half an hour,' or that even this portion of it was entirely elaborated in that brief space? POETRY, with very extraordinary exceptions, is not thus hastily engendered. The witty SMITH, of the 'Rejected Addresses,' once said of SAMUEL ROGERS, that it was his custom to take to his bed, after writing a few verses of his exquisite poetry; have straw flung before his door, and his knocker muffled; and to inquiries after his health, the servant was directed to answer, 'As well as could be expected!' This figment of the distinguished humorist is not without its lesson.

How true is it, that 'one half of the world know nothing of how the other half exist!' How many, as we write, are among the world's stricken and forsaken! Ever and anon, melancholy examples transpire in the public prints; but more suffer, with heroic fortitude, in silence and in secret. We remember reading, some ten or twelve years ago, when Burking' was in vogue, an account of a woman in some town in Scotland, whose husband died, leaving herself and four children in poverty. After he was buried, she was in an agony of fear, lest his body should be stolen from the grave. She was too poor to pay for a guard to watch the grave, and she resolved to perform the fearful task herself. Her children, the youngest of which was an infant upon the breast, were unable to contribute in the least toward their maintenance, and she was obliged to support the family by washing clothes. Every day, for the space of six weeks after her husband's burial, did she discharge her duty to the living, by toiling at her laborious occupation from day-break to sunset, while her nights were spent in the church-yard, tending her husband's grave. Unawed by the superstitious terrors which the strongest mind could scarcely fortify itself against, in such a place; heedless of the drifting snow, which sometimes fell in wreaths around her, or chilling night damps, drenching rains, and howling winds, did this affectionate creature, seated on a tombstone, by the side of her husband's grave, with an infant at her bosom, maintain her solitary vigils for forty-two successive nights, at the close of a stormy autumn. Sometimes, she said, in delivering her simple narrative, she was kept at the washing-green till night was setting in, and then she came straight to the kirk-yard, leaped over the dyke, and sat down on the grave-stone, till her children brought her dry clothes and her supper. After changing her raiment, she sat down with her cloak about her, folded her baby in her bosom, and kept her dreary watch as well as she could, until it was time to resume her labors in the morning. Now does not this devoted wife and mother better deserve a monument, than many a hero, who is deified because he has slain his scores of thousands?

HERE ensues a brief sketch, from an admirable Salmagundi in the last number of BLACKWOOD, entitled, 'Reflections on Punch, Morals, and Manners.' For simple pathos, something kindred with the above, in its effect upon our mind, we know not when we have seen its superior. The scene is in that part of Devonshire which borders on the county of Somerset. A gentleman who had not seen his nurse for some years, happening to be in village where she lived, called on her, when the following conversation took place :

NURSE. Lor a massy, Sir! is it you? Well, sure, I be cruel glad to zee ye! How is mistress, and the young ladies- aud maister?'

'MASTER. All well, nurse, and desire to be kindly remembered to you. You are quite stout, I am glad to see and how is your husbaud?'

'NURSE.

My husband! Oh, maybap, Sir, you ha'nt a heared the news?' 'MASTER. The news! No. I hope he is not dead?'

'NURSE. 'Oh no, Sir, but he's dark.'

'MASTER. Dark? what, blind! How did that happen?'

'NURSE. Why, there now, Sir, I'll tell ye all about it. One morning — 't is so long ago as last apple picking-I was a-gitting up, and I waked Jahn, and told un 't was time vor he to be upping too. But he was always lazy of a morning: zo a muttered some 'at and suoozed round agin. Zo, arter a bit, I spoke to un agin. Jahn,' zays I, what be snoozing there vor?-git up.' Zo,' zays he, 'what's the use of getting up bevore 'tis light?' 'Oh,' zays I, tis n't light, is it? Thee'st know what's behind the door. I'll zoon tell thee whether 'tis light or no, you lazy veller.' Then,' zays he, turning his head, why 'tis zo dark as pitch.' Now that did provoke me- I'll tell yer honor the truth and I beginned to wallop un a bit. But Lor a massy God forgive me! in a minute the blid gushed to my heart- and gi'd me zitch a turn, that I was vit to drap! Vor, instead of putting

