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who was to be a second mother to her babe, so that she might understand its little ways and mute appeals, which were replete with the truest pathos. Here are two beautiful stanzas from a poem by Alice Carey, now going the rounds of the press, entitled ' Annie Clayville :'

VERY pale lies ANNIE CLAYVILLE:

Still her forehead, shadow-crowned,
And the watchers hear her saying,

As they softly tread around:
Go out, reapers, for the hill-tops

Twinkle with the summer's heat;
Lay from out your swinging cradles

Golden furrows of ripe wheat !
While the little laughing children,

Lightly mixing work with play,
From between the long green winrows

Glean the sweetly-scented hay:
Let your sickles shine like sunbeams

In the silver-flowing rye;
Ears grow heavy in the corn-fields,

That will claim you by-and-by.
Go out, reapers, with your sickles,

Gather home the harvest store !
Little gleaners, laughing gleaners,

I shall go with you no more!'

"Round the red moon of October,

White and cold the eve-stars climb,
Birds are gone, and flowers are dying;

'Tis a lonesome, lonesome time.
Yellow leaves along the woodland

Surge to drifts; the elm-bough sways,
Creaking at the homestead window

All the weary nights and days;
Dismally the rain is falling,

Very dismally and cold.
Close, within the village grave-yard,

By a heap of freshest mould,
With a simple, nameless head-stone,

Lies a low and narrow mound;
And the brow of ANNIE CLAYVILLE

Is no longer shadow-crowned.
Rest thee, lost one! rest thee calmly,

Glad to go where pain is o'er;
Where they say not, through the night-time,

"I am weary!' any more.'

BEEN “a-crabbing' to-day, off the little dock, at DOBB's. What 'game' they are, those sprawling shell-fish! They'll bite any thing, from an old rag up to a ragged piece of meat. They are not what you may call a han’sum critter;' they can not be deemed an 'ornament to society. They are better as a meat' than as a personal friend and companion. This ‘red right hand’ bears witness of that. You can not touch a crab's better nature; 'leastways' we could n't. The one we tried we thought a model-specimen ; but he pinched, scratched, dug in,' and 'held on;' upon us, too, who defended his whole race down at Fire-Island one day -- one Fourth of July. There was a broad shallow tub of water that was full of them, in the shade of the house; and there they floated and sprawled, in true “independence' fashion. When their claws were extended, wags of boys would set fire-crackers on end in their joints, which they would firmly grasp, “right end up, with care.' Into the claws of a big lobster, floating in their midst, a Triton among minnows,' the boys placed an erect wooden pistol, with a slow match, made of a 'cracker,' having immediate connection with the touch-hole. This was the 'great gun' of the marine party. This masked piscatorial floating-battery was 'operated' at one and the same time, and a victim dropped (to the bottom of the tub) at every successive discharge. We thought this cruel sport at that time; but by this hand' we think now that it 'served 'em right!'... THESE sweltering July days are the days to visit our old friend Dr. RABINEAC, at his cool luxurious swimming and plunging baths at Castle-Garden. At the foot of Desbrosses-street, North River, the same luxuries, under RABINEAU Junior, may be obtained, including, when desired, a hot salt-water bath. Mr. RABINEAU'S management of the 'Astor' and · IRVING' House baths are a sufficient guarantee of what he can do and does.... Will our friends of The Sunday Mercury,' when they find any thing worthy of being copied from these pages, do us the simple justice to affix the words Knickerbocker Magazine' to all such passages as they may do us the honor to select? This is perhaps a small matter; and possibly it may be better that what our friends quote from us should be nameless. Yet we do not desire to shift the responsibility of any of our scribblings upon an 'Exchange Paper,' nor to have our correspondents, whom we quote in the 'Gossip,' considered as correspordents of no work in particular. The senior-editor of “The Mercury' will bear us witness that we have, from the first, done justice to his journal, at least in respect of

credit, and we ask in return but the same courtesy at his hand. Doubtless, in the ‘Mercury's' case, the not infrequent omission of which we complain is an inadvertence. There are other journals, however, with whom it is habitual; but as these are now crossed from our exchange-list, and as all such will be, we have made the present request of our ancient friend and contemporary: with whom be peace, plenty, and 'a thousand years.' ... Many of our readers will remember the fine poem which ensues, from the fertile pen of William D. GALLAGHER, Esq., of Cincinnati. It is perfect in description, so much so as almost to make the reader faint with the fervent heat; especially if he re-reads it, as we did, when the breeze was at rest, and a 'slumbrous silence filled the sky: '

. AUGUST Dust on thy mantle ! dust,

Against the hazy sky, Bright Summer, on thy livery of green!

