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Sea-sickness is pleasure to it. Should I hereafter describe this class, I fear I shall give them a Rembrandt coloring — for I am confident, from the wrongs they have done me, that I could not speak of them with my customary coolness and impartiality,

BY-THE-BY, that word impartiality reminds me of a legal biped, who possessed this quality to a degree.? Reader, you don't know the Hon. Abednego Babcock, do you? Taking it for granted that you do not, I will describe him to you. Like Wouter Van Twiller, he is about five feet six inches high, and six feet five inches in circumference. He potates considerably, and in that way has nursed for himself a nasal organ of most scarlet rubicundity. It is a sign, as I call it, of 'grog manifest in the flesh.' Ile is a man of many friends among pot-house lawyers and small politicians. He has never been known, I believe, to give a decided opinion on any subject. I once heard him charge a jury something after this fashion :

Gentlemen : This is an action brought by the plaintiff against the defendant, You have heard the evidence on both sides, and the court know of no points of law that you may not be supposed to understand already. The case is a very plain one; and if, upon a careful review of the testimony, you should think the plaintiff entitled to a verdict, the decision must be in his favor; but if, on the contrary, it should appear that the defendant ought to be the plaintiff in this suit

, you will please bring in a bill to that effect. I believe that is about all to be said in the matter. If you can think of any thing else that I ought to say, I have no objection to mention it. It is now my dinner hour. Swear a constable.'

This was the usual impartiality of Abednego Babcock, Esq. He would sit for hours on the bench, feeling the customary blossoms on his nose with his affectionate fingers -- an employment which evident

him great satisfaction. They do say that whenever a flatulent attorney speaks before him, he drops right to sleep. He says a hundred yards of gab, as he classically calls it, could not change his mind, when he has it made up. He despises every thing high-flown, or, as he sometimes terms it, hypherflutenated ; and thinks that, in nine cases out of ten, a cause can be best decided by hearing only one side.

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Apropos of the bar. What a deal of bad oratory there is about, it! I have one or two good friends among the lawyers in Gotham who could depict these grandiloquent attorneys to the life. How much verbose pomposity of language, too, do you find in the pulpit, where, of all other places, it is most out of place. A few days ago, I heard an unhewn · Ambassador from the court of Heaven,' as he credentialized himself — who had taken the far west in his route to the church where I heard him use the following burst. He was speaking of Judas, and Benedict Arnold — worthies whom he compared together. * Arnold,' said he, 'was a traitor, of whom you may have heard, who tried for to sell his ked'ntry. It was the ruination of him, and for what he done, he will be rewarded with infamy; for his name will sertingly go down to the most remotest posterity, kivered all over with Hell's arsenic! Here he looked round upon his audience with an air of pride, as if he would say - There's a touch for you!'

SPEAKING of clerical oratory, bids me think of an event I witnessed lately in an Episcopal conventicle. The morning service had been said — the rich tones of the organ were mellowing away into silence when the speaker arose, and named his text, in these simple words : Jesus wept. He spoke in a strain of touching simplicity; he painted the sorrows of the Saviour at the death of Lazarus and he described in beautiful language the propriety of his grief, by enlarging upon that inevitable condition of mortality which causes all to grieve. By and by I heard a faint moan. A young and tender-hearted mother, who had but a few weeks before buried a blooming daughter, the darling of her love, overcome by her feelings, had fainted away. But it was no boisterous or harrowing language, that thus stirred within her the holy fountain of a mother's affection. It was the words of simplicity that fell


her ear, and trembled in her bosom. The circumstance revived in my mind the memory of a sermon - the offspring of untutored genius — which I heard in early youth. The preacher was an unlettered woodsman, but he spoke with correctness- with eloquence.

The occasion was the funeral of a child. The boy, a lad of four or five years old, lay on the bier before him; his fair cheeks had not lost their rosy red, and his little form, so decently composed in the white garments of the grave, looked far too dainty for the earth to cover. The speaker took his text from the touching story of Gehazi and the Shumamite. I forget the place where it is to be found. 'And he said to the mother, Is it well with thee? Is it well with thy husband ? Is it well with thy child? And she answered, It is well. He went on to show his hearers, that in the case before them, it was 'well with the child:' and beautifully did he prove it. My heart swells yet, at the mere remembrance of that sermon. Mother,' he said, .do

you mourn for the child that has fallen like a blossom from your arms? Weep not, for it is well. He has escaped the darkness of earthly sorrow — the clouds that day by day would have rolled gradually over his spirit the crosses of existence - the gloom that follows after that golden age, ere the life of life begins to fail and fade he has missed all these, and in that better country,' where his Father and our Father smiles upon him, his innocent spirit is at rest. Fond mother! distrust not thy God. Lift thy heart-warm prayer to him in the night-watches; and as thou implorest consolation, thou mayest ask thy God — Is it well with my child ? and soft as heavenly numbers, sweet as the music of an angel's lyre, he will answer,' It is well.'


I have remembered this sermon, fondly and long. The preacher was such a man as William Wirt once described — only he was not

blind. He was tall, and of goodly presence, with a venerable snowy head, and an eye that beamed with benignity and good will to men. Upon returning home, with my heart full of the discourse I had heard, I wrote thus:


•Why mourn for the Young? Better that the light cloud should fade away in the morning's breath, than travel through the weary day, to gather in darkness, and end in storm.' BULWER.

If it be sad to mark the bow'd with age

Sink in the halls of the remorseless tomb,
Closing the changes of life's pilgrimage

In the still darkness of its mouldering gloom;
Oh! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung,
When peals the requiem of the loved and young!

