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OLLAPODIANA.

NUMBER NINE.

READER, do you skate? Have you ever enjoyed the exulting sense of standing upon some wide, ice-bound river, having your loins girded about, and your feet shod with the preparation of that pleasant pastime? If not, then hath the culture of your understanding been grievously neglected. With me, skating is a passion. When the winter air is mild and bracing- when there are no clouds about the zenith, but a few quiet, golden ones, hanging like a rich curtain all round the horizon-then to step with your glittering heel upon an expanse of congelated chrystal, and outstrip the wind-there is rapture in it. It is the quintessence of life and free moral agency.' You can go where you list, and as you list; fast or slow; gliding or shooting over the area where you are disporting, until it is with lines both centric and eccentric scribbled o'er,' and you feel that you have done wonders. I love to push onward in a straight line, or to wheel in curious circumgyrations; forming parallels and circles on my bright high-dutchers; leaving droves behind, and feeling at my heart the fiery glow of the skater's ambition; until the city, with its spires, and flags flouting the sky, disappears in the distance. There is nothing like it, for it is, next to a sleigh-ride, the very soul of existence. Nature to me is very beautiful in winter. How pure is the air! What loveliness, surpassing even the springtime, rests on the landscape! The hills, rising pale and blue afar; the vales and plains, dotted with farm-yards, where the herds are huddled in their cotes secure,' and the yellow straw or green hay, marks the place of their pleased imprisonment. From the barn, you hear the hollow-sounding flail of the thresher; from the street, near and far, the cheerful jingle of bells; and all around you, when you gain some eminence, you behold the shining lakes and mountains, bright as silver in the beams of the sun! Then again, winter is so perfectly salubrious. Sanctified and enshrined in its atmosphere, 'the dog, the horse, the rat,' though never so defunct, are inoffensive for months; whereas, in the solstice, they would directly fill your nostril with indignation, and demand prompt exequies. I say I like winter, and I care not who knows it. He that differs from me, may go his ways. His taste mislikes me. Charles Kemble is probably one of the best skaters in the world. Jehu! how he used to go it' on the Schuylkill, until he seemed, not an aged, wig-ensconcéd man, in lean and slippered pantaloon, but a creature of the elements, endowed with the power of out-chasing the very lightnings of heaven. His elementary instruction began on the Serpentine, in London; it was completed in Germany; and he now stands before the world, accounted a superior skater oh, very much But he is very dull in Macbeth.

so!

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WINTER gives energy to every thing. A full city, in sleighingtime, is a perfect carnival. Whew!-how the cutters, pungs, and foursin-hand, sweep over the pavé! How the bells tintinnabulate! Woman

looks sweeter then, than ever. The demoiselle in her boa, with her muff and fur-shoes, presents a picture of warmth and comfort, that you cannot too much admire. At this season perhaps in this I am peculiar-high mountains are a feeling.' How I should liked to have been with Napoleon, when he crossed those wintry Alps! - to have shared in the excitement -the danger -the triumph! Never, in all his brilliant career, did he perform an act more sublime and powerful, in my eyes. This alone, had he achieved nothing more, would have stamped him the greatest Captain of his age.

