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PAINTINGS, ETC. — The gallery of the 'Apollo Association' is open at Clinton Hall : we shall embrace another and more convenient opportunity, to notice it as it deserves. While upon the subject of paintings, we would invite the attention of such amateurs and lovers of art as may be passing near the New Custom House — that beautiful monument to the perseverance and genius of the architect, Mr. Frazee to step in at the first door adjoining that edifice on the cast, and take a glance at a 'Saint Sebastian' which graces the office of T. N. Campbell, Esq, a gentleman who knows a good pic. ture from an indifferent one, and in whom the Arts have heretofore found something more than a mere 'admiring' friend. The picture in question is of a high order of merit, and needs but to be seen to be appreciated. There are several places in our busy thoroughfares, let us add, ‘in this connection,' where the hurrying pedestrian may solace his anxious thoughts for a moment, with glimpses of pictured nature - landscape, 'water-scape,' or the human face divine; and we pay a deserved tribute of gratitude for much past enjoyment, when we cite Mr. L. P. Clover's well-known picture, lookingglass, and picture frame establishment, in Broadway, near Washington Hall, as a place where great satisfaction in this kind may be gleaned by the passer-by. Nor must we omit here to inform our friends, in town or country, that should they honor our publication office with a visit – to pay their subscriptions, or to enter the names of their friends — they will find, in a well-designed, soft, and most pleasing picture, from the pencil of Mr. T. B. THOBP, an illustration of 'The Golden Age of Manahatia,' so felicitously described by our honored progenitor. "Such,' says he, ' was the happy reign of Wouter Van Twiller, celebrated in many a forgotten song as the real 'Golden Age.' In that delightful period a sweet and holy calm reigned over the whole province;' and this 'sweet and holy calm' is exquisitely embodied in the picture in question. If our subscribers are faithful to their (or rather our)' trusts,' perhaps our readers will find it in the KNICKERBOCKER, beautifully reproduced on steel.
MASTER HUMPHREY's Clock.' This last production of the gifted ‘Boz' improves as it advances; and really bids fair to excel, in variety of interest, any thing which has yet appeared from his pen. The description of the grand caravan of wax-figures, and its pompous owner, the kind-hearted but humbugeous JablEy; the sketch of the schoolhouse, which will remind the reader of Ichabod Crane's pedagogical realm; the adjuncts of the boasted copy. hand, the vacant seat and hat-peg of the absent pupil, all are drawn to the life: and nothing can exceed the touching picture of the fond and affectionate school.master, reasoning against well-founded hope that his favorite little scholar will recover from a sudden and dangerous illness, and bring joy and delight once more to the melancholy school-room. The poor teacher is so ill at ease on his account, that he gives his pupils a half-holiday, for which he is variously reproached by their parents; and leading our favorite little Nell, he proceeds to the humble dwelling of his aged mother :
“They stopped at a cottage-door ; and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of me. They entered a room where a little group of women were gathered about one, older than the rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her hands, and rocking herself to and fro. "Oh dame!' said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, 'is it so bad as this ?'
"He's going fast,' cried the old woman; ' my grandson's dying. It': all along of you. You should n't see him nour, but for his being so earuesi on it. This is what bis learning has brought hiin to. Oh, dear, dear, dear, what can I do!'
". Do not say that I am in fault,' urged the gentle schoolmaster. I am not hurt, dame. No, no. You are in great distress of mind, and do pot mean what you say. I am sure you don't ?'
"I do,' returned the old woman. I mean it all. If he hadu'i been poring over his books out of fear of you, he would have been well and merry now, I know he would.'
“ The schoolmaster looked round upon the other women, as if to entreat some one among them to say a kind word for him, but they shook their heads, and murinured to each other that they never thought there was auch good in learning, and that this convinced them. Without saying a word in
upon a bed,
reply, or giving them a look of reproach, lie followed the old woman who had summoned him (and who had low rejoiued thein) into another room, where his infant friend, balf dressed, lay stretched
" He was a very yoang boy: quite a little child. His hair bung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of Heaven, not of earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside bim, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprung up, stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted arins arouud his neck, crying out that he was his dear kind friend.
"* I hope I always was. I mcant to be. God knows,' said the poor schoolmaster.'
" • Who is that ?' said the boy, seeing Nell. 'I am afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask ber to shake hands with ine.
* The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.
“* * You remember the gurden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dullness seemed gathering upon the child, and how pleasant it used to be in the evening time: You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very fowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, any dear, very soon now – won't you?'
“ The boy smiled faintly - so very very fainily - and put his hand upon his friend's gray head. He moved his lips too, but uo voice came from them; no, not a sound.
“In the silence that ensued, the humn of distant voices borne upon the evening air came floating through the open window. What's that ?' said the sick child, opening his eyes.
“• The boys at play upon the green.'
