feeble type of this magnificent republic? Who, in looking forward to the destiny of our states, and towns, and cities, and of the land they comprise, can know

'The date of her deep-founded strength, or tell

How happy in her lap the sons of men shall dwell?'

THE annexed lines, from the pen of a valued contributor, will convey to the reader a vivid and not over-wrought picture of this wide-spread calamity:

THE FIRE.

'Hark! as the smouldering piles in ruin fall.'-CAMPBELL.

"Twas Night! and Commerce, with her busy brood,

Had left her noblest haunts in solitude;

Her lordly sons, who reaped from many a breeze

The golden spoils of freighted argosies,

Joined the gay revel, or partook the mirth

Whose heart-born smiles illumed the household hearth.
Without, the keen wind, which by day had slept,
Through the chilled streets in icy gushes swept;
Close muffled forms, half quailing to the blast,
'Neath the pale lamps glanced silently and fast,-
And on the frozen ground, like steel with steel,
Rang the steed's hoof, and crashed the whirling wheel;
While through the frost that fell in sparkling spars,
Gleamed the cold radiance of the quivering stars.

Such was the scene, when o'er the city's hum
There rose a cry, which, ere the morn was come,
Swelled to a roar that struck her proudest dumb!
From lip to lip, from strect to street, it flew, -
Thousands to thousands gathered, as it grew;
Peal wakened peal, till tower, and dome, and spire
Shook with the tocsin of the demon FIRE!
Whose beacon glow, re-signal'd from the sky,
Flashed floods of light on Fear's dilated eye.
The fearless hearts, still prompt, at Terror's call,
To form in Danger's front a breathing wall,
Flocked to the scene. For once, their subtle foe
Defied their art, and mocked them with its glow.
Think not before the fiery wreck they quailed-
"Twas not their courage, but their means, that failed;
The quenching stream grew stagnant, ere its tide
To the red surge their aching hands could guide;
And the fierce tyrant they so oft had quelled
Powerless to smite, a conqueror they beheld!

Fast from their homes distracted merchants fled
Toward the vast torch their blazing fortunes fed;
They saw, in utter, impotent despair,

Their garnered millions melting into air;
While meagre Rapine round the ruin glared,
And clutched each remnant by Destruction spared!

Yet were there crowds, whose God-like actions claim
A bright exemption from the list of shame ;
Who toiled untired, who risked their lives unfeed,
Winning from grateful hearts their hallowed meed.
And one, (I would I knew his honest name,

'T would peer the noblest on the scroll of Fame,)

A son of ocean, whom the wind and foam
Had nerved and hardened, in his floating home,
But left the heart that storm-chafed breast concealed
Soft as an infant's 'neath its rugged shield,
Heard, as he strolled among the gazing throng,
A woman's shriek - convulsive, wild, and long;
"T was the heart's wild, uncounterfeited tone;
A thousand echoes answered in his own,
As, with an oath, which, if translated true,
Would read a blessing, to the spot he flew.
There, scarce restrained within the friendly grasp
Of twenty hands, and writhing in their clasp,
With starting eyes, her lips with horror white,
And arms outstretched toward the wreathing light
That round her home in spiral eddies coiled,
A mother raved: 'Oh give me way!-my child!
Monsters he perishes!- But help was nigh:

Tossing, with cheering shout, his hat on high,
The gallant seaman sprang, to save or die.
With a firm step, the half-charred beams he trode,
He scaled the stair, that quivered as he strode.
For one wild instant, agonized suspense

Motionless held that concourse vast and dense:
The next burst forth from 'neath the nodding roof,
(Unscathed his form, by Heaven made danger-proof)
The generous Tar!- and on his arm upborne
A smiling infant, from the fire-tomb torn:
The sobbing mother clasped her rescued prize,
Unspoken blessings raining from her eyes;
And shouting hundreds- thus to nature true-
Lauded the deed not one had dared to do.

But he whose pastime 't was to strive with death,
Shrunk with a blush from Adulation's breath;
And ere those hearty plaudits died in air,
He whom they greeted was no longer there.

Meanwhile, the dread Destroyer, winged and urged
By the strong blast, a howling ocean surged,

Whose waves were heaving flames: beneath its shocks,
From their foundations reeled the rifted blocks;
Crash echoed crash, as in the fiery swell,

Engulfed, absorbed, each blackened giant fell;
The glowing wrecks, from the concussion hurled
Through the dun air, like hissing meteors whirled;
Destruction's heralds, bearing on his path

A sparkling symbol of his wilder wrath;

Swift through the smoke in radiant curves they sprung,
And, falling, kindled wheresoe'er they clung;

Till from a thousand roofs at once unrolled

Ruin's dread banners, waved each streaming fold,
Blazoned with crimson, amethyst, and gold.

