impress the truth on the minds of rising generations, that our fathers have been engaged in the war of independence, for two centuries, and that there never was a greater call for valiant exertion than at the present day. We have just commenced the measuring of the height of our mountains, the depth of our rivers,-of ascertaining the capacities of our soil, and forming charts for our borders, but we have not yet paid much attention to our capacities for literature, nor taken pains to compare our mental standard with that of other men. We have too often considered those who throw their shadows across the water, as greater in their own land, while they are frequently of only moderate size, and of no great regard at home. He who pays too much reverence to others, seldom duly values himself, but he who is true to himself, does wrong to no one. The higher we raise our own literature, the better judgment shall we form of that of other nations. Let not our readers think that we have been croaking on the loft. Far from it. We have watched the offering at the altar,-inspected the entrails, and declare the omens to be favorable, for the literary exertions now making in this country.

S. L. K.

THE SEAMAN'S DAUGHTER.

SUGGESTED BY FISHER'S 'PORTRAIT OF A GIRL, AT A LATE FAIR IN BOSTON.

ODDS AND ENDS.

FROM THE PORT-FOLIO OF A PENNY-A-LINER.'

I LIKE New-York. I like it for the very points of difference which distinguish it from all other cities in the Union,-its noise,-its hurry, its bustle, its mixed population, and the Babel-like confusion of tongues which it inherits. One may walk through Wall-street or Broadway, and hear French, Spanish, Italian, English, German, Turkish, and almost every other language used in the known world, spoken in the same moment. The haste with which every body moves, and acts, and speaks, is another characteristic of New-York, that I admire. It is contagious, and it has a good effect upon the spirits and health of an idle man. I have strolled into Wall-street, so very lazy and listless, that I had hardly energy enough to move one foot past the other, and in fifteen minutes thereafter, I found myself tearing up and down the street, through Pearl, into Water, up Front-street, skipping over barrels, and boxes, and crates, as if the sailing of an Indiaman, or the credit of a dozen houses, all depended upon the celerity of my movements. The same effects produced by the same causes, I have remarked in others. I have a country friend, a retail trader, who visits the city once a year to pay his debts, and lay in a new stock of goods. He only trades at two houses, and generally has but two notes to pay, and as for his purchases, he can make them in a couple of hours. I have seen this quiet, steady, slow-and-easy old gentleman, saunter out of the Ohio Hotel into the street, of a Monday morning, and after carefully perusing all the sign-boards in his immediate vicinity, move along at the grave and judicious pace peculiar to himself. Anon a young clerk would flash by him, and before he could distinguish the precise color of his coat, be out of sight. A countryman would pass him, with the speed of a steam-engine. Why the old man would exclaim, Why, that's neighbor Wilson! Neighbor, neighbor! Mr. Wilson! Lord, how he walks! He's out of sight already! By this time, his own step would be quickened. A little before him, he observes the principal of the house with which he transacts his business. He increases his pace. It is in vain. He cannot overtake him. Merchants, clerks, porters, horses, carts, wheel-barrows, whiz past him. His brain becomes confused, his feet begin to fly, and in ten minutes more, I have marked the old man, striding along the street, under full headway-the long skirts of his coat fluttering and flapping in the wind, his hair streaming out from under his hat, drops of perspiration coursing each other down his cheeks, the very picture of a fugitive from justice.

I like New-York, because it is the greatest and richest city, and in the greatest and richest state in the Union. I like it, because there are so many strangers,-because all foreigners, whether merchants, travellers, play-actors, rope-dancers, elephants, lions, rhinoceroses, paupers, pick-pockets, thieves, or swindlers, make it their first resting place in the new world. I like it for its splendor, its wretchedness, its selfish

ness, its style, its fashion,-in short, to complete this sentence, and to save trouble and accumulation of epithets,-I like it, because it is what

it is.

There is no kind of being, that cannot find something here congenial with his feelings. The stoic, the anchorite, the man of pleasure,but why attempt to enumerate,-all seek and find happiness here in their own way. 'Tis true, that in the impunity with which a man, unobserved and unnoticed, may accomplish his ends, there is mingled a feeling of his insignificance; and that his vanity may be touched by the little consequence his neighbors attach to his movements. But in the independence with which an honorable man can act, move, and speak, unawed by fear of misconstruction, and unrestrained by the criticism of narrow minds, there is a luxury far surpassing the petty gratification, of being 'the observed of all observers.'

Life, in such hot-beds as this, appears to take a new form,-to have a ranker growth, and it is to me a continual source of pleasure and instruction, to seek it out, and observe it in every shade. It is not the growth of vice alone, that is here luxuriant. The same soil from which it springs, also gives existence and nourishment to that plant of heavenly growth, virtue; and the same causes which invigorate and strengthen one, also perfect the other. Both will occasionally furnish materials for these hasty sketches.

I HAVE a very strong propensity for making myself the hero of my own tales: so strong, indeed, that it is with very great reluctance I ever drop the personal pronoun, I. There is something to me so inexpressibly soothing, in telling the public how I felt, how I thought, how I looked, and how I spoke, that I often resort to the most ingenious shifts, to bring this important part of speech before them. And then, again, it is so pleasant, to see myself performing great actions, and heroic deeds, even though it be in fiction!-so flattering to my vanity, to be the beloved of some beautiful girl, to press her hand, kiss her lips, and may hap, in cases of accident or mishap, or at the winding up of a 'thrilling story,' 'clasp her graceful form in my arms,'-even though it be only on paper! It is a great gratification to a timid, modest man, like myself, who never expects to do any thing of the kind otherwise than in his mind's eye.'

