Pole. One thing is certain, and satisfactory; he is the first person that ever crossed the Rocky Mountains on wheels; his transit shows that those mountains are traversable with carriages, and that it is perfectly easy to have a rail-road to the Pacific. If such road should ever be constructed, I hope, in honor of the great projector who led the way, it may be called the 'Doolittle Rail-road;' unless that name should have been given as characteristic, to some of the many rail-roads already in progress. 'Your humble servant, HIRAM CRACKENTHORPE, of St. Louis. EDITORIAL 'POT-LUCK.'-Indulgent reader, will you sit down at our table, and 'take pot-luck' with us?-looking, with an eye of faith, to find something in the hash, from our own stores, or from those which have been 'sent in by the neighbors,' to stay your appetite withal? To drop similitude, we are about to resume the selections from our 'drawer,' among which we would crave permission to intersperse a few fragments from our note-book; the more that, being jotted down in half-indicated thoughts, they are not calculated to 'keep' for any great length of time; and there are a few pencillings scattered through the leaves, that we would not willingly let die. But first, let us do justice to a correspondent, whose early favor was inadvertently omitted from this department of our last number. MIND, or the wonderful 'thinking principle,' which animates our mortaliy, are surveyed by him in a wide field of vision: THE simple flower which springs up in our path, charms us by its sweetness and fragility, and we learn to admire its wonderful mechanism. The rushing of the tornado, and the warring of the elements, we behold with thrilling emotions. Man, too, the lordly tenant of nature's heritage, is a miracle, aside from the ethereal spark which dwells within him. The curious structure of his frame; its wonderful combinations of levers and pulleys; the heart, that admirable forcing-pump, for driving the crimson life through every artery; and the chest, that secret laboratory, where nature, by her own fires, compounds her simples, and distils her vital essences; all these are subjects fraught with deep interest, and open wide fields of inquiry. But after all, what are the wonders of physical nature, without a SOUL to scan and enjoy them? The thinking principle, that receives these pleasures, that appreciates their value, and dwells with rapture upon the infinite wisdom and benevolence traced in them by the finger of GOD? Subtle in its essence, intangible in its existence, it eludes our strictest analyses. We see its intelligence, and marvel at its controlling and grasping power. It is around us, and in us, the mainspring of our mortal horologe; and yet the question of its nature is more enigmatical than the riddle of the unshorn Nazarite to the Philistines. Philosophy has grasped it as a subject of the noblest investigation, and philosophers have traced its history, observed its habits, and scanned its operations. But wrapped in the solitude of its own mystery, the mind has deigned merely to give them demonstration of its action, while the inner chambers of its arcana have never been explored. Wonderful alike in its nature, in its existence, and in its operation, it is at once the fountain of thought, and the receptacle of feeling. Voiceless as the solitude, it goes forth from its frail tabernacle, and gathers the rich fruits of science. It laves its ethereal pinions in Arethusa's silver stream, and kindles with the fires of the Castalian muse. It careers through the whole cycle of truth, and returning from the long journey, with its choicest pearls, garners up the rich treasures of knowledge. Soaring on the wing of thought, above the dull regions of sense, it visits other worlds, and other suns; and pausing midway in its daring flight, sports like the lambent flame of the aurora borealis, on the broad play-ground of infinite space; and still rising, still expanding, it reaches the habitations of JEHOVAH, and in its wide embrace, takes the gauge and dimensions of the universe. But the mind is not more wonderful in its power than in its development. Feeble in its beginnings, as the twinkling star that heralds the approach of light, yet in its maturity it dazzles and burns with the vehemence of a mid-day sun. In its first outgoings, it is weak and fragile, as the tender vine, clasping its tendrils around every object for support; in its development, it towers with the majesty of the mountain oak, and defies the storm. Cast your eye upon that tender infant, nursed in the sweet Eden of maternal love; the impersonation of weakness, perhaps, and mental imbecility. How helpless! - how fragile! Yet who shall say, but that gem of inestimable richness lies concealed in that feeble casket? Who shall say that the mind, which now beams faintly forth from those eyes, when expanded and matured, shall not prove a mind of magic power?