her babe, I could have seen the young devils devoured by him with great satisfaction. We left him dying; his coat of mail wrinkled with the agony of his death-throe; and ere this, the turkey-buzzards have croaked a harsh dirge over his remains, and marred the symmetry of his carcass with their black beaks. His head will no more emerge above the wave, and give a nod of authority to the fishes; nor will his oar-like feet part the white surges, while his caudal rudder wakes with its iron plash the slumbering echoes of the shore!'

THE 'SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL,' of which we have heretofore spoken, in terms of praise, has ceased to exist. The editor, in a graceful valedictory, remarks, that since the experiment has twice failed, in 'the support which should have been rendered, both in a fiscal and literary way,' it will be the last attempt at reviving the dying energies of Southern literature.'* We can call to mind some five or six periodicals, both at the South and North, which have languished and died, in a similar way, within the last two years. The cause, too often, of these failures, may be traced to the reading public, who lend a temporary encouragement to periodicals which present no particular claims to support, and supply no desideratum in their class of publications. On the strength of half a dozen articles, from as many personal friends of the publisher or editor; who, although perhaps expressly confining their assistance, rendered merely on the score of friendship, to the first number, are nevertheless announced as 'regular contributors;' the new journal is ushered to the world, to take its chance with the numerous periodical machines, which are hung out, like wind mills, to catch the aura popularis; some, to grind sectarian, political, or ultra philanthropic and physical 'shorts,' for the several associations to which they belong, and to find their moving power, for a time, in some one of the various currents of society; and others temporarily to sluice off some portion of public 'patronage,' (a vile word, that has no respectable synonyme,) which would otherwise have afforded encouragement to old and faithful laborers in the field of literature, who would have returned therefor an intellectual quid pro quo, ample and of no uncertain tenure. Lest the motives of these remarks be misinterpreted, we may state, that we speak from no personal feeling in the matter. We disavow the slightest tincture of literary jealousy. We appeal to thirteen volumes of this Magazine, in proof of the fact, that we have at all times cordially entreated our contemporaries, and extended a warm and open hand, even to publications which were sometimes set down by the public as rivals. Let readers but 'hold fast to that which is good,' among our contemporaries, and we shall cry content; as, for our own abundant share of public favor, we do, with all heartiness and gratitude.

SINCE this paragraph was placed in type, the first number of a monthly magazine, entitled The Southerner,' printed at Tuscaloosa, Alabama, has reached us. Its purpose is to furnish the south-western states with a periodical of a similar order' with the 'Southern Literary Journal,' which it describes as 'in the full tide of successful experiment!'

LATEST FROM 'Boz.' We are indebted to a friend in London, for a chapter of 'Nicholas Nickleby,' which has not yet been published in America. It is richer, if possible, than any of its predecessors. The following extract will shadow forth a scene which ensued at the office of that old miser, Ralph Nickleby, whither Madame Mantalini had gone, to solicit advice touching the propriety of settling an allowance upon her extravagant husband, who had preceded her to the same place, to 'raise the wind' with some of her 'business paper.' He first affects to think the proposition of his wife a demd horrid dream;' but she persists:

'Demmit!' exclaimed Mr. Mantalini, 'it is a horrid reality! She is sitting there before me. There is the graceful outline of her form; it cannot be mistaken; there is nothing like it. The two countesses had no outline at all, and the dowager's was a demd outline. Why is she so excruciatingly beautiful, that I cannot be angry with her, even now?'

You have brought it upon yourself, Alfred,' returned Madame Mantilini, in a softened tone.

still reproachfully, but

'I am a demd villain!' cried Mr. Mantalini, smiting himself on the head. 'I will fill my pockets with change for a sovereign in half pence, and drown myself in the Thames; but I will not be angry with her even then; for I will put a note in the two-penny-post, as I go along, to tell her where the body is. She will be a lonely widow. I shall be a body. Some handsome women will cry; she will laugh demnebly.'

Alfred, you cruel, cruel, creature" said Madame Mantalini, sobbing at the dreadful picture. She calls me cruel! Me-me! who for her sake will become a demd damp, moist, unpleasant body exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.

You know it almost breaks my heart, even to bear you talk of such a thing,' replied Madame Mantalini.

Can I live to be mistrusted? cried her husband. 'Have I cut my heart into a demd extraordinary number of little pieces, and given them all away, one after another, to the same little engrossing demnition captivator, and can I live to be suspected by her! Demmit, no I can't!'

Ask Mr. Nickleby whether the sum I have mentioned is not a proper one,' resumed Madame Mantiliui.

I don't want any sum,' replied her discousolate husband; I shall require no demd allowance; I will be a body.'

On this repetition of Mr. Mantalini's fatal threat, Madame Mantalini wruug her hands, and implored the interference of Ralph Nickleby; and after a great quantity of tears, and talking, and several attempts on the part of Mr. Mantaliui to reach the door, preparatory to straightway committing violence upon himself, that gentleman was prevailed upon, with great difficulty, to promise that he would not be a body.

