There lives a man in this metropolis of Gotham, who is esteemed by his fellow-citizens, among whom he has honestly acquired an ample fortune, for the strict integrity which characterizes his dealings in trade, and his unexceptionable private life. On one occasion he was asked at his barber's, on which side of two political parties he was going to vote, at an election to be holden that day. He replied, with something of a flush on his countenance, that he believed he should avoid voting on either side; such had hitherto been his practice. 'Yes, I guess it has!' whispered a man in the chair, as he arrested the barber's hand, and wiped the soap-foam from his lips; 'fact is, he can't vote. He was three years in the state-prison!' Now this was the fact. He had been three years immured in the penitentiary of a neighboring State, for a crime committed in the heat of passion, and he has to many friends given an account of the mental agony which he endured on first entering the institution. It was not so much the physical suffering; the tedious, sleepless nights in his narrow cell; the sorrowful silence in which he plied his incessant and thankless labor; his coarse and scanty food; not so much these, as the companionship of the hardened wretches around him, whose crimes he could only imagine from the character of their faces, as he caught glimpses of their features in the turning of a gang in marching, or in the chapel on the Sabbath. The degradation of spirit it was that almost broke his heart. 'It mattered little,' he thought, 'how much he might be abused, what insolence of office he might suffer, or how deeply the iron in the dungeon might enter into his soul. Who would care for the unhappy convict? If he should repent and become a reformed man, no one would believe him, no one would employ him; and he would be compelled to give proof of his moral improvement by suffering starvation unto death.' For the first two or three weeks, he was almost mad with the intensity of his mental suffering; and he remained in this state until one Sabbath morning, when the keeper, who was a Churchman by persuasion, permitted the Episcopal service to be read to the prisoners, at the request of a young relation, who was a student at a neighboring theological seminary. 'Never,' has our informant often heard the ci-devant state-prisoner say, 'never shall I forget the effect of one of those blessed prayers upon my mind. It taught me that I was not utterly forgotten and cast away, in my desolate abode.' The prayer runs as follows: 'O God, who sparest when we deserve punishment, and in thy wrath rememberest mercy, we humbly beseech thee of thy goodness to comfort and succor all those who are under reproach and misery in the house of bondage: correct them not in thine anger, neither chasten them in thy sore displeasure. Give them a right understanding of themselves, and of thy threats and promises; that they may neither cast away their confidence in thee, nor place it any where but in Thee. Relieve the distressed, protect the innocent, and awaken the guilty; and forasmuch as thou alone bringest light out of darkness and good out of evil, grant that the pains and punishments which these thy servants endure, through their bodily confinement, may tend to setting free their souls from the chains of sin; through Jesus Christ our Lord.' * * * The 'Pinch for Snuffers' was long ago anticipated by the lamented Ollapod, in an article on 'American Ptyalism.' There are 'statistics' in the present paper, however, which we do not remember to have encountered before; for example: 'If the practice of moderate snuff-taking be persisted in for forty years, it has been correctly ascertained that two entire years of the snuff-taker's life will be dedicated to tickling his nose, and two more to blowing it! If time is money, therefore, isn't snuff-taking a habit which costs more than it comes to?' Perhaps so; but for all that, we say, let the devotees of the dust enjoy their 'sneezin', as it is termed in Scotland; for to them its titillations are most delici-ishi-ishi-ishious! * * * We are sorry to be compelled to decline the elaborate article of our Charleston correspondent, who desires an allusion to his paper in this department of our Magazine. It has been well said, by one whom we are sure our contributor would consider authority, that the wisdom as well as the common feelings that belong to such subjects, lie upon the surface in a few plain and broad lines. There is a want of genius in being very ingenious about them; and it belongs to talents of the second order to proceed with a great apparatus of reasoning. We may be wrong; but it has occurred to us, that the great defect in the written efforts of many clever newspaper and magazine essayists of the South, consists in their being 'elaborated to tenuity, or argued to confusion.' * * * Among the publications received too late for notice in the present number, are 'Geological Cosmogony; or an examination of the geological theory of the origin and antiquity of the earth, and of the causes and object of the changes it has undergone; by a Layman: Mr. Robert Carter, at 58 Canal-street, publisher; the 'