go into the employment of my uncle, the victualler.' ingly did. This I accord I was now engaged from morning until night, with a basket on my arm, calling at the kitchens of the good people of the city, and begging for cold victuals. When my basket was filled, I took it to my uncle's cellar, in Cross-street, where the contents were separated, and placed in different piles, ready to be sold to the poor people who traded with him. This life I liked very much. It is true, the servants where I called sometimes boxed my ears, or shut the door too suddenly in my face, especially when I called over four times on the same day; but I always had enough to eat, and in cold weather, a good-natured cook would occasionally permit me to warm myself by the kitchen fire. I think I should have continued in this line of business for a long time, had I not become acquainted, about a year after I entered it, with my other uncle. He looked so fat and happy, and appeared to feel so comfortable, that I thought I should like to work for him. I accordingly asked him if he could not give me employment, telling him that I had concluded not to remain any longer in my present situation. He replied that he would think of it, and let me know in a few days. About a week afterward, he told me to come with him, and he would give me occupation. bidding my last master farewell, I went home with my new one. After He was a bachelor, and occupied one of the upper rooms in a little story-and-a-half house in Anthony-street, on the front of which some large letters informed those who were able to read, that they had arrived at Patrick O'Hare's Hotel.' My uncle's 'office,' as he chose to style his scant apartment, was not very imposing in its appearance. Its furniture consisted simply of a mat and a blanket, together with a single old chair. There was a number of large pieces of paste-board, covered with letters like the show bills of the theatre, standing against the wall. Piles of smaller bills, such as are distributed to the audience at play-houses, were also scattered about the room. My uncle, soon after my entrance into his office,' proceeded to equip me for my new profession. Taking two pieces of paste-board, covered with letters as aforesaid, each about four-and-a-half feet in length, and about two feet in breadth, he fastened them together at one end, by strings inserted near the corners, and slipping my head in between them, he brought one of them down in front in such a manner that it extended from under my chin until it nearly reached my feet. The other piece of the same size hung down my back, covering my rear in like manner. After having tied these two pieces together under my arms, he next took a number of the small bills and fastened them around my hat, and then placing a bundle of them in each of my hands, he proceeded to read off, for my edification — that, as he said, I might know what I was about the various contents of the printed suit in which I was encased. I found that in front, I was an advertisement of the Hygeian Vegetable Pills, while in the rear, I announced to the public the arrival at Peale's Museum of The Great Living Anaconda! In front, I spoke glowingly of the extraordinary and unrivalled effects of this new discovery in medicine, and, with the maxim that 'prevention is better than cure,' informed the friends of good health how easy it was for them, by taking the pills when they were well, to avoid ever being sick; while in the rear, I discoursed most eloquently of the beauty, grace, and enormous size of this rare acquisition to the Museum of Mr. Peale, touched delicately on his unceasing efforts to please the public by the introduction of novelties; told how the serpent swallowed oxen in his own country, and rabbits at Mr. Peale's Museum; and finally, wound up with an account of the fine state of preservation in which a blanket was kept, (and to be seen at Mr. Peale's Museum,) with which his snakeship had broken his fast one morning, when he was uncommonly hungry. On my hat was an account of the horrible murder in Kentucky, by a husband, of his wife and her three infant twins, and a notification that the fork belonging to the identical knife with which the monster had perpetrated this horrid butchery, was to be seen at No. 7144 Bowery! After thus reading me to myself, my uncle told me to go up into Broadway, and walk leisurely up and down the street, giving one of the bills in my hand to every gentlemanly-looking person who would receive them. He himself, after equiping his person in a habit similar to my own, but relating to different subjects of public interest, preceded me, for the purpose of showing me how to deport myself. This was a mode of life that particularly struck my fancy. My labor was light, and my satisfaction in the performance of it excessive. All day long I slowly sauntered up and down Broadway, looking at the throngs which were hurrying past me, admiring the various equipages that dashed up and down the street, throwing stones at dogs, and seeing the omnibusses run over the women and children, and break the pri vate carriages; and in the evening I would call at the Museum, at the Dépôt for the Hygeian Medicine, and at No. 7144 Bowery, for my day's wages. It was at this period of my life that I learned to read. On rainy days, I used to take my stand in the door-way of houses, to avoid being wet, and for some time I was at loss for amusement. At length, for the want of something better to occupy my time, I began to study my show-bills. By-and-by, I became possessed with an ambition to read them, and after long and patient perseverance, with the assistance of some good-natured, laughing boys, I was able to decipher them with a fluency equal to my uncle. I have not now either time or inclination to trace my further progress, nor to inform my readers how I gradually advanced through the various intermediate stages of existence, until I at length reached my present elevated station in loafer life. My apprenticeship to the sign. business,' the habit I then formed of observing what was passing in the streets, and the scenes I witnessed there, have been of incalculable advantage