how changed!

He looked not like one who had come to participate in a scene of happiness. His boots were dirty, his hat was slouched over his eyes, his coat was buttoned up to his chin, his cravat was far from clean, and his hands were stuck into his trowsers' pockets. The company recoiled, the bride uttered a faint exclamation, and the bridegroom stepped forward, and demanded in a bullying tone of voice, "the meaning of this extraordinary intrusion?" Phelps spoke not a word, but drew from his right-hand coat pocket the perfumed rose-coloured invitation note, and presented it to the bridegroom. He then drew from his left-hand coat pocket an uncommonly large horse-pistol; upon which Mr. Raphael Jackson retreated with great precipitation. Phelps deliberately cocked the pistol, and an uncommon curiosity took possession of the guests to see which one of them he intended to sacrifice. This interesting suspense was soon ended; for slowly bringing the fatal weapon in a line with his own forehead, he proceeded to pull the irrevocable trigger. A struggle ensued; and dreadful to relate, in the scuffle the pistol went off, full in the face of one of the fair young brides. maids. Fortunately she sustained no injury, which led to a suspicion that the instrument of death had been loaded with an eye to safety. Upon this the gallant bridegroom experienced a revivification of valour. He stepped forward, informed the unfortunate Phelps that he should hear from him in the morning through the medium of Mr. Hays, and peremptorily ordered him to leave the room. The poor bride, who during this scene had been rather in the back ground, thought she now perceived a favourable opportunity for display, and accordingly, as the most natural expedient, commenced a fainting fit; but there being no one sufficiently on the alert to catch her in his arms, and having, in the hurry of the moment, neglected the precaution of seeing that there was a chair in her immediate vicinity, she was obliged, when just upon the brink of insensibility, not only to recede considerably, but also to look around her and diverge from a straight line in order to attain that necessary piece of furniture. This gave such an air of insincerity to the whole proceeding, that even her warmest admirers were compelled to admit that the attempt was a failure. Mr. Jackson once more asked Mr. Phelps whether he intended to quit the

room, or whether he was waiting for him (Jackson) to put him out. Phelps scorned to reply; a peculiar expression flitted over his pale features, he cast an indescribable look towards the bride, and then did as he was desired.

On the following day, about noon, a gallant Liverpool packet was passing Sandy Hook, outward bound. On her deck stood the principal actor in the intended tragedy of the preceding evening. His disappointment in love, and some fraudulent transactions connected with his late failure, had induced him to seek relief in change of scene. The breeze was fair, and the vessel was careering "o'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea" at the rate of about nine knots an hour. Phelps stood at the stern of the ship, gazing intently on the land of his forefathers, which was fast fading in the distance. A slight blue line at the verge of the horizon was all that remained to him of the home of his childhood--the scene of so many balls, and publics, and parties-where he had danced, and sung, and played billiards, and eaten oysters when a mere boy; the tears started to his eyes, he leaned his head over the ship's side, and in a voice choked with agony, exclaimed

"Oh, captain, I am very sick!"

The captain, in that cheerful tone of voice with which a man who has nothing the matter with him consoles another who has, replied, "Never mind, sir— you'll be better in a day or two-haul taut the fore-top-sail halliards there! belay!"

This to Phelps, whose face exhibited as many shades of blue, and black, and green, and yellow, as the back of a dying dolphin, was a great consolation. Indeed I have myself often had occasion to observe the happy effects of similar scraps of comfort applied to sea-sick passengers. It is so pleasant when you are suffering under this horrible affliction-when every minute seems an age, and every hour an eternity-to be told, never mind, sir, you'll get over it in less than a week, maybe!"

Time rolled on, and nothing reached the American shores concerning the fate of Thomas Augustus Phelps, except a flying report that he had been undergoing a course of exercise on the Brixton tread-mill, when one Sunday morning, in the autumn of the year 1829, a shabby - genteel personage was seen strutting up the Broadway. It was Phelps-yet why was he here? His first-love blessed another; and the chil

dren that ought to have been called Phelps, were christened Jackson.