up his arms to keep off the stick, as a used to do, there was he, drawing 'em all abroad! —and a said Don't ye don't ye-I can't zee! If 'tis light, I be dark! Oh, zays I, my dear, you ben 't, to be zure.' 'Ees,' says he, I be, zure enough.' Well, I was a-gushed-zo I put down the stick, and looked to his eyes, but I could'nt zee nort in 'em. Zo,' zays I, 'why there's nort in your eyes, Jahn; you'll be better by'm bye.' Zo I got un up, dressed un, and tookt un to the winder. 'There,' zaid I, 'Jahn, can't you zee now? But no, a zaid, a could n't. Then,' zays I, 'I know what 't is. 'Tis your zight's a-turned inward. Zo I took't a pair of zizzers, not sharp-tapped ones, yer honor, and poked to his eyes to turn the zight outward agin—but I couldn't. Well, then I brought un down stairs into this here room, yer honor. Zo,' zays I, 'Jahn, can't ye zee in this room, ueither?' and a zaid no, a could n't. Well, then I thought of the picturs-he was always cruel vond of picturs -thinks a, pr'aps a may zee they; zo I tookt 'em up to thin. There,' zays I. 'Jahn, don't ye zee the pictur?-'tis Taffy riding upon his goat.' But a zaid no, a could n't. Zo then a tookt un up to t'other pictur. There'-Sir, he was always very vond of thin — and I pushed his nose close to un; there,' zays I, to be sure you see this pictur, can't ye? But a zaid no. Why,' zaid I, 't is Joseph and his brethren; there they be there be twelve of 'em - can't ye zee ne'er a one of 'em? But a zaid no, could n't zee none of 'em. Then,' says I, 'tis a bad job- -your zight's a-turned inward.' Zo we pomsterred with un a bit, and then tried some doctor's trade, but it did n't do un no good; and, at last, we was told there was a vine man at Exeter vor zitch things - zo we zent un up to he. Well-there- the Exeter doctor zeed un, and tookt his box of tools, and zarched about his eyes a bit; and, then a zent un home with this word, that he could n't do un no good, and nobody else could n't do un no good.'

We bring our 'drawer' to a close, for the present, with the subjoined 'Lines on the Weather,' written in the north temperate zone. Their publication would be unseasonable at a later period, and typographical circumstances have prevented their appearance in preceding pages:

SWEET Summer, come! Why linger on the way,
While, cold and sad, we mourn thy long delay?
What fearest thou?

No more rude Winter scowls upon the land;
The earth is fair; Spring, with a flowery hand,
Has decked her brow.

And we, sad mortals! doomed to dire extremes,
Are scorching, melting, 'neath the fervid beams
Of summer's fiery sun; and faintly call,
'Oh! for some ice, to cool our lips withal!'
Oh! for some clouds athwart the burning sky,

Filled with kind showers; for mother earth is dry;

And Thirst, insatiate, opes his panting mouth,

To mutter vengeance on the flaming south!

Ah, dire extremes! Scarce can cold winter leave us,

Ere summer comes, with heat, drought, dust, to grieve us!

THUS much for our 'pot-luck.' Perhaps it will stand in some rank of praise, in its very humble class of dishes; but if, as is likely, there should be any disagreement concerning it, among readers and correspondents, they must 'settle the hash' among themselves.

