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THE HUTCHINSON FAMILY.

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The Hutchinson music transcends, in my view, any ordinary speech, as much as the light of the sun transcends the light of the stars. No man can listen to it without being filled with a love of the true and the beautiful. It enchants one like the singing of birds. It charms his angry passions to sleep, and wakes all his finest feelings to harmonious action. It raises the grovelling and low-bred soul to communion with high and holy thoughts, and brings back the soul which has soared above the realities of life into untravelled and uninhabited regions, back to a noble appreciation of the pure enjoyments of life. In one word, the influence of this music is humanizing. It is a grand offset to the stiff and stupid teachings of the popular religion, which de-humanizes and depraves. It strikes a death-blow to misanthropy, and explodes the idea of "total depravity" into utter nothingness. The "established worship" of the nation stands rebuked and abashed in its presence, while true reform is fired with new enthusiasm by every note which it utters. Hence the people love it, while the priests and the politicians hate it—that is, hate it as priests and politicians, but as men even they love it. It has identified itself, naturally and unavoidably, with the greatest reform movements of the age. The slave in his chains, the drunkard in his cups, the prisoner in his cell, the orphan in his asylum, the priest in his pulpit, all have cause to remember it with the deepest gratitude;-for it has turned the public ear to their miserable situation, and done much to alleviate its horrors. It has never turned a deaf ear to the "low ground cry of humanity," but has rather "inclined its head to catch it." Attempts have been made to enlist its magic powers-say rather its simple and natural and therefore boundless energies-in behalf of sect and party, but in every instance with the most signal and mortifying failure. Political and religious prints have endeavored to turn the public ear, and enlist the public hand against them,

but with the same ruinous result to the poor malcontents, who have now pretty much given up the business. Oh, it is indeed a hopeful fact, a true sign of progress, that such music may still be heard, and reverently listened to, above the din of the world's noisy and quarrelsome arena,-that no amount of clatter can silence it, and no amount of superstition neutralize its influence. Give me such songs, and you may enact any laws you please, I will yet keep the core of the public heart sound and sweet.

TALKING MACHINES.

The papers are making considerable ado about a famous “Talking Machine" now on exhibition in New York, which, it is reported, can be made to say just what its proprietor or manager desires, without making the least mistake.

But surely such machines are no great curiosity. There are scores of them in every part of the country. We have half a score here in Lynn. They are not made of wood to be sure— except in the attic region-and they are not considered out of the common course of things ;—but in other respects they are like the New York machine to a hair. They have, in some stages of their existence, been so popular as to be almost deified; and even now are ordained, consecrated, and set apart, and have certain monkish duties to perform in the temple. As a general rule they don't discourse very pleasant sounds, but that is the fault of the public. Many of them, especially in this region, are a little out of order just now; but it is thought that by and by, after a little tinkering and greasing, they will perform better.—They are expensives machines, and are supported mainly by the poor, who, according to an old tradition, imagine them made out of a superior kind of clay. This class of people (the poor) feel it their duty to keep them a-going, having a sort of superstitious fear, inherited from their grandmothers, that if they fail to contribute liberally to this end, they will be subjected, in a future world, to endless and inconceivable torments.

These machines are oiled with the sweat of the laborer, and the tears of the bereaved, and, in some instances, are worshipped in lieu of God.

They have a very peculiar voice, (like the New York article) which is a rude imitation of the human. It is a sort of whinish drawl, compounded apparently of sighs and groans, and has been mistaken by those whose ears are more remarkable for length than acuteness, for the natural voice of man.-In order to play upon the religious sentiment of the community more effectually, the proprietors of these machines pretend that their voice is rather divine than human, in which way they account for the peculiar drawl alluded to.

This singular invention is made somewhat after the shape of a man. There is, however, in general, a great fault about the eyes, which have a strange and unnatural roll, especially when lifted up. The effect of this, however, is said to be good, inasmuch as the peculiar expression of the white of the eye, well managed, is considered as having a tendency to produce solemnity and awe.

One other criticism on the thing is that its face is rather long for an average pattern of the human face, and its general expression a sort of blending of a forced smile and studied solemnitysimilar to that which appears on the face of a circus clown when in a state of mock repose.

One other peculiarity of this vocal phenomenon is its uniform. This consists of a black suit from head to foot, with the exception of the neck, which is generally bandaged round pretty closely with a white linen cloth,-the effect of which is to give a ghastly aspect to the features, and heighten the solemn effect of the whole machine.

If any one doubts the accuracy of the above description, let him go into some of the heathen temples next Sunday where they are regularly exhibited. He will be admitted gratis, and if he ventures to express any disapprobation of the mechanical performances, will be ejected on the same terms. He mus n't be shocked if these machines talk about God, and Christ, and Humanity;

for they are generally set to that tune. It is to be lamented that when they are wound up their owners do not set them to something different; but that is considered a matter of taste which is regulated according to the demands of their patrons. When the people call for a new tune-no matter what it is—they can have it; for the machine is as accommodating in that respect as a handorgan.

THE LOVER OF NATURE.

FROM "WOOD-NOTES," BY R. W. EMERSON.

'Twas one of the charmed days,

When the genius of God doth flow,

The wind may alter twenty ways,

A tempest cannot blow :

It may blow north, it still is warm ;

Or south, it still is clear ;

Or east, it smells like a clover farm ;

Or west, no thunder fear.

The musing peasant, lowly great,
Beside the forest water sat:

The rope-like pine roots crosswise grown
Composed the network of his throne,
The wide lake edged with sand and grass
Was burnished to a floor of glass,
Painted with shadows green and proud,
Of the tree and of the cloud.

He was the heart of all the scene;
On him the sun looked more serene,
To hill and cloud his face was known,
It seemed the likeness of their own ;

They knew by secret sympathy
The public child of earth and sky.
You ask, he said, what guide

Me through trackless thickets led :

Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide,
I found the water's bed.

The watercourses were my guide,

I travelled grateful by their side,
Or through their channel dry;

They led me through the thicket damp,
Through brake and fern the beavers' camp,
Through beds of granite cut my road,
And their resistless friendship showed;
The falling waters led me,

The foodful water fed me,

And brought me to the lowest land,
Unerring to the ocean sand.

The moss upon the forest bark

Was polestar when the night was dark;

The purple berries in the wood

Supplied me necessary food;
For nature ever faithful is

To such as trust her faithfulness.
When the forest shall mislead me,
When the night and morning lie,
When sea and land refuse to feed me,
'T will be time enough to die;
Then will yet my mother yield
A pillow in her greenest field,
Nor the June flowers scorn to cover
The clay of their departed lover.

SUNDAY, JUNE 16, 1844.

This has been a great day. The chill which has sharpened the air for the last few days was exchanged early this morning for a soft and balmy breath fresh from the chambers of the South, --and all the day long the weather has been perfectly delicious. As a consequence the streets have been alive with happy people every hour-and up to this time (10 P. M.) you can hear the sound of merry voices from High Rock to the Sea. Nature never presented a more smiling face, never spoke in sweeter tones, never exhaled a sweeter breath, never took captive more hearts, than she has to-day. She has made lovers of us all. At morning and evening twilight the more thoughtful of her admirers

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