The wooden paling of Trinity churchyard was at that period prostrate, and the cast-iron railing had not been erected, so that there was no obstacle to a free ingress to and egress from the burying ground. Phelps wandered in among the tombs a presentiment of some overhanging evil weighed heavily upon his breast, and before he had proceeded far he came to a plain marble slab almost overgrown with grass. A strange curiosity seized him; he knelt down and parted the rank weeds which overshadowed it; a sunbeam at that moment darted precisely on the place, and he saw, carved in legible Germantext, the simple inscription, "Julia." He was indescribably affected; and yet he felt a melancholy pleasure in thinking that she had too late become sensible of his merits, and pined into the grave in consequence of his absence. While indulging in this train of reflection, a troop of little boys, attracted by the extraordinary spectacle of a man upon his knees in a churchyard, began to gather round, shouting and pelting him with earth and small pebbles. He arose to reprimand them; but there having been a heavy shower of rain, and he having white duck trowsers on, the effect of his kneeling, upon his clothes, can, like a young heroine's feelings, be more easily imagined than described. He instantly, therefore, became an object of universal observation, and the little boys shouted and pelted more than ever. Phelps was exasperated beyond measure; he seized one of the young miscreants, shook him well, and threatened the most dreadful corporeal chastisement if he did not desist.

"Hurrah for Jackson!" (President General Jackson) exclaimed the young rebel, nothing daunted.

"Hurrah for Jackson!" chimed in his young companions in evil-doing. This pointed, though unintentional allusion to his rival, at once unnerved Phelps-recollections of former insults and injuries came over him, and he strode from the burial-ground, the boys hurraing all the while at his coat-tail! when lo! who should be seen issuing from the church porch but Mr. Raphael Jackson himself, with his own Julia, now Mrs. Jackson, hanging on his arm! This was too much-so then it appeared she had not pined away in his absence she had not died-and he had been kneeling by the side of some one else's

Julia! They passed him without speaking, he muttered dreadful imprecations to himself, and bent his way down Wall-street.

He is now only the wreck of his former self, though he is more corpulent than he was wont to be, yet it is not a healthy corpulency; and his apparel is the extreme of what is generally denominated "seedy." Yet amid this moral and physical desolation some traces of identity are yet preserved-some glimmerings of what once was Phelps! There is still that peculiar strut in his walk, and he still wears his hat knowingly adjusted on one side of his head; but he drinks like a fish, talks politics incessantly, and his shirt-frill is much bedaubed with snuff. What will be his final fate depends upon ulterior circumstances; at present it is enveloped in the mists and darkness of futurity.

We often hear it asserted, that the general diffusion of literature, especially by periodicals, tends to create a taste for superficial productions, and lessens the number of what are called profound readers; or, to use one of the hacknied similies of the complainers, the stream of knowledge grows shallow as it is widened. The author of Pelham observes, that the French are called a superficial people, because those classes, which in other countries are utterly ignorant, have a smattering of knowledge in France. The present age is charged with the same defect, because those who once read nothing, now read little else than gazettes, magazines and novels. In both cases, the only kind of people among whom profundity should be expected, are overlooked. We believe that persons of genuine taste are far more numerous now than when the use of books was confined to a few, and that whatever in any way multiplies the use of them, will eventually add many to the more reflecting and critical classes of readers. When the attention of the whole community is turned toward letters, however the devourers of literary trash may increase, still many minds above the common order, which in a less reading age would never have been awakened, will then not only acquire a love of letters, but will learn to select with taste, and peruse with critical attention from among the