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APPROPOS of Napoleon. I remember hearing from somebody, or reading in some book, or pamphlet, or newspaper - bear with me, kind reader, in this incertitude, for I have forgotten all the particulars - an anecdote of him, that seems to me worth preserving or perhaps I should rather say, rescuing from the oblivion to which it is rapidly hastening. It finely illustrates one portion of his infinitely-diversified character; and I marvel that it has escaped the notice or the researches of all his biographers, eulogists, critics, and censors. I must be forgiven, if, in recalling it, I should be guilty of a lapse from historical accuracy: I am a sad bungler at dates, and my library boasts not a Chronology.' Thus ran the tale. One of the deténûs, whom the abrupt resumption of hostilities after the short peace of- Tilsit, was it? -found a wanderer upon the French soil, for his greater misfortune, was an Englishman of large fortune, and some rank above that of a mere private gentleman-but whether knight, baron, or baronet, is more than I can remember. He was a widower, with an only child, a daughter. He had become personally known to the Emperor, when First Consul, and a certain degree of friendship had sprung up between them. This friendship was in some sort renewed, when the Englishman became an involuntary resident of the French capital; the rigors of detention and surveillance were much softened in his behalf, and he was often a partaker of the Emperor's hospitality - not indeed at the formal levées and soirées of the palace, but in private and familiar visits, of which Napoleon was fond, and to the enjoyment of which he appropriated as much of his time, as could be spared from the immense number and magnitude of his burdensome imperial occupations. The Englishman was discreet, and the monarch condescending; their tête-a-têtes were, therefore, not infrequent, and both parties seemed to take pleasure in their repetition. The child of the Englishman had been placed at a school in one of the provincial towns; but he solicited and obtained from his imperial friend permission for her to join him at Paris. He received intelligence of her setting out, accompanied by a faithful domestic; but days passed away, and she came not to lighten his solitude. His anxiety and alarm gained strength, day after day, until at length they drove him almost to frenzy. He implored leave to proceed in search of her, and it was granted; but the search proved unavailing. He was enabled to trace her some distance on her journey to the capital, but at a certain point, all indications disappeared, and he was driven to the miserable conviction that, in some mysterious and unaccountable manner, she had perished. He returned to Paris, almost heart-broken.

The morning after his arrival, he was astonished by a sudden visit from an officer, at the head of a body of gens-d'armes, who arrested him in the name of the Emperor. His first emotion was astonishment his second indignation; and this was not a little heightened, when the officer, with an unusual degree of harshness and brusquerie, announced to him that he was accused of conspiring against the life of the Emperor, and that he was to be confined, en secret, until the day of his trial before a military commission.

His temper was naturally quick and ardent, and it vented itself in reproaches, exclamations, and perhaps a few oaths-but as they were uttered in English, they seemed to produce no effect on the officer. was placed in a carriage - the blinds were drawn-and the horses started at full speed.

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After riding some distance, but in what direction the prisoner could not determine, by reason of the closeness of the vehicle, it stopped suddenly a bandage was drawn over his eyes, and he was led into some building; but whether the Conciergerie, or the Bicêtre, he could only conjecture. After traversing various passages, in silence, but brooding over his wrongs, and almost bursting with indignation, his progress was arrested, the blind was removed from his eyes, and he found himself in presence of his friend, the Emperor. His first glance conveyed mere wonder; but those which followed it, were glowing with anger, which increased at every moment. The brow of Napoleon wore a gloomy frown, but the heart of the Englishman was too full of wrath to quail even before that fearful sign; it was but reflected from his own bold front. Tyrant!' he exclaimed- but before he could add another word, a door was flung open, and his blooming child bounded, all life and loveliness, into his arms. Amazement and happiness made him dumb; and Napoleon, smiling as none but him could smile, turned to leave the room, with the single remark: Joy and surprise would have turned your brain; it was better to prepare you for the shock, by rousing you to anger.'

The surpassing skill of Fouché's myrmidons had been called into employment by the Emperor's command, and had succeeded in discovering the child, but how, or where, I have forgotten.

POOR NAPOLEON! I can never think of his brilliant career, and desolate end, without feeling the sublimity of Massillon's ejaculation over the dead body of his monarch, as it lay in state before him, in the church of Notre Dame GOD alone is great! He commissions Death, with his cold shaft, and the mighty are fallen. The cemetery is sublimer than the battle, or the coronation. There speaks a power which is beyond all others; there, in the rustling grass, or whisper of the cypress, we hear the knell of nations, and the prophecy of that to which they all must come to dust and silence! I am tempted, here, to transcribe one of the noblest poems ever written in our language. It may be familiar to some of my readers, but it is worth a hundred perusals; while to those who have never seen it, I convey a treasure and a talisman a memento mori. The author, Herbert Knowles, wrote it

at twilight, in the church-yard of Richmond, England. Shortly afterward, he died and was buried,' in the flower of his manhood.

