tion—had been stretching onward and spreading wide, till the utmost verge of its noisy activity woke up the sleeping echoes of his retirement. The primeval shades were invaded by the light of Heaven-the wild beast was sullenly retreating from his lair-the deer with timorous foot-step was fleeing from the glare of civilization. Ephraim marched home in moody silence, revolving within himself the possibility of getting so far away from the abodes of men, that he should never again be molested by the encroachments of the settlements.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

SONG OF THE SEA-BIRD.

On the Ocean's breast I dwell,
Where the winds forever roar,
Where the waves, with heaving swell,
Are disporting evermore ;

Now afar from sight I roam,
Now along the beach I skim,
Now I kiss the fleecy foam,

On the billow's curling rim,
Now I watch the fisher's boat,
Now the fisher, full of glee,

Now I join my merry note

With the music of the sea.

Tell me not of flowery beds,

Tell me not of sylvan seats,

Tell me not that nature sheds

On the land her richest sweets;
All the flowers, that deck the ground,"
All the groves and all the glades,
All the sweets that can be found
'Neath the forest's leafy shades,

All the pleasures of the shore,
Are not half as sweet to me,
As the dashing breaker's roar-
As the music of the sea.

REVIEW.

A GALLOP AMONG AMERICAN SCENERY: Or, Sketches of American Scenes and Military Adventure. By Augustus E. Silliman. D. Appleton & Co., New York, 1843.

IF our own experience is any test, the above will be found. a truly entertaining and lively book. Though early and cordially greeted by most of our leading periodicals, we deem it not unworthy of more particular notice, than a mere passing salute. What first arrested our attention to this little volume, was the inviting look of the very title-page. We were not led to expect descriptions of fairy scenery and daring adventure in foreign countries, though such might be interesting in themselves, as well as fitted to waken "pleasant memories of pleasant lands." Our attention was asked to "Sketches of American scenes and military adventure," which was the more gratifying, because, while no country can boast of natural scenery more varied, beautiful, sublime, than our own; though no modern nation can point, in its history, to truer patriots, or to more thrilling and heroic deeds, our native writers, we were about to say, almost without exception, resort for materials to the localities and histories of other and distant lands. When we think of the magic spell which the pen of the ready writer weaves around the humblest scene; of the charmed associations which gush from the fountains of British literature, to enrich and adorn our father-land; of our own Irving lending the aid of his genius to light up with its mellow radiance English scenery and rural life-we feel ashamed and grieved that our own country should meet with such neglect. For this unfilial apathy on the part of our writers, can even a plausible excuse be urged? Our territory is ample, and rich in materials. Its fields are white for the harvest, but the laborers are few. We hail, therefore, as an encouraging omen, the appearance of any new reaper in the field, though he tarry but to bind a few scattering sheaves.

The "Gallop," as its title imports, is the result of rambles to some of those numerous American localities, celebrated not only for the beauty and magnificence of their scenery, but for the hallowed associations with which they are invested by events in our national history. Our aim will be to impart to our readers some idea of the character of these "Sketches," and to select a few extracts, which may illustrate the author's manner and style.

He first transports us to the banks of the Potomac. We

walk in company up the long avenues of sycamores and elms, that lead to the airy East Indian cottage of his friend. Suddenly it bursts upon our view, embosomed as it were in a sea of roses, white lilies, climbing myrtle, and flowering vines. The open door invites an entrance. Our reception-but the reader is invited to take the tour himself, and we pledge him a welcome equally cordial with our own. From these pleasant quarters, our author, like a true hearted American, takes his first. gallop to Mount Vernon. To his visit to the "sacred place of America," we are indebted for one of his finest sketches. As we stand with him in the room, and by the bed where the noble heart of Washington ceased to beat, we feel that he has done all that description will allow, to impress us with the grandeur of that final scene. Nor can we doubt his sincerity, when he speaks of dismounting at night at the cottage door, "more chastened, true, more elevated," from his pilgrimage to the shrine of Washington.

But as the "spirited bays" haven't sinews of steel, let us leave them to regain their mettle and elasticity, while we take a "run down the Potomac." A beautiful yacht, truly, and a lively crew. Our trip is beguiled with story and song. To the person of delicate nerve perhaps, the vivid picture of the dissecting room, as exhibited by the medical student, might prove somewhat revolting. Still, as our author suggests, it may have a favorable influence upon those inclined to disparage, or, what is worse, to sneer at the medical profession, " to look in upon one of these even minor ordeals to which its followers are subjected, in their efforts to alleviate the sufferings of their fellow men." We regret that we must take exception to some remarks, at the close of the chapter entitled "the resurrectionists;" though we will charitably conclude, that the sentiments which the language might be interpreted to convey, the author would disavow. It is true that the spirit, even while it tabernacles in the flesh, may often be led to regard the body as "little other than a tasking house of base necessities; a chained prison of cruel disappointments;" yet while our nature is such, that the lifeless form to surviving friends retains all its dear associations, even the requirements of suffering humanity cannot, in our opinion, ever justify or make necessary the violation of the humblest grave. It is true likewise, that the region of the soul's immediate sojourn, after it leaves the body, and the form or mode of its existence, previous to its final award, are not definitely revealed. But surely we are authorized, without indulging any wild theory of the imagination, to say that it is not the "limbo of the fathers," nor the purgatory of the Catholics. That it does not remain with its "germ of life torpid, like the