This infirmity has often caused me entirely to lose sight of the 'unities,' and has been the occasion of much inconsistency in my public character. I find, on accurate calculation, that I am the printed and published husband of seventeen women and girls, and the betrothed of three widows! I am, (in print, remember, reader,) a member of all the different learned professions, a merchant, and an author, besides being several gentlemen of fortune. I am a grey-headed patriarch, the sire of a numerous progeny, and I am also one snarling, shriveled and shrunken, and two pleasant, happy, elderly bachelors. I am rich, and I am poor, and I am in middling circumstances. I am a child of genius,' struggling with misfortune and want, and toiling for a glorious future renown,' and I am also a proud and spoiled child of fortune.'

These are but few of the contradictions into which my egotism has led me. But the illusion is so pleasant, that although it generally lasts but for an evening, I never have been able to summon up moral strength sufficient to part with it. It is a great comfort to me, in a city like this, where I am but about the two hundred and fifty thousandth part of the population, to sit down for an hour or two, and write about myself. I rise from my table after such an occupation with enlarged ideas of my own consequence. With elongated limbs, I stride across my room, at every lengthening step, elevating my head, losing the consciousness of my real insignificance, and forgetting that I am but one atom of the great mass of humanity around me,-one ant in the mole-hill. A city is a sad place for one who entertains such an affectionate regard for himself as I do. Alas! there is no one here to abuse me, to spy out my actions, to censure me when I do wrong, or misrepresent me when I do right. I cannot even get up a report that I am about to be married! or that I have been rejected, or that I have been paying particular attention to Miss ———, or that I am rather cooling in my attachment to Miss Somebody-else. My out-goings and my in-comings are alike unnoticed and unknown. Every body attends to his own business, and lets every body else, and every body else's business, and me and my business among the rest, alone. This is a dreadful state of society. I cannot abide it. Here we all are, two hundred and fifty-odd thousand of us, just like so many Robinson Crusoe's, doing nothing but taking care of ourselves, and suffering our neighbors to be rich, or handsome, or fortunate, or happy, without any interference, or attempt at detraction.

1

THE Coal will not burn!-and the thermometer fifteen degrees below zero! This is horrible weather! I have been trying to keep myself warm, by calling to mind some of the hot days of last summer, but my teeth still chatter, and my hand still trembles. We do not properly appreciate warm weather until mid-winter. For my own part, although I have felt more comfortable than I did the last season, when the thermometer was at ninety-six degrees, I am free to say, that even that height is preferable to its present depression. There are always some mitigatory attendants on hot weather. If we have warm days, we have cool evenings, and pleasant walks on the Battery.

The Battery! What a spot in a moon-lit summer evening, for young men and women of sensibility! It was ten o'clock when we reached it, and could look upon the waters of our beautiful bay as they lay glistening in the moon's silver rays. When I had taken off my hat, and let the fresh ocean breeze fan my forehead, and play in the tangles of my hair,' I began to grow loving and sentimental. I believe I was eloquent, for the liquid-blue eyes of my companion were fixed on me with an expression of surpassing tenderness, her sweet kiss-loving lips. were parted,—and, pardon me, most decorous reader, if I tell you, that I closed them with my own! Would it have been strange, if at such a moment I had been guilty of some indiscreet speech,-if I had made a tender of my affections? Certainly not; and yet I cannot reproach

myself with but one imprudence, and that was rather in manner, than words. She had been speaking of my partiality for some other lady. I begged her to desist, and asked her what I should give her, never to mention the subject again. What can you give me?' she replied. • The only thing I have that is not utterly useless,-my heart.' She was silent, and her arm trembled, as it rested upon mine.

·

There is our

COME, dear reader, and make thy bow with me. hostess, near the folding doors. That will do. Now thou hast time to look about thee. Is it not a bright and beautiful scene? One would suppose that sorrow, or care, or anxiety, could never find an entrance here. And yet under this bland, even, smiling surface, there is a fearful under-current of envy, hatred, jealousy, and all the more evil passions which agitate the human heart. Mark the sweet expression which is stealing over the face of that young creature, as she looks up to answer the question of the self-satisfied gentleman who stands by her side. Hear the music of her voice, and note the melting glance of her dark eye. The young man is in raptures,-but, poor fellow, he is deceived. That look, that tone, that expression, are not for him. Let us watch the maiden closely, and see where that furtive glance is directed. Ah, here it rests,-on this middle-aged, comfortable-looking man, without straps to his pantaloons, with the high shirt collar, and the heavy gold chain and seal. Be not surprised, reader, he is rich. He owns seven stores in Pearl-street, besides lots up town. maiden wants an establishment.' Give me thy arm, and we will move through the room; but avoid that lady a little beyond us, with the little blue and red turban. She has two homely daughters sitting in the corner yonder, and if she gets you in her gripe, she will transfer you to one of them, and you are lost for the remainder of the evening.

The

Who is the lady, didst thou ask, standing alone by the piano, striving to torture her very common place features into an expression of haughty indifference? Thou art surprised, that one so richly dressed, and of such very respectable appearance, should receive so little attention, and thou art sorry for her desertion and loneliness, when all around her, are apparently so happy and gay. Spare thy pity, my good friend. She needs. it not. She is an exclusive, and would consider herself degraded by a free intercourse with the persons by whom she is surrounded. Her cousin, whom alone, of all here, she considers worthy to bear the weight of her arm, is engaged for the present in a quadrille, and until he can return to her, she prefers standing where she is, in solitary state. But look at those two sisters! Didst thou ever see any thing so surpassingly beautiful? How like, in grace, in elegance of deportment, in gaiety of manner,