Hark to that yell! - the Conqueror hath come

To smite proud Commerce in her own proud home!

A fiery storm yon solid roof o'erstrews,

Sce, from its arch the curling vapors ooze:

Now bursts the flame, each cracking column shakes,
The shivered marble falls in glowing flakes:

The vaulted hall, where late rich merchants trod,
Transferring thousands with a careless nod,

Nought now could tread, save demons! Gleaming there,
Like some pale spirit, through the crimson glare,

The sculptured statesman stands; e'en as he stood
In breathing life, mid storms by faction brewed.
But see a smouldering mass, with awful din,
The strong-ribbed cupola, comes thundering in!
Statue and column, all within its sweep,

Lie shivered, crushed beneath its blazing leap;
And naked walls, cleft by the earthquake-shock,
Alone remain, Magnificence to mock!

Through groves of gleaming masts the flashes play,
Bright roll the rivers to the blushing bay;
The Hudson headlands, towering, scathed, and bare,
Loom, like vast Titans, in the lurid air:

For circling leagues, on billow, rock, and plain,
Rests, without shadow, the ensanguined stain;
While, darkening the stars, o'erarching all,
Heaves the huge smoke-cloud-Desolation's pall!

The morn breaks in at length, but dull and slow
Its gray light mingles with the dusky glow:
Lo! as Day climbs the sky, men view aghast,

The vacant waste on which its beams are cast.

Acres of ashes: -flecked with tongues of flame →
Piles of rich merchandize, and none to claim!
Skeleton forms of buildings half consumed,
Mid wrecks more total standing half-exhumed ;

Streets choked with fallen walls, and seared and seamed
By the red torrent that late through them streamed;
Volumes of smoke, like storm-clouds sweeping heaven,
In blinding gushes every moment driven,

And shivering wretches peering through the gloom,
To snatch some relic from the reeking tomb.

Such was the scene returning Day beheld:

At length the mighty scourge was stayed was quell'd;
And, on the fragments of his feast, enjoyed,
Destruction slumbered, like a monster cloyed.

New-York, Dec. 18, 1835.

EDITORS' DRAWER. -The shallow drawer in our escritoir, which was made vacant for the reader's edification, a few moons ago, is again overflowing. Essays, tales, rhymes widely various in subject and quality-spring up from their long compression, whenever their sliding prison is withdrawn, and seem to rustle forth complaints that their trials are so long postponed, and their fates still undecided. Let us address ourselves to the task of their examination and discharge:

As a prominent feature,' we hasten to seize The Nose,' as a pleasant extravaganza is entitled, which has been for some time under advisement. The thing is odd and bizarre, which we greatly affect; it is well handled withal-though, as Madame de Staël once said of Shakspeare's Pistol, it is somewhat overcharged. Its publication entire, is open to objections. The writer wrings the topic dry- an unpardonable offence; and ever and anon his wit goes out like a fuzee, and leaves nothing on the memory. Portions of the essay, howbeit, are clever. Witness the following:

'Or all the features which grace the human countenance, there is not one whose continued services gain for it less commendation, than the nasal organ: and for the simple reason that a character must be great, which, universally assaulted, maintains its standing, do I esteem the nose most laudable. Bethink thee, reader, but for our noses, where at this time would many of us have been? In regular fisticuffs, what if thy nose opposed not his honest valor 'to ward away the battle-stroke? Bethink thee if, when stalking in darkness, some unrelenting post claims coarse familiarity with thy visage, what would become of thee, did not thy cut-water 'fend off with seaman-like dexterity? Hadst thou not a nose, how couldst thou contemptify thine enemy? —or what polar star follow through life's bewildering mazes? Yet hast thou ungratefully permitted thy proboscis to tingle under the shafts of satire, nor raised a hand in his defence. True, when that ruffian Boreas, by dint of most poignant addresses, hath rendered it cold toward thee, dost thou endeavor to restore the lost unity of feeling; but no sooner does returning warmth convince thee of forgiveness, than thou takest away thy glove, 'leaving the realm in most unpalmy state!' No matter what his peril or alarm; if he runs, all his former good qualities are forgotten. He is rewarded with blows. If, irritated, he refuses to run at all, why then blows, thicker and faster, ensue. Extremes are usually resorted to, in his maladies. He is often put upon by his nearest neighbors. Mouth often closes, vice-like, against butcher's-meat, until his friend, as some great bull-dog nosing o'er his food,' assures him of its salubrity. How frequently do the Brothers Eyes,' (in business phrase,) scorn some modest flower, till its essence-ials appeal more successfully to the Schneiderian tribunal! Yet, despite his known philanthropy, is he placed, like Uriah, in the very fore-front of danger, or more aptly, like Prometheus chained to his naked rock, exposed to every storm that darkens the face of

nature.'