SPARKS' AMERICAN BIOGRAPHY.-The volumes which compose this admirable series, from the press of Messrs. HILLIARD, GRAY AND COMPANY, Boston, deserve a notice in detail; and as leisure and occasion may serve, it is our intention that they shall receive it, in these pages. They are ten in number; were issued under the capable supervision of Mr. JARED SPARKS; written by persons most familiar with, or interested in, the several subjects; illustrated in most instances by portraits, and rare fac similes of hand-writings; printed in a beautiful style, upon fine paper, and in the most convenient size and form. We subjoin a list of the distinguished men whose lives are embraced in these volumes, with the names of the writers: Life of John Stark, by Hon. Edward Everett; Charles Brockden Brown, by Prescott, author of 'Ferdinand and Isabella; Ethan Allen, by Jared Sparks; Richard Montgomery, by John Armstrong; Wilson, the ornithologist, by Rev. W. B. O. Peabody; Benedict Arnold, by Jared Sparks; Anthony Wayne, by John Armstrong; Sir Henry Vane, by C. W. Upham; Eliot, the Apostle to the Indians, by Convers Francis; William Pinckney, by Henry Wheaton, D. D.; William Ellery, by Channing; Cotton Mather, by Rev. Mr. Peabody; Sir William Phips, by Francis Bowen; Israel Putnam, by Oliver W. B. Peabody; Lucretia Davidson, by Miss Sedgwick; Rittenhouse, by Prof. Renwick; Jonathan Edwards, by Dr. Miller, of Princeton; David Brainerd, Missionary to the Indians, by Rev. Mr. Peabody; Baron Steuben, by Francis Bowen; Sebastian Cabot, by Charles Hayward, Jr.; William Eaton, by Professor Felton; Robert Fulton, by Prof. Renwick; Joseph Warren, by Alexander H. Everett; Henry Hudson, by Prof. Cleveland; and Father Marquette, by Jared Sparks. All these works are admirably written, and are obtainable at a very moderate price. No American library can be complete without them; and they deserve to be found in every fatnily in the United States.

AMERICAN REVIEWS. We have the New-York and North American Reviews, for the April quarter; but must again indicate, rather than appropriately notice, their con-tents. They are both good numbers; and as Americans, we are quite willing to have them perused abroad, as fair specimens of our quarterly literature. Beside the 'Quarterly Chronicle' of political events, scientific movements, etc., and the usual collection of brief critical notices, in which we remark both fearlessness and good taste, the NEWYORK REVIEW has eleven articles proper, embracing an agreeable variety of topic and style. A well-reasoned article on literary property and international copy-right, opens the number, which is followed by a review of the life and character of the late NATHANIEL BOWDITCH; of the Historical Address of WILLIAM B. REED, Esq., of Philadelphia, upon the congress of 1774; and of that excellent American work of Mr. HERRING, the 'National Portrait Gallery.' DWIGHT's Poems from the German of GOETHE and SCHILLER, are next considered; and to this somewhat brief paper, succeeds a review of recent Reports of British Scientific Associations, and the initiatory proceedings of a similar, but as yet incipient, society in Boston, termed 'The American Institution for the Cultivation of Science;' and this is followed by a notice of HARRISON'S 'Discourse on the Aborigines of the Valley of the Ohio.' The four remaining articles, of which we have found leisure to peruse but the second-named, are, a notice of KEITH on the Truth of Christianity; a very interesting and well-written review of Modern French Romance; 'Translations of the Book of Job,' and a paper, evincing much research, and embodying a large amount of useful and admonitory facts, upon steam-boat explosions in the United States.

In the 'NORTH AMERICAN,' we have, beside seventeen minor critical notices, and the usual quarterly list of new publications, eleven articles. The first is on the Italian Historians; the second, one of the best informed judgments of SOUTHEY's genius and productions that we remember to have seen; the third, a notice of works by GOODRICH and TAYLOR on Domestic Education; the fourth, a review of poems by KENYON, a