- that the voice which now sobs in such ten der accents, when strengthened by age, and nerved with intellectual energy, shall not prove as potent in hurling defiance at tyranny, as that of the far-famed orator of Athens, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece, Who shall say that the little boy, who to-day amuses himself by twirling a fire-brand, and watching the ribands formed by its revolutions, shall not to-morrow prove a FRANKLIN, chaining the lightning which plays on the scowling cloud, and giving laws to the warring elements? Who shall say that the child, who to-day is stammering in the first rudiments of letters, shall not to-morrow prove a MILTON, charming the world by the beauty of his descriptions, and by the lofty conceptions of his heaven-born muse? or a SHAKSPEARE, harping on the key-string of passion, and swaying the tide of human feeling at his pleasure? or a NEWTON, bursting the obstructions cast by nature around our finite conceptions, and with a daring almost divine, carrying the line and plummet to the very outskirts of the Almighty's works? Franklin, Milton, Shakspeare, and Newton, were once infauts in mind as well as in years; and that potency of intellect which they subsequently manifested, was but the gradual expansion of the humble germ which GOD implanted in the first buddings of their infant days. Mysterious in its essence, no calculus can define its powers, calculate its eccentricities, or determine its orbit! The laws of matter cannot control it. Spiritual in its nature, it seeks its own level in kindred spirituality. On the fervid wings of its aspiration, it struggles upward through obstacles of sense, and burns for ethereal joys. Earth is not its home. It is an exotic, transplanted from heaven, here to bud awhile, and unfold a few of its golden tints, just giving a glimpse of its loveliness, and then to fade and die. But there it will bloom, in perennial freshness! There it will display, in all their perfection, its magic hues, and waft its undying fragrance on the celestial breeze. WE derive the annexed lines from an esteemed friend, who composed them a short time since, partly doubtless as a relaxation from legislative duties and cares, but mainly to oblige the popular vocalist, Mr. H. RUSSELL, who has set them to music, which will soon be published: Now there may be some readers, who have outlived the memory of their youthful loves, or else have never had any, who consider all tales and songs of the tender passion as just so much 'nonsense' and 'trash.' Such men, (and women, if there be any,) are greatly to be pitied, and pity is akin to contempt. Keep ever alive, oh reader! your 'memories of the heart;' and be not ashamed to write or speak of that which 58 VOL. XIII. springs from the divinity within us for Gon is love. We admire the man who hesitates not to recall with rapture, even when descending the downhill of life, the first faint radiance of an early-kindled flame, and its steady advance to a consuming fire; the stolen interview, the secret billets, the longer letters; the watchings for the glimmer of light in her distant apartment, for full many a night, when none but the pale stars were looking down upon the summer's sward or the winter's snow; and, thrice-blessed moment! when, all doubt vanished, all aspirations realized, that fond girl placed her soft, warm hand in his; when, with wild audacity, he clasped her to his bosom; when, for the first time, their lips were joined, and their two souls, like dew-drops, rushed into one. Of how many thousands will this be the experience, before these pages shall become forgotten records! How will even aversion melt to final pity, and ridicule be transformed into admiration, and admiration into love! 