6

With this exordium, the methodical writer proceeds to classify the different orders of his subject. He treats at some length of the nose medical, and avers of noses of this type, that they are better taken care of than their kindred generally, being more frequently thrust into cases. We cannot follow him though his exposition of the diagnosis, and prognosis, nor yet afford him space to discourse of the genus bottle, musical, pastoral, and polemical. The latter is described as usually twisted, or askew, from suddenly turning logical corners, in order to keep the subject in view, in despite of sophistical underbrush; and the writer logically infers from the maxim of one of the Fathers, 'Noscere pulchrum est veritatem quamvis in silvas,' — that with this class the necessity of smelling out truth is properly appreciated. After illustrating these various orders, the elucidator adverts to his own nose. We give place to a passage in its early history, in the wearer's own words; from which it will at least be seen, that its education was not neglected:

My nose is neither excessively small, nor undexterously ponderous. As some one has said of a piano-key, it is most apt for fingering.' It is about as long as two joints of my fore-finger. I have thus often measured it, in my contemplative moments, or when wishing to appear wise. Sages are often delineated with their fingers resting upon various portions of their visage. Sterne, according to phrenologists, has his upon the organ of wit. Franklin has his thumb always turned up under his left jaw, although we never heard him accused of garrulity. Bonaparte has his hands folded upon his breast-yet who ever thought it owing to the heart-ache? Byron laid his hand upon the ocean's mane, denoting an aqueous predilection, quite inconsistent with his potatory moods. But when my picture is taken, I will have my fore-finger 13

nicely fitted to the ridge of my nose. Looking upon it, who will not discover the quiet, reflecting man--one unwilling to plunge his proboscis into every thing-who loveth not to scent out trouble? The care which is taken of my nose, will of itself be prima facie evidence in its owner's behalf.

'I was sent, like most other boys, at an early age, to school; but my talents remained incog. for some time. I was not looked upon as any thing out of the usual course. My teacher, a gentleman of the old school, prided himself on his nasal powers, -a half pound of snuff per diem being considered rather short allowance, especially when examining us in mathematics: then, pinch after pinch was inhaled, ad infinitum. Nobody ever knew what became of it. His nose was bent over like a French bugle, and had much the same twang. After solving a difficult problem, then, and then only, would he blow his nose. His fashion was, to fold up his red silk 'kerchief, four-double, (paradoxically speaking) place the thumb of his left hand, cautiously guarded, upon the left nostril, and blow! The right side was the finest tenor you ever heard then would he change for the bass of the left; and having thus given us the two parts, with variations, separately, he would 'pull out stops,' and sound both at once. Heavens! what an organ! The windows would rattle the papers on his desk fly about like feathers-while the color mantled to his cheeks, with excitement, and his specks bobbed up and down, like the beam of a steam engine. I listened with admiration. I watched all his preparations. I gave due heed to his fingering. The very folds of his handkerchief were closely imitated. I was somewhat doubtful of my untried powers, but genius is often headlong; and one day when the old Fellow had worked out a long and intricate sum for one of the elder boys, I saw him preparing for his customary triumphal flourish. I followed step by step- I gave my head the proper elevation. In linked sweetness, long drawn out,' came his quavers on the tenor. I followed suit. A momentary pause succeeded. "Twas but the echo,' thought he my heart beating mean time violently. He roared out the bass; but mine was undeniably the loudest. He paused again. He was evidently irritated. The impudence was nothing, but that a mere boy should essay to compete with him, in his favorite science, stung his pride. He prepared his last and most sonorous blast. He took a long breath. So did 1. He straightened himself up for a great exertion, and looked at me over the top of his spectacles. I was not to be daunted, but casting back a glance of defiance, kept my handkerchief to my nose; at length, he thundered again. I cannot deny it it was terrific. Yet it is due to the cause of truth to state, that mine was, beyond compare, the loudest. The effect of two such human instruments, blown simultaneously, was astounding. Some glass was broken, the black board on which Euclid's spider-webs were chalked, fell backward to the floor, with tremendous impulse. The boys, who at first were alarmed, now recovering their self-possession, a peal of laughter followed. Just then, a volunteer military corps passing, the band struck up Hail to the Chief! I felt my superiority. I heard, and responded to the omen. I blew my nose again with re-doubled energy, and with increased applause.'

We have strong doubts of the truth of the subsequent history, and therefore suppress it. We question, indeed, whether even a credulous marine would receive it, without saying, with the inimitable Chucks: 'Allow me to insinuate, in the most delicate manner in the world, that I'm blow'd if I believe it!'

