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9 The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, He is launched on the wreck-covered river!
10 The traveller, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary, And sweetly reposes forever.
CXXXL —TACT AND TALENT. London Atlas.
Talent is something, but tact is everything. Talent is serious, sober, grave, and respectable: tact is all that, and more too. It is not a sixth sense, but it is the life of all the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging 5 taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch ; it is the interpreter of all riddles, the surmounter of all difficulties, the remover of all obstacles. It is useful in all places, and at all times; it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man his way into the world; it is useful in society, for it shows
10 him his way through the world.
Talent is power, tact is skill; talent is weight, tact is momentum; talent knows what to do, tact knows how to do it; talent makes a man respectable, tact will make him respected; talent is wealth, tact is ready money.
15 For all the practical purposes of life, tact carries it against talent; ten to one. Take them to the theatre, and put them against each other on the stage, and talent shall produce you a tragedy that will scarcely live long enough to be condemned, while tact keeps the house in a roar, 20 night after night, with its successful farces. There is n« want of dramatic talent, there is no want of dramatic tact; but they are seldom together: so we have successful pieces which are not respectable, and respectable pieces which are not successful. 5 Take them to the bar, and let them shake their learned curls at each other in legal rivalry. Talent sees its way clearly, but tact is first at its journey's end. Talent has many a compliment from the bench, but tact touches fees from attorneys and clients Talent speaks learnedly and
10 logically, tact triumphantly. Talent makes the world wonder that it gets on no faster, tact excites astonishment that it gets on so fast. And the secret is, that tact has no weight to carry; it makes no false steps; it hits the right nail on the head; it loses no time; it takes all hints; and,
15 by keeping its eye on the weathercock, is ready to take advantage of every wind that blows.
Take them into the church. Talent has always something worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of hearers; talent may obtain a living, tact will make one ; talent gets
20 a good name, tact a great one; talent convinces, tact converts; talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from the profession.
Take them to court. Talent feels its weight, tact finds its way; talent commands, tact is obeyed; talent is hon
25 ored with approbation, and tact is blessed by preferment. Place them in the senate. Talent has the ear of the house, but tact wins its heart, and has its votes; talent is fit for employment, but tact is fitted for it . Tact has a knack of slipping into place with a sweet silence and glibness of
30 movement, as a billiard ball insinuates itself into the pocket. It seems to know everything, without learning anything. It has served an invisible and extemporary apprenticeship; it wants no drilling; it never ranks in the awkward squad; it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind
35 side. It puts on no looks of wondrous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place aa dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the piano-forte. It has all the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius.
CXXXIV.—THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.
[This spirited poem appeared originally in " Blackwood's Magazine." Mr. Ferguson resides in Dublin, and has written several ballads and lyrical poems of considerable merit.
Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 't is at a white heat now:The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow
The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow
The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow:
And thick and loud the swinkingcrowd, at every stroke, pant " Ho!
Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load! *
The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured
When weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home,
In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last,
A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat * was cast.
A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea!
O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?
The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now
To go plump, plunging down amid the assembly of the whales,
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails I
Then deep in tangle woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn,
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn,
To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn,
And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn;
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles
He lies a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed miles;
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls,
Meanwhile to swing, a buffeting the far astonished shoals
Of his back-browsing ocean calves; or haply in a cove,
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,
To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands,
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands!
* CM Is the nautical name for the tackle used to hoist up the anchor to the
cathead, a stout piece of timber projecting from the ship's side.
0 broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?
0 lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand
Give honor to their memories, who left the pleasant strand
[eiksar Allan Poe was born in Baltimore, in January, 1811, and died October 7, 1849. He was a man of letters by profession, editor of various periodical publications, and a constant contributor to the press. His life was reckless and unhappy, and his habits dissipated and intemperate. But his genius was marked and original. His prose tales are elaborated with great rhetorical skill, and show an inventive but wild and morbid fancy, without human sympathy or moral feeling. His poetry is remarkable for the subtle music of its language, and the careful melody of its verse; but itstone is not healthy, and its themes are drawn from an unreal and fantastic region. He was a man of extraordinary intellectual powers, but without natural affection, or the sense of duty; and these defects of character are perceptible in his writings.}
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door
Only this and nothing more."