to me in my present profession of a penny-a-liner. Many are the accidents,' the 'sudden deaths,' horrid affrays,' casualties,' 'suicides,' shocking occurrences,' and 'melancholy catastrophes,' that come under my observation, which my inexperienced brethren of the quill never hear of. If from any cause I cannot take my usual perambulations through the city, I can draw upon the immense stores of my memory with perfect security. Recollection furnishes me with materials, when my imagination fails; and it is from this cause that while my fellow-laborers in literature are often suffering from want, I am never without the wherewithal to pay for a meal, or repair the rents in my pantaloons. M. LAYS. I. THE Song is still, that over heath and mountain, Through glimmering wood, by sky-empurpled fountain, In shady vale, by stream through roses playing, Breathed faint and low, as tenderly delaying- The song is still, that clear in morning hovered When billowy mist the winding valley covered, When bleat and bark, from bushy lawn repeated, The joyous song, that light and buoyant fleeted- LIFE: AN ALLEGORY. BY J. G. PERCIVAL, ESQ. Ir is now morning. Still and glassy lies the lake, within its green and dew-sprent shores. Light mist hangs around, like a skiëy veil, and only reveals the uncertain outlines of woods and hills. The warm vernal air is just stirring in the valleys, but has not yet ruffled the water's mirror. Turns the eye upward, the misty vault opens into the calm, clear heavens, over which there seems suffused a genial spirit's breath. Far distant on the horizon flash out the gilded and reddening peaks, and from yonder crown of snow, a sudden radiance announces the risen sun. Now in the east stream the golden rays through the soft blue vapor. The breeze freshens, and comes loaded with fragrance from the woods. A faint, dark curl sweeps over the water; the mist rolls up, lifts itself above meadow and hill, and in gathered folds hangs light around the mountains. Away on the level lake, till it meets the sky, silvery gleams the sheeted wave, sprinkled with changeful stars, as the ever-rising breeze breaks it in ripples. Now the pennon, that hung loose around the mast, rises and fitfully floats. We spread the sail, and casting off from the shore, glide out with cheerful hearts on our voyage. Before us widens the lake; rock after rock receding back on either hand, and opening between, still bays, hung round with sparkling woods, or leading through green meadow vistas to blue sunny hills. IT is now noon. In the middle lake speeds the bark over light glancing waves. Dark opens down the clear depth. White toss the crests of foam, and as the sail stoops to the steady wind, swift flies the parted water round the prow, and rushing pours behind the stern. The distant shores glow bright in the sun, that alone in the heaven looks unveiled with vivifying goodness over the earth. How high and broad swells the sky! The agitated lake tosses like a wide field of snowy blossoms. Sweep after sweep of the long-retiring shores; hill gleaming over hill, up to the shadowy mountains; and over these, Alpine needles, shooting pearly white into the boundless azure- - all lie still and happy under the ever-smiling sun. AND now it is evening. The sun is sinking behind the dark mountains, and clouds scattered far in the east, float soft in rosy light. The sun is now hidden, and strong and wide sweeps up its golden flame, like the holy blaze of a funeral pile. The breeze slackens, the waves subside in slumber, and slowly the bark steers into its sheltering bay. Long shadows stretch from hill to valley, fall like dark curtains on the lake, and a solemn, subdued serenity broods, like a protecting spirit, over the hushed and quiet earth. Only the far summits yet retain their brightness Faint blushes stain the eternal snows, recalling the first dawning roses, like the memory of early joys in the tranquil moments of departing age. These, too, fade; but the evening star looks bright from the blue infinite, and like the herald of a better world, leads us softly to our haven. A MOONLIGHT SCENE AT SEA. NO DIMPLE on the wave! the queenly moon, The sails are stirless; not a ripple breaks Off the Azores, September 2, 1835. S. THE PROSPECTS OF THE AGE. ONE of the most striking things in the mental history of modern times, is the interest which thinking men, of whatever class or pursuit, have taken in the political condition and prospects of the world. Even those whose lives have been the most retired, and whose habits the most studious, even those who have sat on the top of Parnassus, — have shared in the agitations of the world around and beneath them. Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey, have each of them been politicians. Political Economy itself is a modern science: and modern Philosophy, in every form, has showed a marked interest in the vast questions that now agitate mankind. But although this is striking, it is not strange. Strange would it rather have been, if thinking men could have turned a cold and indifferent eye upon the stupendous questions which modern history is pressing upon their attention. For although these questions, in their broadest character, do not appeal directly to any selfish feeling, they do appeal to a powerful interest the interest we feel in our kind. They bring home the subject to us, by the most intimate ties of sympathy. The welfare of the world presents to us, indeed, a vast, but not a vague or abstract theme. Its past history, its struggles and its failures, its risings and its fallings are they not like the steps of our own experience? Its fortunes are they not those of millions of beings, in whose hearts hope and fear, joy and sorrow, have throbbed, as in our own? The human condition what is it but the extension of our own private history?what is it, but a mighty medium, through which our sympathies most naturally diffuse themselves? The man of Europe-whether the barbarian of the North, the effeminate slave of the South, or the more intelligent dweller in her middle regions- the inhabitant of popu lous Asia, and he who builds his lowly hut or his mud-walled city on |