"He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless dowu.
""Shall I do it?' said the schoolmaster.
"* Please wave it at the window,' was the faint reply. "Tie it to the lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of me, and look ihis way.'
“He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering sigoal to bis idle ball that lay with slate and book and other boyish property upon a table in the room. Aud then he laid him softly down once more, and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.
“She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and companions -- for such they were, though they were inan and child-held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep.
"The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small cold hand in bis, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it dowu."
As we perused this affecting picture, 'withal the water stood in our eyes ;' and we would wager a trifle, reader, that it glistens in yours at this moment.
BYRON AND WESTMINSTER ABBEY. – Mention has recently been made, in the English journals, of another probable attempt in Parliament, to adopt means of inducing or compelling the Dean and Chapter of Westminster to admit THORWALSDEN's statue of LORD Byron into the Abbey. Surely nothing can be more unreasonable, not to say ridiculous, than the war waged by the narrow-minded and fattened monks of Westminster, upon the memory of the noble poet, whose fame will endure, when themselves, with all their petty malignity, shall be buried in dust and forgetfulness. How touching, and in some sort prophetic, is Byron's own allusion to the exclusion of his remains from the great mausoleum! 'Il,' says he:
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,
On the score of religious sacrilege,' which has been so strenuously urged by these church.dignitaries, we hold with Moore, that there are few passages of Byron's, taken at hazard, that would not, by some genial touch of sympathy with virtue, some glorious tribute to the bright works of God, or some gush of natural devotion, more affecting than any homily, give him a title to admission into the purest temple of which Charity ever held the guardianship. Twenty years ago an Edinburgh reviewer, in a notice of WalPole's Letters, after quoting a description of his visit to Newstead Abbey, thus adverted to associations that time can only strengthen, and that, hallowing the spot where BYBON lived, render of little moment the place where his ashes may repose, or his sculptured
cenotaph arise: 'Walpole saw the seat of the Byrons old, majestic, and venerable; but he saw nothing of that magic beauty which Fame sheds over the habitations of Genius, and which now mantles every turret of Newstead Abbey. He saw it when decay was doing its work on the cloister, the refectory, and the chapel, and all its honors seemed mouldering into oblivion. He could not know that a voice was soon to go forth from those antique cloisters, that should be heard through all future ages, and cry 'Sleep no more, to all the house.' Whatever may be its future fate, Newstead Abbey must henceforth be a memorable abode. Time may shed its wild flowers on the walls, and let the fox in upon the court.yard and the chambers. It may even pass into the hands of unlettered pride, or plebeian opulence. But it has been the mansion of a mighty poet. Its name is associated with glories that cannot perish, and will go down to posterity in one of the proudest pages of our annals.'
"The Monument.' — God bless the Women! They are the most persevering, the most enthusiastic, the most effectire promoters of good works; and yet we continually hear of the weaker sex,' the 'inferior sex,' and the 'dependent sex !' There was the Bunker Hill Monument, languishing year after year, and not one stone put upon another, toward its completion ; when lo! THE Ladies take it in hand; in six weeks, they create a Fair, the like of which was never before known in America; and in seven days they place in the hands of the Monument Committee TWENTYFIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS, a sum sufficient to raise the column to its utmost height; where it may 'meet the sun in his coming ;' where the 'earliest light of the morning may gild it, and parting day linger and play on its summit.' We could wish that the accomplished editress of 'The Monu.
S. J. Hale, had sent us the numbers of her ‘Fair' and beautiful journal at an earlier moment; for they are full of capital articles, from eminent native pens, to say nothing of the racy and spirited editorials, upon which we should have been well pleased to trespass. As it is, we cannot resist the inclination to present the following passage from 'A Tale of a Monument,' by S. H. JENKS, Esq., editor of the Nantucket Inquirer. It is a graphic picture of 'Burying Alive' in the tombs of 'Copp's Hill,' and scarcely less vivid than the memorable story from Blackwood. It must be premised that, with child-like curiosity, a boy has crept down the damp and mouldy steps of a vault, which has been opened for a new tenant :
" At first, nothing was discernible; but as the eye grew accustomed to the gloom, there were visible on three sides of this narrow home of man,' ranges of coffins, in all progressive conditions of decay. With cautious awe I approached, and with some perplexity perused the inscriptions borne upon the breasl.plates still dinly glittering on the covers of the upper tier. These memoranda by the aid of my school-plumunii - lead pevcils were scarcely known in those days - I transferred to my hat linng - my only substitute for tablets more genteel. By degrees my familiarity increased. I ventured to touch the rusted handies upon the coffin sides, noting their varied forms and fashions and material, all marking, uo doulit, the gradual progress of improvement. At leugth, becoming still more intently engaged, I detached the corroded hasp at the head of a coffin of rather small dimensions, and incontinently raised the lid. The body within, according to the brief biography on the exterior, was that of a lad of fifteen, who had died some twenty years previous being the latest trust confided to this inelancholy treasure-house. I beheld with surprise a coupleDance radiant with loveliness, as of some pale youth reposing in placid slumber - or as the liveaments of some waxen image, moulded by exquirile art into the likeness of innocence, and happibess, and heaven. With childlike wonder, I stood on tiptoe and gazed eagerly upon that swret vision. Around the temples still clustered profusely the fair bair apparently unchanged since death. Moved by some uncontrollable impulse, I stretched forth my hand with design to re-arrange a ring. let that had seemingly fallen from its place – when, as I touched the brow the whole outlines of that beauteous face suddenly disappeared. A slight crash was heard, as of the crushing of a dried magnolia blossom. A powdery vapor rose slowly from the ruins of that thin integuinent of dust: and with a sensation of mingled grief and horror, I closed the lid.