young writer of Cambridge, England, who well deserves the title of poet, if the exquisite passages quoted by the reviewer be fair examples of his verse at large; the fifth, is a paper upon the beet-sugar manufacture, for the perusal of which we confess we did not 'agnize a prompt alacrity;' the sixth, an appreciating estimate of La Chute d'un Ange,' by LAMARTINE; the seventh, a notice of FREYTAG's Arabic Lexicon; and the eighth, a review of 'The Life and Times of the Rev. GEORGE WHITFIELD,' to us one of the most interesting articles in the number; touching upon the early history, education, and progress of that remarkable minister; the character of his eloquence, and his modes of preaching; and tracing his itinerant career through England, Scotland, and America. The 'Blue Laws of the Old States' are next discussed, to which succeeds a notice of the same German poems that are reviewed in the New-York Quarterly. We are glad to perceive, that the reviewer's enthusiasm does not lead him to the affectation of descrying new beauties in vague, shadowy, and indistinct Germanosities, if we may coin a word to express our meaning. Apropos to this, there is an admirable caustic paper in the February number of Blackwood's Magazine, entitled 'A Discourse on Göethe and the Germans,' to the truth and justice of which we most fully subscribe. These enthusiastic admirations of peculiar 'schools' of literature are periodical. Young as we are, we have seen some half dozen manias of this description subside into neglect, and ultimate indifference, and in some instances, contempt. The eleventh and last article, is a review of WETMORE's Gazeteer of Missouri; but 'farther of its matter can we not report'-principally because we have not read it.

THE LATE CHARLES MATHEWS. In a review, in a late number of 'Blackwood,' of the Memoirs of MATHEWS, noticed in the KNICKERBOCKER for March, we find the following amusing story of a fantastic English original, one LORD EARDLEY, whose particular antipathy was, to having attendants about him, and whose still more especial antipathy was, to have them of the class called 'fine gentlemen :'

'DURING breakfast, one day, Lord Eardley was informed that a person had applied for a footman's place, then vacant. He was ordered into the room, and a double refined specimen of the genus so detested by his lordship made his appearance. The manner of the man was extremely affected and consequential, and it was evident that my lord understood him at a glance; moreover, it was as evident he determined to lower him a little.

'Well, my good fellow,' said he, what, you want a lackey's place, do you?'

'I came about an upper footman's situation, my lord,' said the gentleman, bridling up his head. Oh, do ye, do ye?' replied Lord Eardley; I keep no upper servants; all alike, all alike here.' 'Indeed, my lord!' exclaimed this upper footman, with an air of shocked dignity. What department then am I to consider myself expected to fill?'

'Department! department! quoth my lord, in a tone like inquiry.

In what capacity, my lord?'

My lord repeated the word capacity, as if not understanding its application to the present subject. 'I mean, my lord,' explained the man, what shall I be expected to do, if I take the situation? 'Oh, you mean if you take the place. I understand you now,' rejoined my lord; why, you're to do every thing but sweep the chimneys and clean the pig-sties, and those I do myself'

The gentleman stared, scarcely knowing what to make of this, and seemed to wish himself out of the room; he, however, grinned a ghastly smile, and, after a short pause, inquired what salary his lordship gave!'

'Salary, salary?' reiterated his incorrigible lordship, 'don't know the word, don't know the word, my good man.'

Again the gentleman explained; I mean what wages?

'Oh, wages,' echoed my lord; what d'ye ask? what d'ye ask?

Trip regained his self-possession at this question, which looked like business, and, considering for a few moments, answered-first stipulating to be found in hair-powder, and (on state occasions) silk stockings, and gloves, bags, and bouquets-that he should expect thirty pounds a-year. 'How much, how much?' demanded my lord, rapidly.

Thirty pounds, my lord.'

"Thirty pounds!' exclaimed Lord Eardley, in affected amazement; 'make it guineas, and I'll live with you; then ringing the bell, said to the servant who answered it, 'Let out this gentleman, he's too good for me;' and then turning to Matthews, who was much amused, said, as the man made his exit, Conceited, impudent, scoundrel! Soon sent him off, soon sent him off, Master Matthews'

The preceding was placed in type for our last number, and when it was fresh from the other side. It may be so now, indeed, to a large portion of our readers. At all events, it strikes us as too good to be lost.

