The gloamin is mirk, and the gurley sea
Is yaupin to rin ower ye;
The big pellocks soom, an' the wild maws wing,
As watchin to devour ye.
The wraith of the storm shaws her grim grim face,
The petrel skreighs aloud;
An' the yird looks sick, an' the lift as t'wad fa'
For nature's funeral shroud.
Then wherefore sail ye in this frail frail bark
At sic an uncany hour?
Come your ways wi' me (the skipper then cried)
Frae gurly ocean's power.
An' his coggly punt the gude skipper launched,
Upon the roarin' wave;
An' stoutly he skulled wi' his stumpy oar
The voyager to save.
Then, giegly he reached the wee timid puss,
An' snatched her frae the flood;
An' now the wee maukie that sailed the sea,
Rins in the bonny green wood.
This would be 'ower Scotch,' perhaps, for an English ear, but that the very sound of the doubtful words is expressive of their meaning. * * * The 'Reminiscence of Little Burke' is not to our taste. He was an extraordinary urchin, certainly; but like all very precocious children, he grew to—nothing. We have always utterly detested infant theatricals. We know of no more ridiculous a sight than one of these dramatic juveniles 'strutting like a Lilliputian grenadier; trying to knit its brow, and flourish its little falchion at an over-grown victim of its vengeance,' who is bending half way down, to hear more distinctly the penny-trumpet tones in which he is threatened. 'Little Burke's' father had no very exalted opinion of his son's genius! 'Oh, no! by no means! oh, certainly not!' * * * We cannot resist the employment of a line or two, though sadly pressed for space, to commend to citizens and strangers the establishment of the American Museum, as conducted by its present indefatigable proprietor. It was our intention to have particularized some of the numerous attractions of this very popular resort; but as these are constantly changing, our intelligence would be likely to prove 'Johnny Thompson's news' at the end of the month in which we write. The corps of gentlemen-singers, for example, who adopted the 'Ethiopian' garb, were alone worth a walk of miles to hear. Think of a charming duet, in the most perfect time and harmony, on a pair of tongs and an accordion! * * * We derive from a lady-friend, to whose kindness our readers have heretofore been indebted, the stanzas translated from the German by Fitz Greene Halleck, Esq., in preceding pages. They were withheld originally from publication; the fastidious taste of the writer suggesting infelicities, which we are certain will escape the scrutiny of less refined critics of 'the gentle art of song.' * * * Some newspaper 'down east' has been instigated to hint that the lively and gossipping New-York correspondence of the Washington 'National Intelligencer' is written by John Neal! As if it were possible to mistake the pleasant style of Mr. Willis, for the labored yet slovenly no-style of 'Omnium Scriblerius!' One might as well attribute the authorship of 'Thanatopsis' to 'Sir William Marsh, of Apple Island, Boston Harbor!' * * * The paper elicited by the article upon 'Forensic Eloquence' in our last number, is somewhat too kindred in character with that excellent performance, to be at present admissible. As the MS. is left to our option, however, with permission to 'add, clip, or destroy,' we annex a passage which will be new to many of our readers:
'Cæsar, who was himself an accomplished orator, and knew all the windings of the art, was so shaken on the occasion of Tully's oration, that he trembled, dropped his papers, and acquitted the prisoner. Many attributed this to the force of Tully's elocution; but it seems rather to have been the effect of Cæsar's art. He played back the orator's art upon himself. His concern was feigned, and his mercy artificial; as he knew that nothing could so effectually win Tully to his party, as giving him the pride of having conquered Cæsar.' In relation to the different styles of eloquence, the same writer observes: 'The pathetic orator who throws a congregation of enthusiasts into tears and groanings, would raise affections of a very different nature, should he attempt to proselyte an American congress; and on the other hand, the finest speaker that ever commanded the House, would in vain point the thunder of his eloquence on a Quaker meeting. Voltaire tells us, that 'in France a sermon is a long declamation, spoken with rapture and enthusiasm; in Italy, it is a kind of devotional comedy; in England, it is a solid dissertation, sometimes a dry one, which is read to the congregation without action or elocution.' A discourse which would raise a French audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, would throw an English one into a fit of laughter.'