“At this moment, or at the termination of a stupid reverie, the duration of which I could never compute - there fell upou my started ear, a violent and heavy noise, like that of a bursting canpon, and I found myself involved in impenetrable darkness. The conviction that I had become a fellow prisoner with the long immured tevants of this dreary cell, added to my previous excitement, wtruck me with such astounding effect as to suspend my power of utterance. I groped my way to the cold, clammy stops, which I ascended till my head struck the huge fat rock above- und I felt myself indeed a captive. I could distinctly hear the measured footsteps of some one tramping away in the distince, leaving their eclioes faiuter and faiuter. I urged my little strength against
the nether surface of my prison door; but whether from lack of force or of faith, that mountain remained uninoved. Through a narrow crevice at one side fell several rain drops; and a gleam of lightning follower, rendering doubly hideous the obscurity which it pierceid. It was now manifest that the sexton hall shut the vault against the pending shower; but the terrible idea of being buried alive, was somewhat mitigated by the consideration that at the farthest I should be released within the coming twenty-four hours, since there had been appointed for the ensuing day an actual interment. Yet even this reflection seemed to aroure new alarms: for it involved also the prospect of being incarcerated, in such a place, during such a night - starved, half suffoculed, and possibly drowned; and with a preternatural effort, rrgaining my voice, I sent forth such screams as certainly never before ascended out of that abode of silence.
“But there was no response, save from the walls of the Cimmerian cavern which enclosed me. And the day, I could discern, was lapsing apace. Suon the well known funeral chime from the tower of Christ Church gladdened iny ear. Yes — that dismal ding.dong that has tulled such mula titudes of lifeless mortals to their sepulchres -- that has struck so many agonizing blows upon the sinking hearts of surviving relatives – that solemn deoth-peal, was to me an authem of joy! For while it rang out the stern and sullen alarum, almost articulating the very words,
Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound !
Mine ears attend the cry!' it seemed directly to summon the living to my rescue; for I recognized in that awful melody the signal of a funeral in motion, and felt, in consequence, that my deliverance was at band. Aud so it proved. As the train advanced towards a newly excavated grave hard by, my supplications were heard and heeded, and I was once more restored to this breathing world.
" To the iwo men who were sturdily listing the load that pres-ed me down, I had given incoberently an explanation of my predicament. But on emerging into air and light, I tarried not, even to offer thanks for my enlargment; but flew from their presence like a 'bird let loose.'”.
PERSECUTION OF THE Jews. - It has been an entertaining recreation with us, since the transpiring of the infamous persecution of the Jews at Damascus, to note the contradictory reports, and the different tone of foreign journals, in relation to the alleged crimes charged upon them. While the mass of Christendom are denouncing in terms of scorching indignation the cruelties sanctioned by a weak and tyrannical government, such is the force of Christian prejudice that there are not wanting those who are charitable enough to think that the unoffending Israelites were'served right,' and who are not quite so sure that the Jews do not eat us Christians, since they have had so many nibbles atómonish'- borrowers. Let the reader turn to 'A Passage of Life,' by John WATERS, elsewhere in this number, and peruse the sketch which he has drawn of a HeDREW. Let him reflect upon the singular history of the 'Ancient Covenant People,' dispersed over the whole world, and yet retaining their attachment to their faith, with a firmness that knows neither diminution nor change. From the time of Claudius, when the Jews were expelled from the capital, ' because they were continually creating a tu. mult, at the instigation of one Christ'— when they were but worms writhing under the heel of the proud Roman down to the present day, how wonderful have been the uniformity and strength of their faith!- how devoted their religious constancy! The chief rabbi at Damascus, who was requested to sign a confession of the late alleged murder, for imaginary purposes of religious oblation, and who was again remanded to prison for refusing, gives in his reply a picture of the indomitable spirit of which we speak. "When you smote me,' said he to his tormentors, ' with five hundred stripes over all my body, I would not confess to a lie; when you plunged me into a pool of cold water for three hours on a winter's day, a drawn sword over my head so that I could not raise it, I lied not; and when you inflicted one hundred and seventy stripes on my band, I still would not utter a falsehood ; and when you drove the bones which you placed round my head into my eyes to blind me, I still lied uot, and spoke not this falsehood; and now shall I sign to a lie? Not more full of the moral sublime than this, were the stripes above measure, the prisons frequent, the weariness and painfulness, the cold and nakedness, of the Apostle Paul: and reader, when you see the HEBREW wending every Saturday morning to the Synagogue of the Jews -- the poor, it may be, fand humble, threading obscure alleys where hiinself and his brethren labor in the body, but where his heart rejoices ever in the hope to inherit the promises, do not scorn the poor Israelite, nor contemn; but remember how manfully the despised race have struggled against oppression and cruelty, for the sake of their religion, and the MESSIAH 'whose right it is to reign.'