The thin and fleecy clouds unmoving rest :
A tarnish, as of rust,

Beneath them far, yet high
Dims thy late brilliant sheen:

In the dim, distant west, And thy young glories - leaf, and bud, and The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare, flower,

| Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air. Change cometh over them with every hour.

Soberly, in the shade,
Thee hath the August sun

Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox;
Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face; Or in the shoal stream wade,
And still and lazily run,

Shelter'd by jutting rocks ;
Scarce whispering in their pace,

The fleecy tlock, ily-scourged and restless, rush · The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent

Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush. A shout of gladness up, as on they went.

"Tediously pass the hours, Flame-like, the long mid-day,

And vegetation wilts, with blister'd root,
With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd

And droop the thirsting flowers,
The down upon the spray,

Where the slant sun-beams shoot;
Where rests the panting bird,

But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line, Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,

Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's deWith åtful twitter, sadly out of tune.

cline.

Seeds in the sultry air,

* Faster, along the plain, And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees; Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's E'еp the tall pines, that rear

edge: Their plumes to catch the breeze,

The kine are forth again, The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west,

The bird flits in the hedge. Partake the general languor and deep rest. Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun :

Welcome, mild eve!- the sultry day is done. Happy, as man may be, Stretch'd on his back, in homely bean-vine Pleasantly comest thou, bower,

Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grase ;
While the voluptuous bee

And the curl'd corn-blades bow,
Robs each surrounding flower,

As the light breezes pass, And prattling childhood clambers o'er his That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and breast,

expa.u The husbandman enjoys his noon-day rest. Thou sweet reviver of the fever'd land!'

A FRIEND recently returned from our Great Metropolis to a pleasant town down east,' sends us back this agreeable missive: 'I saw nothing on my journey worthy of notice, except the marked decay of smoking and smokers. All along the way, prohibitory notices stare you in the face. Arriving in Boston, if you propose to smoke, you are thrust into a dark, cheerless, under-ground basement. Will dungeons come next? How unlike is this to those seats of honor which in the palmy days of New Amsterdam were erected for smokers in the porch or piazza of every house, commanding the most pleasant prospect and one well suited to the dreamy tranquillity which the fragrant weed induces ! Perhaps you have noticed in the public prints, that they have built a kind of calf-pen for smokers, at the foot of Boston Common, with seats like the anxious-seats at a camp-meeting. This they have placed, with a deep significance, immediately adjacent to the old grave-yard; saying thereby to smokers, 'There is but a step between you and death!' A comfortable reflection, truly, to one who is just trying to enjoy himself a little! I did see one other thing worthy of notice, and that is what Mrs. PARTINGTON calls the

* BLOOMER custom. Do not 'go in' for that custom. The effect of it on public morals will be bad, and there will be no end to what the French call country. toms' and 'fox-paws' that will continually occur. For instance:

You meet the maid in the pantry,

With nothing on but her pants;'
Or put on your Sunday trousers,

And find they're a pair of your aunt's ! This sort of thing may be extended, as you perceive, to any length. Speaking of French, contretemps, etc., 'how good and bow pleasant a thing it is 'to find the gift of tongues superinduced upon yourself by frequent and deep potations of good liquor, so that you who before knew only your mother-tongue, and that imperfectly, shall afterward find yourself speaking all the modern languages with fluency and correctness. I have just been reading TUCKERMAN'S 'Characteristics of Literature.' Speaking of HORNE TOOKE, he says: “This ingenious writer contends, and with much apparent reason, that prepositions and conjunctions are to be found among the other parts of speech.' Where else, in the devil's name, should they be found ? Did the fellow suppose that these respectable parts of speech had gone off, like a couple of drunken vagabonds, on a hunting and fishing excursion by themselves ! However, there is no knowing what they may have done, especially when we consider that the very devil himself was once a respectable farmer in Connecticut, by the name of ZERUBABEL L. Smith, who, falling into evil courses, went on from good to bad, from bad to worse and worst, from this world to the next, and so on until he attained his present bad eminence.' ... The other day,' writes a favorite contributor, 'as I sat in my study, a swarm of bees (magnum portentum) which had been hovering around the house came to take up their quarters in it. Forthwith every musical instrument within reach was put in requisition, and the inmates got up a tempest of sounds in the hall of the second story of the old house. You would have thought that the rites of old Mother CYBELE were being performed. Mrs. S— played on a tin-kettle; Becky strung her guitar, seated on a table; I hammered, till the strings broke, on an old rickety piano; black Harry beat an enormous tin pan with his osseous knuckles; while the bees. buzzing around our heads, drove several of the ladies down stairs with loud screams. Mount passed the door, on his way to the boat, only an hour before. Would that he could have tarried a little longer, to have sketched the picture. The loud buzzing of the bees, and the woving tin-tin-nabulation all around, put me in mind of a sentence in VIRGIL'S Georgics, when I saw the hive preparing for them — a box daubed with molasses :