They to whose bosoms, like the dawn of spring

To the unfolding bud and scented rose,
Comes the pure freshness age can never bring,

And fills the spirit with a rich repose,
How shall we lay them in their final rest —
How pile the clods upon their wasting breast ?

Life openeth brightly to their ardent gaze

A glorious pomp sits on the gorgeous sky;
O'er the broad world Hope's smile incessant playe,

And scenes of beauty win the enchanted eye;
How sad to break the vision, and to fold
Each lifeless form in earth's embracing mould !

Yet this is Life! To mark from day to day,

Youth, in the freshness of its morning prime,
Pass, like the anthem of a breeze away

Sinking in waves of Death, ere chilled by Time!
Ere yet dark years on the warm cheek had shed
Autumnal mildew o'er its rose-like red!

And yet what mourner, though the pensive eye

Be dimly-thoughtful in its burning tears,
But should with rapture gaze upon the sky,

Through whose far depths the spirit's wing careers ?
There gleams eternal o'er their ways are flung,
Who fade from earth while yet their years are young!

CHILDREN are queer subjects to write about. I know several little friends of mine, that I can never believe will be grown up, wrinkled men and women. Will that little beauty become an old woman? I'll not believe it. Will that boy, now shooting his marble, or drawing his sled in winter, will he become a portly-looking man, with a stern temper, a fat abdomen, and a big bunch of watch keys hanging just beneath his waistcoat? Will he wear spectacles, and a cane? It seems impossible - but it must be. There must be an end to every thing — to youth, to its tastes, and its associations. And bless me! reader, now I think of it, it is time that there should be an end to the present number of the lucubrations of your honest friend,


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STEPHEN, Earl of Chartres and Blois, deserted the Christian prioces before Antioch, in the first Crusade, and returned to France. His countess, Adela, daughter of William the Conqueror, received him with bitter reproaches : sbamed by her taunts, he returned to Palestine, and fell in a battle with a body of Ethiop cavalry, near Ramula.

'Tis the pleasant time of the vintage,

In the sunny vales of France,
And the ripe, full bulbs of the purple fruit

Like gems in the green leaves glance:
But why is the song of the peasant mute,

And where is the vintage dance ?

From the bending olive's loaded boughs

There falleth an amber shower,
And the bursting cone of the golden pine

Enriches its spiral bower ;
And the balmy air, like an anodyne,

Hath hushed ev'ry leaf and flower.

Lo! the ripened harvest stoops to earth,

But the reaper, where is he?
No peasant heapeth the wine-press o'er,

'Till the ruddy flood runs free;
If his hand is stained 'tis with pagan blood,

In a land beyond the sea.

For the princely Hugh of Vermandois

His way to the East hath ta’en,
With a thousand knights, whose spurs were won

On the blood-dyed fields of Spain --
And the vassal hath donned his gambeson,

To ride in the baron's train.

The peasant maiden wends forth alone

To muse in the twilight dim;
Her bodice heaves to her heart's quick sigh,

And tears in her dark eyes swim
For in fancy she seeth her lover lie

'Neath the steel of a Paynim grim.

Within proud Earl Chartres' fortalice

Stands the wassail cup unfilled;
Unheard is the shout of the busy thrall,

And the minstrel's harp is stilled,
No faggots blaze in the banquet hall,

And the bats in the chimney build.

The untrodden soil of the tilting-ground

Is o'erwoven with twining weeds ;
The red deer heareth no hunter's whoop,

The hare unmolested breeds;
And the heron fears not the falcon's stoop,

As she soars from the waving reeds.

O'er the warderless walls no longer streams

The badge of a noble line,
For the haughty count, in Christ's holy name,

Hath assumed the crimson sign,
And his banner follows the oriflamme

O'er the deserts of Palestine.

The countess paces the rampart wall

With a quick step to and fro ;
Her proud eyes flash with unwonted light,

And her blushes come and go : 'T was the palmer, who sought her bower last night,

With his tidings moved her so.

What sound was that? 'T was the tramp of steeds

The dust by their hoofs up-ploughed,
With a squadron wrapped in its choking fold,

Comes on like a flying cloud;
And bright in the sunlight, like gleams of gold,

Spears flash o'er its curling shroud.

Onward it sweeps! - 't is dissolving - gone !

For each knight hath slacked his rein;
By the fortress moat, till the draw-bridge fall,

Waits a mailed and bannered train;
'T is the laurelled earl, to his bride and hall,

Returned from the wars again.

The draw-bridge drops, and a knight sweeps o'er,

As his palfrey's hoofs were wings;
He threads the arch, while the bugles peal,

And his rein to a vassal flings;
But a moment more, and his arméd heel

On the step of the turret rings.

Lightly he leaps up the winding stair –

He hath sprung to his lady's side:
Now thanks to God, and the Virgin's grace,

I behold thee again, my bride!
But the lady turns from his warm embrace

With gesture of queenly pride.

Her red lip curls with imperial scorn,

And her glance is dark and grand: 'Thou bringest,' she cries, 'late news, I trow,

From the wars of the Holy Land: 'Neath the feet of a craven the grass ne'er grew

When he fled from a lifted brand !

'Nay, Adela, blame not — the cause is lost;

'Í is no human foe I dread,
But Pestilence waveth his flag of gloom

O'er Famine's unburied dead :
With flesh, uptorn from the noisome tomb,

Are the Christian warriors fed.

“The beleaguring lines round Antioch

Are by human spectres trod -
No longer the dogs of Mahound flee

At the fierce crusader's nod,
For Christendom's wanton chivalry

Are forsaken of their God!'

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