LONDON CORRESPONDENCE. We have a long and entertaining epistle from our London correspondent, from which we regret that we can extract only a few desultory passages. Speaking of autographs, he says: 'I am collecting a famous lot of them. Beside all sent home, I have Wordsworth, Southey, Moore, Campbell, Joanna Baillie, Scott, Lady Blessington, Sir E. Brydges, Lord Durham, Brougham, Wellington, James Montgomery, William Godwin, Mrs. Shelley, Leigh Hunt, Galt, James Hogg, Lockhart, Jeffrey, S. C. Hall, etc. Some of these, let me tell you, cost money. I gave seven dollars and fifty cents for a letter from Sir Walter Scott to Thomas Hood. Most of these are long and interesting letters, and very characteristic. It's a mania, this autograph business, with those who engage in it; and they are not a few, in England. A copy of Montaigne's Essays, with William Shakspere' written in it, was sold recently for one hundred pounds. If it had been proved genuine, it would have brought three or four times as much. Five hundred dollars for a name! 'What's in a name?'

*

Upward of considerable. I attended a meeting of the famous 'Royal Society' last week; the same that Sir Isaac Newton and the Duke of Sussex presided over. What think you of that? I am not yet proposed as a member, though the ballot-box came to me to vote some body else in; for I was interspersed among all the F. R. S.'s. After meeting, they invited me to tea, in the library. It was most philosophical and highly scientific tea. * Bulwer's 'Richelieu' is splendidly brought

out at Covent Garden, and Macready makes the most of the old Cardinal; but the more judicious critics are far from stamping Bulwer as the great dramatist, after all. 'The Lady of Lyons' wears well, and is often repeated. It is a rich treat to see Macready as 'Melnotte.' The most successful actors, however, by all odds, are Jim Crow and Van Amburgh. The latter has made a little fortune. Only think of a menagerie man giving a dinner to the friends of the drama in Drury Lane Theatre! O tempora! O mores! E Pluribus Unum, and Yankee Doodle! Lord Brougham goes to see Jim Crow, but has not been seen at Covent Garden. And this is a fair specimen. Giants, monkeys, Bayaderes, and 'niggers,' are the order of the day. No, I forget. To-day the order is, 'WAR WITH AMERICA!' displayed on huge placards, by a posse of twenty or four-and-twenty men, 'all in a row,' up and down the Strand. Heaven preserve us! Vic. will take me captive! Think of me, therefore, as a prisoner of war in the galleys. Do me the favor to 'captivate a Britisher' as an offset!'

CHRISTOPHER MARSHALL'S REMEMBRANCER. - Mr. CHRISTOPHER MARSHALL, whose ancestors came to America with WILLIAM PENN, resided in Philadelphia, from the age of thirty until his death, in 1797, at the age of eighty-seven. He was a member of the Society of Friends, but his devotion to the liberties and rights of the colonies procured his excommunication from a body which denied the lawfulness of defensive warfare. In his sixty-fourth year, he commenced a diary; and from five volumes of this 'Remembrancer,' covering the period from January, 1774, to September, 1781, the compiler of the work under notice, Mr. WILLIAM DUANE, Jr., has selected many new facts in relation to public affairs, and the progress of the revolution, with so much of the private history of the author as throws light upon the manners of the times.

It is pleasant to trace the brief and fresh records of such eventful occurrences as the Battle of Bunker's Hill, Washington's passage of the Delaware, the burning, by the provincials, of the light-house at the entrance of Boston harbor, and the pulling up of the piles that were the marks for the shipping, etc. Here, an account from Boston informs us, that 'BURGOYNE is in a deep, settled melancholy, walking the streets frequently, with his arms folded across his breast, and talking to himself;' and again, that 'General GAGE is often out of his head, and that he and Admiral GREAVES have publicly quarrelled, so that he told Gage it was a cowardly action to burn Charlestown.' Then we have accounts of certain public rebukes, administered by the committee of safety at Phila