DEATH OF CORRESPONDENTS. - The recent death of Rev. Timothy Flint, at the age of sixty years, is known to all our readers; nor need we say to them, who have known him as an able editor, and an old correspondent, of this Magazine, that he took rank among the most distinguished writers of our country:
“Of a genius highly imaginative and poetical, he united with a vigorous intellect and discriminating judgment, a quick sensibility and warın affectione, a vivid perception and enjoyment, a derp lelt and ever grateful recognition of the author of the beautiful, Erand and lovely in nature, of the true and gooil, the elevated and pure, the brilliant and divinely gifted in human endowvient and charaeter; and possessed a rare felicity and power of embodying in glowing and appropriate language bis impressions of the outward and spiritual world. During the brief period of seven or eight years, in which he exercisedd his talents as an author, he wrote with a fucumility and frequency of publication scarcely surpassed by the prolific author of the Waverley novels. HisRrcollections of Ten Years in the Valley of the Mississippi,' the work by wrich he was first known to the public as an author, possesses all the interest of a romance, joined with the feeling that we are reading a true narrative of the author's actual experience, of what he saw and fell, in the adventures and fortunes therein recorded, containing the most graphic and faithful paintings of the scenery and physical aspect of the regions he describes. His "Geogr:phy and History of the Mississippi Valley,' is a work of great value, containing the best general account of that vast and fertile couutry, that has yet been given to the public; wbile his yovels coutuiu scenes and descriptions of surpassing beauty and interest."
Mr. Flint was a warm friend, and upright, independent, and honorable man, and a true Christian.
We have already announced the death of an esteemed correspondent, and estimable man, B. B. THATCHEB, Esq. ; and we have now the melancholy duży to record the recent demise of another contributor, Dr. Caleb TICHNOR, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. As a man, the deceased was pure and gentle – benevolent and kind; as a physician, skilful and attentive; and as an author, although not what would be termed an elegant writer, he was sensible and striking; and in all his written efforts, he aimed to increase the amount of human happiness. His 'Philosophy of Living brought him favorably before the public; and bis Medical Philosophy,' and a work on 'Quackery,' both of which were republished in England, added much to his reputation. Beside these, he was the author of several pamphlets, and articles for me. dical and other journals, which have attracted, at different times, much of the public attention. At the time of his last sickness, we are informed, he was engaged upon a work, which may hereafter be given to the public.
'Border BEAGLES.' —'Who is the author of Richard Hurdis ?' is a question that has been frequently asked in novel-reading and literary circles, but one which has never yet been satisfactorily answered. It has been ascribed to a Mr. Meeks, of Alabama, whose name we do not remember to have heard mentioned, except in reference to this work. A score of other writers have also been 'guessed at,' and among them, the popular novelist and poet, Simms, of South Carolina. We should scarcely think that an author of Mr. Simms's reputation would be willing to publish anonymously, and thus lose the advantage, in a pecuniary point of view, if no other, of his name. Beside, the internal evidences are by no means conclusive on that point; although here and there we may trace a saint resemblance to his style. But, whoever may be the author, he has earned no mean repute by his two novels. "The Border Beagles' we have read with much pleasure. It is evidently the work of a correct thinker, a close observer, and a practised writer. There are scenes in it of unusual power and beauty, and incidents of great interest, that win a close attention. It lacks, however, the directness, the impetuosity of narrative, that leads without interruption to the dénouement, which was one great merit in ‘Richard Hurdis;' but it possesses more depth of thought, more variety of character, and greater skill in delineation. It is not our purpose, however, to write a critique, but rather to express an opinion. We have neither the time nor the room to analyze the plot; our object is simply to advise our readers of the appearance of a novel, the perusal of which will well repay the time it may occupy. To the author, 'whoever he may be, or not,' we briefly say, 'Welcome to the field of letters! It is in yourself, by well directed efforts, to reap a rich harvest of renown.' Philadelphia : CABEY AND HABT.