TinnitusQUE cie, et Matris (the aforesaid CYBELE) quate cymbala circùm,
Ipsæ consident medicatis sedibus ; ipsa

Intima more suo sese in cunabula condent.' · Shut down the window !' said some one, they are coming into the house!' But so fierce was the onset, that several who approached the panes precipitately backed out. llow delightful was the exciting buzz, on that sunshiny day in June ! sweeter than BELLINI's music to my ear; bringing up a thousand delightful feelings, innocent associations; when, lo and behold! the mellifluous people, hovering around their queen, entered the window of my bed-chamber, and hung like a bunch of grapes on the right post of the bed where I slept I went by myself and almost wept, for I was persuaded that it was an omen for good. Such I afterward found is the superstition (if it be such) of the country people. TITE C- , who was at the time working in his shoe-shop, came and hived them, lifting them out by handiuls, and, without a single sting of ingratitude, placed them safely in a hive on a table in the garden, whereon was disposed a clean linen cloth. The little people refused to stay there, and in a few hours came swarming back, and are now safely housed beneath the roof of the porch, before my chamber-window, making hay while the sun shines. Every day I hear the buzz of industry, and if I can help it, I mean that they shall not be disturbed, and that they shall eat their own honey.' ... We are indebted to our esteemed friend and correspondent, the Rev. JAMES GILBORNE Lyox, LL.D., for the fine lines which ensue. They are entitled 'Sea and Land,' and are faithfully rendered from the Greek of Moschus. They are eminently seasonable at a time when so many are recreating in the country or by the sounding shores of the ocean:

* WHEN the light wind sports on the summer sea,
I chide my fears and leave the sultry land,
Won by the smiling of those peaceful waters;
But when the roused depths shout, when angry surges
Lift their white heads, and rough loud billows rage,
I look around for grass and trees, and shun
The vexed salt wives. To me the steadfast shore
Is theo thrice beauteous, and the wild dark wood
Pleases me best: for there, when winds are high,
The tall pine sings. A fisherman, methinks,
Leads a most dreary life; his house a boat;
His field the deep, and wandering fish his game.
Be mine to muse or slumber where the plane-tree
Spreads its fresh leaves; let me lie down on flowers,
Lulled by the warbling of some swift, bright stream,
Which, all unseen among the rocks and bushes,
Soothes the tired woodman, and makes sweet his rest.'