wheat taken from the Egyptian pyramids, thousands of years existent, but apparently not sentient." We are not in such total darkness on this point. The sacred volume reveals a surer destiny. In the language of " the country pastor," it makes "clear its passage as brightest noonday" to the departing soul. But list, indulgent reader, still on the waters of the Potomac. "Old Kennedy, the quarter master," now claims a hearing. Himself an actor in some of the most memorable of our naval engagements, he describes those bloody scenes in the nervous, impressive language, and with the wakened enthusiasm of a gallant old tar. The spirited narrative of some of the exploits of the famous "Lee's partisan legion," during the revolutionary war, sets American patriotism and valor in a truly Spartan light. But we cannot linger longer on the banks of the Potomac. A trip up the Hudson, and then for the West.

"Now the rising mist-wreaths warn us of thy approach, Niagara. We stand upon the Table Rock, and look down into the abyss. How awful, how terribly sublime! How tame, how useless, helpless, description! Would that I with voice of inspiration, could command language adequate to portray the grandeur of the scene, under stern Winter's reign! Transcendently beautiful, once I saw it! A thaw and rain, followed by sudden chill and cold, had clothed all the forest, every hedge and shrub, with transparent coat of ice. Gnarled oaks, from massive trunk to their extremest twigs, became huge crystal chandeliers. The evergreen pines and hemlocks, with long lancing branches, great emeralds; lithe willows, sweeping, glassy cascades; the wild vines, stiff in silvery trellices between them; the undergrowth, with scarlet, blue, and purple berries, candied fruits. The pools of frozen water at their feet, dark sheets of adamant; and ever and anon, as the north wind passed o'er them, the forest was Golconda, Araby, one Ind of radiant gems, quivering with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, in glittering splendor; pearls, emeralds, hyacinths, chrysolites, falling in showers, as fractured from their crackling branches, they strewed the snowy bed stretched smooth around them. That wide, smooth river, far above the Rapids, ice-chained, a solid, snow-white bed, gleaming in the midday sun."

Now in New England-a morning gallop to Mount Holyoke. As the mist rolls slowly from his sides, he rises to view-the veteran monarch of the plain, with his "cragged, coronal of Some little climbing, and here we are on the rocky platform of its summit. "Is not the scene magnificent? We stand in the center of an amphitheatre, two hundred miles in diameter. See! at the base of the mountain, curls like a huge serpent, the Connecticut, its sinuosities cutting the smooth plains with all sorts of grotesque figures-now making a circuit around a peninsula of miles, across whose neck, a child might throw a stone-here stretching straight as an arrow for a like distanceand there again returning like a hare upon its course. See the verdant valleys extending around us, rich with the labor of good old New England's sons, and far in the distance, the blue smoky distance, rising in majesty, God's landmarks, the mountains. See the beautiful plains, the prairies beneath us, one great carpet of cultivation-the fields of grain, the yellow wheat, the

verdant maize, the flocks, the herds, the meadow, the woodlar forming beautiful and defined figures in its texture, while the villages in glistening whiteness, are scattered like patches of snow in every part of the landscape; and hark! in that indistinct and mellow music, we hear the bell slowly tolling from yonder slender spire. Oh! for a Ruysdael, or a Rubens, to do justice to the picture."

Our author frequently upon starting, we fear, dashes on at too furious a rate, to please the more veteran literary traveler. One can hardly avoid catching for breath as "shwist-shwistthrough the rivers-over the islands-we glide-we rush-we fly;"-though possibly the contrast may enhance our admiration of his wonted more uniform and graceful gait.

We should be pleased to accompany the reader to the "White Mountains;" also to "Greenwood Cemetery," that beautiful home for the dead, but our engagements will not allow. In conclusion, some of the more marked features of this little volume will be found-its spirited and natural descriptions of American scenery-its highly wrought but chastened imaginationand its commendable moral tone. To the American reader, therefore, we heartily recommend " A Gallop" to spots hallowed by historical recollections, and among the rich and varied scenery of our favored land.

THE MOORS OF SPAIN.

THERE is no chapter in the history of man, more deeply interesting than that of the rise and progress of Mohammedanism. Even in contemplating the achievements of mighty conquerors alone, of a Cæsar, or of a Bonaparte, we are unable to repress a feeling of admiration and astonishment. With what sensations of wonder, should we then regard the career of Mahomet, who not only commenced the series of conquests, which, under him and his immediate successors, was extended over more than half of the known world, but enslaved the minds of the millions who inhabited those vast and teeming regions, and founded a religion, which threatened for a time to swallow up every other creed!

The mighty inundation, having rolled with constantly increasing force to the western shore of Africa, was destined to meet with but a temporary check at the straits of Gibraltar. It crossed into Spain, and rushed with resistless impetuosity to the farthest confines of the Peninsula. It was in Spain that for the