D.'s story of 'The Whistling Bridegroom' is very good, but 'drawn too fine' for the strength of the fabric. Briefly, it is this: A clergyman is uniting two persons in marriage; and when he arrives at the point in the service where he directs the bridegroom to 'take the bride by the hand,' the former pays no attention to him, but looks steadfastly upon the floor, and indulges in a subdued whistle. The direction is repeated, but again the only notice taken of it is a continuation of the whistling, sotto voce. A third time the command is given, and the only response is the unique musical accompaniment aforesaid. The clergyman pauses, thinking himself intentionally insulted, when the blushing bride, who had doubtless been thinking of other things, raised her eyes, saying: 'He's deaf, Sir; and it's his way to whistle to himself, when he's any thing on his mind!' The explanation was satisfactory; and 'the deaf was made to hear' the next repetition of the important direction. * * * 'Pretty good,' but not quite probable, we think, the wonderful 'Lusus Naturæ' described by our Kentucky correspondent! Did he really think we should nibble at that hook? There is a wind-mill, we are informed, on the coast of Holland, which lays eggs and breeds young ones; but its family is not near so remarkable as the Kentucky wonder of our new contributor! Would he have the goodness to 'try again?' We fancy it must have been with him that the western story of the 'Prock' originated; a singular animal, with its legs, on one side of its body, very short, to enable it to 'graze on the inclined planes of nature!' It was caught, we remember, by 'heading it,' which reversed the animal, and rendered his legs useless, by changing their position! Vive la Bagatelle! * * * The recent death of Hon. Hugh S. Legare is an event which deserves a particular record in these pages. He was one of the ripest scholars of whom the Union could boast; and in all regards reflected high honor upon our literature. He always wrote from a full mind. Let any one turn to the papers which he furnished for the 'Southern Review' and our own New-York Quarterly, and it will be seen how forcibly they illustrate the justice of this encomium. Had Mr. Legare lived, our readers would soon have had an opportunity of admiring his literary performances in the pages of the Knickerbocker. In a late letter to the Editor, written only a few days previous to his leaving Washington for the last time, Mr. Legare incidentally exhibits the patient research of which he was about to reap an adequate reward, in the new and high career of public service upon which he had entered. 'My studies,' he writes, 'have for many years been of a very severe and serious cast, looking all of them, more or less, to useful results in active life, and most of them connected with political economy and jurisprudence.' Works of recondite research and striking views, such as those of Niebur, Savigny, and others of that illustrious German line, had richly furnished his adversaria and port-folios; and it was from these that he was to have enriched and diversified our pages. The death of such a man, in the prime of life and in the midst of his usefulness, is a public loss, which cannot fail to be widely and deeply felt. Honorable and high-minded in all the relations of life, Mr. Legare met his last hour with perfect composure. In dying as in living, he was the admiration of his friends. * * * We saw the other day what its possessor termed a 'Dogberry-o'-type likeness' of Miller, the Prophet—a counterfeit presentment of a cunning old humbug, 'on its very face.' Its exhibition led to a story of one of Miller's converts, which we thought worth remembering. A matter-of-fact old gentleman in New England, whose wife was a thoroughgoing 'Destructionist,' was awakened out of his sleep by his 'possessed' rib, one cold and stormy March night, with: 'Husband! did you hear that noise? It's Gabriel a-comin'! It's the sound of his chariot-wheels!' 'Oh, psha! you old fool!' replied the gude man; 'do you s'pose Gabriel is such an ass as to come on wheels, in such good sleighing as this? I tell you it's the wind; turn over, and go to sleep!' We believe she did. * * * The 'Confessions of a Belle' is not a new title, and it strikes us that we have encountered some of its incidents before. The lesson, howbeit, is an excellent one. Theodore Hook speaks forcibly to this point, in a portrait of one of his female characters: 'With all this blaze of notoriety, did any body esteem her particularly? Was there any one man upon earth who on his pillow could say, 'My God! what an angel is Fanny Wilding!' Had she ever refused an offer of marriage? No! for nobody ever had made her one. She was like a fine fire-work, entertaining to look at, but dangerous to come near to; her bouncing and cracking in the open air gave a lustre to surrounding objects, but there was not a human being who could be tempted to take the exhibition into his own house.' * * * If 'J. P. S.' will look once more at our remarks, touching which he 'begs leave to demur,' he will find that we differ very little from himself. His pride of opinion runs to a point, and reminds us of a reply we once heard a quaint old Friend make to the eager question of a group around him, touching the relative speed of two steam-boats which were running a race, and a very even one, through Long Island Sound. 'Don't you think we've gained on her, in coming the last forty miles?' 'Yes,' replied the Quaker, with great gravity; 'I should say we had.' 'Well, how much, should you think?' 'I maybe mistaken,' responded our Friend, 'but, I should say, about an inch!' We believe this 'close observer' was not again appealed to for his judgment in the premises. * * * We do not much affect parodies, generally, but the following, from the London 'Charivari,' is too good to be lost. It is entitled 'The Macadamized,' and is set to the air of 'The Monks of Old:'
'Many have told of the roads of old,
What a swamp of muck they were:
But a Macadam-way, on a rainy day,
Would make a street sweeper swear.
For it goes beyond the Slough of Despond,
In its hopeless state of slush:
And it grows, ha! ha! to your clothes, ha! ha!
In spite of the hardest brush.
'And when it is fine, if the sun should shine,
You're no better off than before:
For it turns to dust and at every gust
It settles in every pore:
And it tries, as it dries, in a cloud to rise,
And peppers your coat and your hat:
And it flies, ha! ha! in your eyes, ha! ha!
And makes you as blind as a bat!'