THE DEAD.

'METHINKS it is good to be here: if thou wilt, let us build three tabernacles; one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias.' THE BIBLE.

METHINKS it is good to be here:

If thou wilt, let us build- but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of evening encompass with gloom
The abode of the Dead, and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!

Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pin him below,

In a dark narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles, a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! - she forgets

The charm that she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm, that he frets
The skin that, but yesterday, fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint that it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,

To the trappings that dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside;

For here's neither wealth nor adornment allow'd,
Save the long winding sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

Unto Riches? Alas!-'tis in vain ;

Who here in their turns have been hid,

Their wealth is all squandered again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures that Mirth can afford?
the laugh and the jeer?

The revel

Ah! here is a plentiful board;

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah no! they have withered and died,

Or flown with the spirit above;

Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;

Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve;

Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, nor fear-
Peace, peace is the watch-word, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?

Ah, no!-for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow;

Beneath the cold head, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none can disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,

And look for the sleepers around us to rise:

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled,

And the third to the Lamb of the great Sacrifice,

Who bequeathed us them both, when he rose to the skies!

SOME one of our countrymen has written: 'I never shun a graveyard. The thoughtful melancholy it inspires, is grateful rather than

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displeasing to me.' Here we differ. I do shun it; and I hope a good Providence will keep me out of one for a long time. I desire not a freehold in any such premises. I like the liberal air -the golden sunshine the excursive thought; and I pray Heaven to detain me long from that ancient receptacle, where my kinsmen are inurned. Give me the vital principle below the sun; and though I cannot be astonishingly useful to my fellow beings, or carve my name, just now, high on the records of fame, I can at least enjoy the luxury of fancy, feeding, and respiration, to say nothing of the pleasing employment of dreaming-which is in itself worth a dukedom - and the rapture of eye-sight. I love not your sackloth misanthrope, whose whole life is darkened by the fear of its inevitable close, and embittered in the mazes of metaphysics.

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SPEAKING of metaphysics, reminds me of Bob Edwards. Reader, thou art already acquainted with Bob-thou hast had a touch of his quality in the potato line, and hast borne him company in sundry expeditions from the sacred groves of Academus; thou hast seen, that, by deeds of valiant daring, he had built up for himself a fame which extended far beyond the terrestrial limits that were allowed us for the exercise of our corporeal functions, by the individual who instructed the youthful creatures of our imaginations in the use of fire-arms — or, in the language of the immortal poet,

'Taught our young ideas how to shoot.'

He was the plague of the farmers-the glory of the jollifiers - the terror of the mothers, and the passion of the daughters all over the world, for thirty miles round.'

Oh, quite so!

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He was an uncommon youth, was Bob Bob had a philosophical turn of mind, and was looked up to by his satellites with unspeakable reverence. By tacit consent, he was vested with an appellate jurisdiction in the little commonwealth. He sat in judgment upon all questions of law or equity, arising between its juvenile members. He delivered his opinion like the Oracle of Delphos, and his decrees were final.

It was winter the length of the evenings were remarkable for the time of year the frigidity of the circumambient atmosphere wasvery considerable. A thought smote Bob.

He called his associates together - he made a speech — in which, with all the alternate fire and pathos of his Heaven-born eloquence, he described the trying position in which the severity of the weather had placed them. He spoke of the physical enjoyments of the human race as empty vanities, which an all-wise Providence, for his own good purpose, had qualified with pains and penalties. He adverted, in melting terms, to the uncommon scarcity of game, by which, for a time, they were debarred from the dignified and soul-ennobling pursuit of hunting foxes. He went on to observe, that the improvement of the intellectual faculties was one of the first duties of man; and after enlarging with great talent upon this incontrovertible position, he proposed to his auditors that they should organize a society for the discussion of subjects involving questions of abstract science. (By the way, there are plenty

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