'Delicate girl,' wrote a keen observer of human nature, many years ago, 'delicate girl, just budding into womanly loveliness whose heart for the last ten minutes has been trembling behind the snowy walls of thy fair and beautiful bosom, hast thou never remarked and laughed at an admirer, for the mauvaise honte with which he hands to thee a book, or thy cup of half-watered souchong? Laugh not at him again, for he will assuredly be thy husband.' Yes! he will tremble for a few months more, as he stands beside thy music-stool, and join no others in the heartless mockery of their praise; but when every voice which has commended thy song, is hushed, and every note which thou hast clothed in ethereal music, is forgotten by all beside, to him it will be a theme to dream upon in his loneliness; and every look which thine eye vouchsafed to him, will be laid up as a sacred and a holy thing, in the inmost sanctuary of his secret soul. Thou wilt see, in a short time, that the tremulousness of his nerves is only observable, when his tongue is faltering in his address to thee; pity will enter into thy gentle heart, and thyself wilt sometimes turn the wrong page in thy book of songs, and strike the wrong note on thy piano, when thou knowest that his ears are drinking in thy voice, and his eyes following thy minutest action. Then will he, on some calm evening, when the sun is slowly sinking behind the west, tell thee that without thee he must indeed be miserable; that thou art the one sole light which has glowed and glittered upon 'life's dull stream.' THERE follow a few pretty and fanciful lines, written, as we gather from a correspondent, by a child, who has not yet reached her thirteenth year. She is the daughter of Mr. THOMAS MATHEWS, of the National Theatre, whose début, the last season, at that establishment, in the part of 'Apollo,' elicited general applause: THE ORIGIN OF THE SNOW DROP. A SNOW-FLAKE fell from the summer sky, Where it lies enthralled in the realms on high, It chauced to fall in a garden fair, The angel smiled on it, resting there, What dost thou here, fair child of air, The snow-flake said: Thy flowers have died, And when above, I have often sighed To see their colors fly: Then I vowed to visit the earth, and give As the snow-flake spake, the flowers that lay Bloomed with the blush of a new-born day, Then the angel said: 'If thou 'it stay with me, A beauteous form I'll give to thee, AN ingenious machinist in France once obtained a patent for an automaton ‘crieur,' that was well adapted for selling property of all descriptions. The machine performed every relative duty of the most experienced auctioneer, with significant and appropriate actions, without the wonted noise and nonsense. When set in motion, it called the attention of the company, by a triple rap of the hammer with one hand, while the other pointed to the conditions of sale. As soon as the lot was put up, the hammer was kept gracefully flourishing, while the head of the automaton nodded thankfully at every bidding. Now such a machine as this would supply an important desideratum in this metropolis of trade and commerce; and we hope the suggestion will meet the eye of some relative or friend of 'JABEZ DOOLITTLE, Esq., nigh Wallingford, Connecticut,' who may chance to encounter one, ready made, among the rubbish of his rat-traps, churns, apple-parers, pill-rollers, horse-persuaders, shingle-splitters, and other inventions. There will be no difficulty, now, we may suppose, in gaining access to his shop; for he went away in a hurry, and left one end of it wide open, although 'no admittance' frowned on the other. Has the city reader ever passed along Chatham Square, and through the street from which it derives its name, without hearing the eternal din of hammers closing bargains up, and the uproarious vociferations of the operators?-noises that, breaking upon the ear of a passer-by, who may be indulging the luxury of his own quiet thoughts, suddenly recall vivid ideas of Bedlam; an impression that is amply confirmed, by a glance at the shop's interior, where stands a lonely man, foaming at the mouth, sawing the air with his hand, and making the dirty counter before him to resound again with the noise of his mallet. The street 'crieur' is of another class. You shall see him, even of a cold winter morning, buttoned to the throat, with a waist-coat or a pair of unwhisperables whisking about on a long stick, which he holds in his hand, while he vociferates at the pedestrian auditory, who sometimes glance at him in passing, 'Twent'-'five! Thirt' - thirt' — thirt'-five, for them pants!' Much practice has made him an automaton, to all intents and purposes. But the most distinguished of auctioneers, is the vender of oil paintings; and the class has greatly multiplied, since it has been ascertained that at least an hundred 'original pictures,' on one and the same subject, and by the same renowned master, may be sold here from one auction mart. GOLDSMITH speaks of a man who, having disposed of a petrified lobster, which he had accidentally found, at a great bargain, straitway set about the manufacture of the article, and drove a wholesale trade in that unique line. The picture-vender acts upon this hint, and he succeeds equally well. He deals in bugs, well preserved; hum-bugs, of the first water. HOGARTH, we remember, has a picture of Time, with a pipe in his mouth, whiffing smoky antiquity upon a fresh painting. Your modern picture-venders better understand the matter. We have recently read, in some of our periodicals, a brief account of the knowledge of art and the great artists which they display, but it did not come up to the reality. The great successor of Madame MALAPROP, who flourished in England some ten or twelve years ago, could alone, were she among us, do justice to the auctioneer of modern paintings by the old masters. 