FOLLOWING the 'Nose,' in natural progress, we come upon some fifteen or twenty 'pieces of poetry,' as they are generally termed by their authors. There is a disagreeable community of feeling between the writers of the larger portion of these rhymes. They are all alike far gone in misanthropy. They appear to dwell with delight upon the darkest shades of existence; begetting meagre and counterfeit inspiration over imaginary scenes of sadness, and peopling the future with direful shapes of evil. With them, life

'is a dark and desert moor,

Where mists and clouds eternal spread
Their gloomy veil behind, before-
And tempests thunder overhead!"

We usually find clamorous mediocrity the distinctive characteristic of these and such as these. Glorious nature- -human affections and sympathies — are to them as nothing. Lost pleasures- the deceitfulness of the world- the fickleness of fortune -- evanescent friendship - selfish, interested love-despair - the grave, these are their favorite themes. Out upon such villifiers of the world and of human nature! Let them take their place in the dust, toward which are all their grovelling tendencies, and cover themselves with the sackcloth with which they clothe every thing around them! Here is one who would scout all those innocent delusions which but tend to make us more happy, because he has sometimes encountered disappointment. He has written sixty

four lame lines to prove that Hope-blessed Spirit!-is but a wily syren, who leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind. The writer is, after all, but the monkey of some illustrious cynic, as would appear from this libel upon Providence, which serves as his motto: 'Hope is the paint on the face of Existence. The least touch of Truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.' We turn with pleasure from the verses 'in this connection' to the following, which, though somewhat sad, is monitory of good, and is not destitute of a pleasing and simple pathos :

EARLY DAYS.

Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth, and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth.

THE flattering dreams of early days come not in after years,

When the joyous song of Mirth is hushed to silence and to tears;

When the golden visions flee the brain, and Love's romance is o'er,

And the widowed heart in anguish cries, 'Give back my youth once more!'

The passions wild of spring-time hours, the full heart's overflow,

Chilled by the world's dread frown, are hushed, and quenched their genial glow;
And life's dull, cold realities, in all their naked truth,

Impart to us the lesson stern, 'Life has no second youth?

Guard then the memory of thy friends the loved of early days,

Nor seck in winter's snowy breast, affection's flame to raise;

For the loves which fill the guileless heart, while from suspicion free,
Are dearer far than later loves, how true soe'er they be.

Cherish those early loves, they are a principle and part

Of that embodied bliss which Heaven enshrines within the heart;

They are the clear, untainted fount of undefined desire,

The substance and the essence pure of the Promethean fire.

The unbought friends of life's young morn, when every thought glowed warm,
And filled the clouds with sapphire towers, and many a fairy form,

Oh! lose them not by cold neglect or hope not to regain,

The plant of love once touched with frost, can never spring again!

Go wander through the labyrinth of Fashion's giddy throng, -
And view gay Pleasure's masquerade, or list her syren song;
Taste every cup of bliss, and roam where Fancy's voice may call,
Yet shall the thought of early days be dearer far than all.

O. G. W.

AN Essay on Umbrellas comes next in order, whereby hangs a Tale, which, although well written, lacks interest and incident. The general subject, however, will come forcibly home to most readers. That was a good definition of laughter, given by a popular American essayist-viz: 'a singular and dubious contortion of the human countenance, to be seen in the face of an individual, of whom a friend suddenly claims his umbrella, on a rainy day! The author of the present paper scems to be a lawstudent; and it must be admitted, that he enters into the discussion with a characteristic spirit of research. He says:

'I HAVE listened, day after day, to the lectures of the learned jurist upon the rights of persons and of things; upon absolute and conventional rights; upon choses, goods, chattels, messuages, tenements, hereditaments, property real and personal; but no mention have I ever heard made of the rights pertaining to the possession of an umbrella. They have been assigned to no class or kind of property. But it may be that this omission of the worthy professor was not an oversight. He, too, may have imbibed the too common hallucination, that the possessor of an umbrella has no rights of property derivable therefrom, and that he is nothing more than a tenant by courtesy. Indeed, there are few exceptions to this opinion. I do, however, remember once having met a man, who adhered to his eight dollars' worth of silk, whalebone, bamboo, and wire, with a pertinacity similar in its strength, to that with which the Salem witches asserted their innocence. It was his companion in his walks and rides; being a bachelor, I presume it shared his bed. Rain or shine, calm or storm, it was the same; and as he brushed by you in the street, with his quick, suspicious glance, you could easily read his motto: Love me, love my umbrella!'

'I have a smattering of the antiquary, and in this capacity, I have sometimes directed my inquiries toward the origin of this unique species of possession. In few authors can I find any thing germane to the subject; but in the works of Father Ambrose, I