Joseph Barber, Esq., for many years an able and always welcome correspondent of this Magazine, has succeeded the late lamented Major Noan in the editor-bip of the New-York Sunday Times.' Mr. Barber is a gentleman of fine talents, and has great skill and tact as an editor. He makes a most various and readable journal.... We hear, with very great pleasure, from distinguished authority in London, that THACKERAY, the eminent author and healthful satirist of the vices and follies of the time, without regard to rank or station, will soon pay a visit to the United States. He will be welcomed by a host of admirers. Of no transAtlantic writer have the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER heard more frequently, more at large, or more favorably, than of the author of The Yellowplush Correspondence,' · Vanity Fair,' and · Pendennis.' Mr. THACKERAY will repeat in this country the series of brilliant lectures which have just closed with such unusual éclat in London. Even the bare skeletons of these lectures, which have appeared in the English journals, show them to be of the highest order of merit in their kind; while the manner of the speaker is universally commended, as being alike simple and effective. ... We received, just before the death of the late JAMES SCRYMEGOUR, of this city, (a gentleman of nany rare virtues, known to those who knew him well,) a letter from him, enclosing another from Mr. RAMSAY CROoks, announcing the death of Judge ABBOTT, of Mackinaw. No one has been long at this beautiful resort on the Huron, without meeting with this most hospitable and truehearted gentleman. He was a merchant in furs, of large experience, a man of education and refined manners; in short he was, what many who are represented to be are not, a true 'gentleman of the old school. In less than a week after the intelligence of his death reached us, his old friend Mr. SORYMEGOUR followed him to the undiscovered country. ... THERE is nothing that serves to show more forcibly the progress of a love of the finer arts among our people, and a general refinement of taste, than the immense patronage which is bestowed in this country upon articles of elegance and vertu. Look, for example, at the superb establishments of such importers of these things, in all their various varieties and richest qualities, as Messrs. JEROLIMAN, MOTLEY AND COMPANY, in the new free-stone stores of Park-Row, Messrs. TIFFANY AND Young, Chambers-street and Broadway, and Messrs. WILLIAMS AND STEVENS, corner of Leopard-street and Broadway. All over the United States, from out these vast establishments, proceed those articles of taste and grace, the demand for which shows an appreciation of the beautiful, which cannot be without its effect in lessening the reproach, so often brought against us, that we lack an appreciation, if not a knowledge, of the artistical accessories which heighten the enjoyments of life. In this regard, we consider the enterprising houses we have mentioned, as in one respect at least, national benefactors..., MUCH amused to-night with an anecdote told in the sanctum of an artist in ornamental glass, who was preparing pictures of three or four of the APOSTLES, for an oriel window of a church in a flourishing western city. He had just taken them from his furnace, and was showing them to some of the vestry. 'Don't say any thing about it,' said he, ‘for it would n't be noticed by one person out of a hundred, but I do n't mind telling you in confidence : Saint PETER is a little cracked in the head; he was too soft in the upper end; but I've got a first-rate bake on Paul. Saint John, though, is n't more than half-baked; I'll have to bake another John. But d'ever you see a better-baked Paul?' His remarks were entirely professional; nor had he the most remote idea of there being a double-meaning in any thing he was saying. . . . If you wish to see what sort of a place Binghamton, Broome county, is, step into the Exchange, or into the publication-office of the KNICERBOCKER, and take a glance at the new and beautiful illustrated map of the village, by Mr. BEVAN, Civil Engineer and Surveyor. Look at 'Shnang-P’int,' and the wide-spread town which lies above it; look at Oakwood Cottage,' at Ingleside,' and at the beautiful residence of Mr. CHRISTOPHER ELDRIDGE, at the point where the Susquehanna and the Chenango, united in a loving embrace, 'flow on in beauty to the sea.' Take particular note of The Phoenix Hotel,' by the graceful iron bridge that Crosses the Chenango canal, whose fresh-smelling waters lapse along the end of the edifice. That's the place to take your ease in your inn. We do n't see the welcome and welcoming face of the handsome host at the door; 'Lord CLIFTON ’ is engaged inside. He is making guests happy in his beautiful private parlors, sending them away to their clean and cool sleeping apartments, or marshalling them to a table whose variety and abundance Apicius might have envied. This is the old "stage-house,' whence radiate the stage.coaches to all parts of "York State, Pennsylvania, and the benighted “Jarsies.' "The Lewis House,' on the bill near the New-York and Erie Rail-road, a new, spacious and tasteful structure, adds not a little to the architectural attractions of Binghamton. It should be a good hostel; for it is a KNICKERBOCKER, 'cousin german on the Scotch side to the venerated DIEDRICH, the immortal historian, who keeps it. ..We condense a few Theatrical and Operatic Facts : By the time our next number shall be ready for the press, Miss Catherine Hayes, the celebrated Irish Vocalist, will have made her advent in New York. We predict for her a success only second to that of JENNY LIND. She bas reached the topmost point in her profession abroad, having gained triumph after triumph in the Italian, English, and Irish cities. Moreover, she is as beautiful as she is good, and as good as she is gifted. Mr. J. H. WARDWELL, a gentleman of character and standing, is Miss Hayes' agent for this country. We shall enlarge our readers' knowledge of this gifted person in our next number. - Mr. EdWIN FORREST will open an engagement at the Broadway Theatre on the fourteenth of September. We hope he will open either in ‘LEAR' or "RICHELIEU,' in either of which characters he is without an equal on the English or American stage. The Opera at Castle-Garden is a most charming and popular resort. The place is delightful; the artists are of the very first order of merit; the operas

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