'Here,' he exclaims, holding up a rather confused and mottled composition, 'is a splendid pictur', by a very ancient master of arts. You see the frame is old and worm-eaten, and there is the year 1528' on the back of it. It is the interior of a cathedral, in Spain, or else in Italy. They are a-worshippin' inside; the priest, up by the candles, is very much incensed with the smoke that the boys is a-whirlin' round his head; and the quire's a-singin' a tedium: but look at your catalogues; it's all in them.' 'This pictur' was exhibited fifty years in the Vacuum at Rome, where the pope keeps his celebrated bulls. What's bid for 't? Is five hundred dollars named, to start it? Five hundred do I hear? This is struck down to a spectator at the farther end of the room, and another rises to view, with two naked figures in the fore-ground; backed by trees that are very, very green, and skies extremely blue. This gem of painting, gen❜lemen, is a chef-dowver of DE BUFF; his celebrated' Adam and Eve expulsed from Paradise.' Is three hundred dollars bid for this? It was sold for six hundred guineas in London! Is fifty dollars bid? Fifty-fifty-going! Yours, Mr. SUCKEDIN.' This was followed by a painting which seemed to represent a street-view. 'Here, now, is a treasure! It is a scene in the su-berbs of the city of Venice, that a gen'leman, who was here to see it this morning, called the 'Place Louis Quinzy,' named after a French officer in Napoleon's army, who caught cold a-travellin' in the same stage-coach at night with a wet nurse, and died of the quinzy sore-throat. I did n't hear of this, in time to put it in the catalogue; but they say the first thing a traveller does, when he gets to Venice, is to hire a horse, and ride out to look at it. How much for it? The piece went for fifty dollars. 'You will find it,' said the auctioneer, 'a very cheap pictur' - and he did. We remember to have seen an anecdote of an enthusiastic but ignorant lover of old paintings, of whose mania advantage was taken by every huckster of pictures for leagues around him; and his love of being deceived, may be gathered from the following colloquy with an amateur friend: 'Come up and see me to-morrow, my boy, and I'll show you a picture that is a picture - an undoubted original. I want your unbiassed judgment of it. TITIAN SMITH was over to look at it, yesterday, and had the impudence to say that it was a copy - the ignorant ramus! By Jove! I'd like any other man to tell me so! Curse me, if I should n't be tempted to knock him down! But come up to-morrow, and give us your candid opinion of its merits. I'd like to know what you think of it.' There can be no doubt, we presume, that the painting was not considered a copy. An acquaintance of ours once encountered a different critic, in the person of an English gentleman, accomplished in a knowledge of the details of art, and the prominent features of all the great masters. He was invited, after dinner, to step up into the gallery of his host, which had been purchased without regard to the hole it made in a princely fortune. 'What do you think of 'em?' anxiously inquired the owner, from time to time, as his friend walked leisurely around the apartment, and surveyed, through his eye-glass, the canvass-hangings, in elaborately-carved frames, with which it was lined; 'what do you think of 'em, eh?' 'Upon my honor, my friend,' was the reply, 'I would n't give you a hundred dollars for the lot! We think we have heard that the 'undoubted originals' were sold over again, at a great advance. WE are indebted for the ensuing lines, to a friend whose name was once frequently before the public, but who, of late, although we infer he has not ceased to write, has nevertheless hitherto ceased to publish. For the lesson inculcated, we need not ask the applause of the moral and christian reader: GOD IN NATURE. COME, climb along with me this mountain top, And look upon the wide outstretching scene, On which each heart, with just conceptions fraught, What say'st thou, unbeliever, dark in soul! Looks up in beauty, smiling to the sun! Thou canst not! Then, perhaps thou canst unmake. To be the smallest part of matter known, J. L. |