motley multitude of authors before them. When the reading community is vastly extended, the number of profound readers must in some measure increase. Shakspeare lived and wrote in an age when periodicals were unknown, and novels did not greatly abound, and yet should he revisit us, and find his works loading the shelves of every bookseller, and learn that the wisdom of centuries had been employed in critical dissertations upon them, it would be hard to make him believe that they are now less read and appreciated, than in the days of good Queen Bess. Milton, too, gave his immortal poem to the world when its attention was very little taken up with light reading; yet, could he compare the scanty reputation he then enjoyed with his present fame, he would be most ungrateful to join in the hue-and-cry against the present degeneracy of taste. He would be doubly ungrateful to denounce periodical writings, since he is in no small degree indebted to the Spectator and Rambler, for his being rescued from obscurity. Reviews and magazine essays of later date, have also recalled public attention to other old authors, who had long lain neglected. Witness the works of Massinger, and the old English dramatists. They have also done much to add firmness to the already established reputation of others. It is true the number of ephemeral works which are now daily poured forth, is immense; but have our own times produced, and does it appreciate nothing better? This century, it is true, cannot boast a Shakspeare or a Milton. Greece gave birth to but one Homer, and one Eschylus. Our Homer and Eschylus happened to be born some centuries ago, and the Anglo-Saxon race may never produce one or the other again. But, if their rank were loftier, will their fame be more enduring than that of Walter Scott? We believe they will all three be equally remembered till their lands' language shall be forgotten. Have Dryden, Pope, and Goldsmith reared monuments so much more imperishable than those of Byron, Moore, and Campbell; and have not the names of Hope and Bulwer, nearly as fair a prospect of being preserved as those of Fielding and Smollet? Many other living authors might be mentioned, who will be as much known and esteemed two hundred years hence as Suckling and many other sweet but half-forgotten poets, are now. All these may, we think, be fairly placed as an offset against the numerous living authors

who have been producing innumerable defunct works for the last thirty years. Great as is the evil inflicted by the latter, it must be looked upon as one of the evils which accompany every great good. A harvest that yields much wheat will always yield more chaff; and the peasant who would complain of such a case, would be deserving of famine. It must be recollected that the present age has not only produced the distinguished writers we have cited, but has appreciated their merits; and the latter circumstance we conceive to be a far stronger proof of

the correct taste of our own times than the former. A great genius may chance to be born in any age, but the generation that sets a just value on his works, cannot be wholly given over to frivolity. Away, then, with this whining about the decline of taste, and the growing predilection for trash. "Dost thou think," says one of Shakspeare's characters, "because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" And in like manner we would say to the long-faced critic-Dost thou think because thou art profound, there shall be no more light reading? Since it has not pleased heaven to gift some people with wisdom so great as thine, leave them to read light essays, or lighter novels, if they will; and though these simple ones should seem innumerable, doubt not there are other wise men in the world than thyself, who revere the sages of old as much as thou dost.

G. P. M.

PERPLEXITIES OF LANGUAGE.

THE English is certainly a most anomalous language. Others have fixed rules for idiom, inflection, and pronunciation, but in this there appears to be no settled principle. Our discourse is a series of arbitrary and immethodical varieties. No wonder that to foreigners its attainment proves so difficult. To begin with pronunciation: we have five vowels, each of which has, of course, one distinct sound-a Chinese could understand that, without much reflection. Well, he learns the sound of a, and e, and i, and o, and u, and very naturally supposes, when he meets either of them in a word, that its sound is what he has learned it to be. The word happens to be hat, and he calls it hate, of course. No; then he learns, for the first time, that a has another sound, altogether different from the first.

In process of time he fastens this also upon his memory, and goes on with his reading; after a while he stumbles upon a fall, and very innocently calls it fal; wrong-fale, then-no; a has a third sound, he discovers, and is sometimes to be pronounced like aw. Presently he meets with father, and after trying fayther, and fa-ther, and fawther, to no purpose, ascertains its fourth sound of ah, and then has work for years before him to learn which of the four is to be adopted in every word he meets, of which the letter forms a part. E is quite as bad; if he wishes to write he asks for a peen; and after a while discovers that the e in verdant, in where, in when, in dear, and in pewter, has the power of five different letters. He points to a tree and calls it fire, not suspecting the change of sound occasioned by the absence of the final e; and to a small piece of wire with a head to it, and calls it pine, while the best notion he can form of the sound, when the e is present, is firee or pinee. O is another Proteus, and takes a different sound in know, in who, in how, in morning, and in wonder. What would be a reasonable time for him to employ in learning the difference between u in gun, in pudding, in future, in busy, and in burial? Well; he learns all these various sounds at last, but his perplexities are by no means ended. He has yet to find that in some cases the vowels are extinguished altogether, as the a in season, the e in hearty, the i in heifer, the o in journey, and the u in guest. Then the consonants are prolific in difficulties. B is sometimes silent as in debtor; c has three sounds; f divides its empire with gh and ph; g is hard and soft by turns, and often silent; k appears and disappears, sometimes in the selfsame word, as knack; and all have some abominable whimsicality of their own that our Chinese can never hope thoroughly to master. But even supposing all the contradictions and anomalies of pronunciation overcome, he finds himself equally bewildered with the meanings of the words. His own language is, indeed, no less remarkable in this respect, but that helps him little in his troubles; because chou in Chinese, signifies a book, a tree, hot weather, the dawn, the loss of a wager, and twenty other objects, he is not the less puzzled by the seven meanings of block, the ten of sweet, the nine of open, the twenty-two of upon, and the sixty-three of to fall-not to mention the forty-seven of box, with which the unfortunate Frenchman was so pestered. There are some words, even, that change