We must find space for a scene between Ralph Nickleby and Mr. Squeers, who, after a month's plastering with vinegar and brown paper, to hide the bruises Nicholas had bestowed upon him, has come down to London on a recruiting service for Do-the-boys Hall, bringing with him, as a sign of 'the feed' at that establishment, his son Wackford, 'his pupil,' who, he boasts, 'has the fatness of twenty boys.' Newman Noggs explains the mystery: 'Ah he has the fatness of twenty? more! He's got it all. God help the others! Ha! ha!' The pedagogical tyrant throws additional light upon the internal economy of the Hall, in explaining the manner in which he turned the boys' 'extras' for medical advice toward paying the doctor's bill he had incurred from his beating:

After my bill was received, we picked out five little boys (sons of small tradesmen, as was sure pay,) that had never had the scarlet fever, and we sent one to a cottage where they'd got it, and he took it; and then we put the four others to sleep with him, and they took it; and then the doctor came and attended 'em once all round, and we divided my total among 'em, aud added it on their little bills, and the parents paid it. Ha! ha! ha!'

And a good plan, too,' said Ralph, eyeing the schoolmaster stealthily.

'I believe you!" rejoined Squeers. We always do it. Why, when Mrs. Squeers was brought to bed with little Wackford here, we ran the hooping-cough through half-a-dozen boys, and charged her expenses among 'em, monthly nurse included. Ha, ha, ha

Ralph never laughed, but on this occasion he produced the nearest approach to it that he could, and waiting until Mr. Squeers had enjoyed the professional joke to his heart's content, inquired what had brought him to town.

'Some bothering law business,' replied Squeers, scratching his head, 'connected with an action for what they call neglect of a boy. I don't know what they would have. He had as good grazing, that boy had, as there is about us.'

'Ralph looked as if he did not quite understand the observation.

Grazing,' said Squeers, rasing his voice, under the impression that as Ralph failed to comprehend, he must be deaf. When a boy gets weak, and ill, and don't relish his meals, we give him change of diet; turn him out for an hour or so, every day, into a neighbor's turnip field, or sometimes, if it's a delicate case, a turnip field and a piece of carrots alternately, and let him eat as many as he likes. There an't better land in the country than this perwerse la grazed on; and yet, he goes and catches cold, and indigestion, and what not, and theu his friends bring a law-suit against me! Now, you'd hardly suppose,' added Squeers, moving in his chair with the impatience of an ill-used man, that people's ingratitude would carry them quite so far as that, would you?"

'A hard case indeed,' observed Ralph.

'You don't say more than the truth, when you say that,' replied Squeers. I don't suppose there's a man going, as possesses the fonduess for youth that I do. There's youth to the amount of eight hundred pound a-year at Do-the-boys Hall, at this present time. I'd take sixteen hundred pound worth, if I could get 'em, and be as fond of every individual twenty pound among 'em, as nothing should equal it!'

Are you stopping at your old quarters?' asked Ralph.

'Yes, we are at the Saracen,' replied Squeers; and as it don't want very long to the end of the half-year, we shall continue to stop there, till I've collected the money, and some new boys too, I hope. I've brought little Wackford up, on purpose to show to parents and guardians. I shall put him in the advertisement this time. Look at that boy; himself a pupil; why he's a miracle of high feeding, that boy is.'

BURNING OF THE CAROLINE. A thin pamphlet has been laid before us, entitled 'An Address delivered at Niagara Falls, on the evening of the twenty-ninth of December, 1838, the anniversary of the burning of the Caroline. By THOMAS L. NICHOLS.' There is a good deal of spirit and fire in this production; and it occasionally rises to vivid eloquence; as, for example, where a description is given of the scene which was presented, when the Caroline was cut loose, towed into the Niagara, and set on fire, and signal lights were seen on the British shore, to guide the loyal boats' crew on their return from the expedition. The scene,' says the writer, 'now became one of awful sublimity. The Caroline was in flames, and the resistless flood was bearing her on toward the cataract. As the fires curled about her, her engine began to work, by the heat of the burning vessel, and the pitchy flames threw a red glare on the wild scenery, around her. It showed the wintry forest, and glowed upon the waters; it revealed the rebel island, and the barracks of the British soldiers. Onward the burning vessel was borne, and nearer and nearer the mighty precipice. From one side she was viewed with exultation; from the other, with deep threats of vengeance; and as she neared the foaming gulf, the hell of waters, they tell of dark forms that were seen amid the flames, and of death shrieks, that rose shrill and piercing above the noise of the rushing waves. Still she rushed on, and still the scene increased in grandeur, until her burning timbers were extinguished in the flood, and a few blackened fragments, thrown upon the shore, were all that remained of the ill-fated Caroline.' All this is very picturesque, and may afford a fair criterion of the merely literary characteristics of the performance in question.

'VELASCO.' - We are gratified, but by no means surprised, to find the praise which was awarded in these pages to this fine tragedy by EPES SARGENT, Esq., confirmed by so distinguished a poet and critic as SERGEANT TALFOURD. Acknowledging the receipt of the tragedy from our London publishers, the author of 'Ion' says: 'I have read it with great pleasure, and have finished it with a high sense of the taste and ability of the author. It is indeed very elegantly written. If you have an opportunity of communicating with Mr. SARGENT, I shall feel obliged if you will convey to him my best thanks for the copy of his play, and the unalloyed pleasure which a composition so chaste, graceful, and so finely adorned with poetical imagery, has afforded me in its perusal.'

CAPTAIN KYD.-Every body has heard of that distinguished buccanier, whose

'name was ROBERT KYD,
As he sailed.'

The author of 'Lafitte,' 'Burton,' etc., has made the pirate and his fortunes the nucleus around which to weave the thread of a very melodramatic romance, which we shall embrace another occasion to notice. We learn that its sale fully equals the anticipations of the publishers, the enterprising and indefatigable BROTHERS HARPER.