MISERIES OF A BACHELOR's life. Poor fellow! he returns to his lodging; there may be every thing he can desire, in the shape of mere external comforts, provided for him by the official zeal of his housekeeper; but still the room has an air of chilling vacancy; the very atmosphere of the apartment has a dim, uninhabited appearance-the chairs, set round with provoking neatness, look reproachfully useless and unoccupiedand the tables and other furniture shine with impertinent and futile brightness. All is dreary and repelling. No gentle face welcomes his arrival-no loving hand meets his-no kind looks answer the listless gaze he throws round the apartment as he enters. He sits to a book-alone; there is no one by his side to enjoy with him the favourite passage -the apt remark-the just criticism;— no eyes in which to read his own feelings; his own tastes are unappreciated and unreflected; he has no resource but himself; no one to look up to but himself; all his enjoyment, all his happiness, must emanate from himself. He flings down the volume in despair; buries his face in his hands, and sighs aloud-0! me miserum!

DELIGHTS OF A MARRIED MAN'S LIFE. Behold him! all the while he is busied about his daily occupation, his thoughts are wandering towards the time for going home in the evening after the toils and fatigues of the day. He knows that on his return, he shall find an affectionate face to welcome him-a warm snug room-a bright fire-a clean hearth

-the tea-things laid-the sofa wheeled round on the rug and, in a few minutes after his entrance, his wife sitting by his side, consoling him in his vexations; aiding him in his plans for the future, or participating in his joys, and smiling upon him for the good news he may have brought home; his children climbing on the cushion at his feet, leaning over his knees to eye his face with joyous eagerness, that they may coaxingly win him. This is the acme of happiness.

LEARNING.-Learning, like beaten gold, in proportion to its being more extended, becomes more superficial.

No. 62.

EUGENE AND MARIE.

A PARISIAN ADVENTURE.

From the French of Alex. Dumas.

(For the Parterre.)

I know not if, among those who chance to read this tale, there be one who has ever remarked the difference which exists between the driver of the cab and the hackney coachman. The latter is grave, immoveable, and cold, supporting the intemperature of the air with the patience of a stoic; alone on his seat-in the midst of society, without coming in contact with it-allowing himself as his only amusement, a slash of the whip to his comrade in passing-without affection for the two lean animals he driveswithout pity for the unfortunate persons he happens to drive against, and never deigning to bestow on them even a grin, without some classical epithet. He is, in fact, a most egotistical being, very sulky, and wears his hair quite straight.

But

The driver of the cab is altogether a different person; one must indeed be in a very bad humour not to take in good part his advances, the straw he pushes beneath your feet, the covering of which he deprives himself let it rain or freeze, to guard you from the wet and cold; you must be more than obstinate if you listen silently to the thousand questions he asks you, the exclamations that escape from his lips, the historical quotations with which he overwhelms you. then, a cab driver has seen the world,he has lived in society-he has driven by the hour, an academical candidate who was paying his thirty-nine visits, and the candidate has inoculated him en passant -so much for his literature. He has driven a deputy to the chamber, and the deputy has imbued him with politicstwo medical students have also been seated by him, and they talked of operations, and thus they have given him a slight shade of physic-in a word, though his knowledge may be superficial, yet he is a stranger to but few things in this world; he is caustic, witty, a great talker, wears a cap, and has always some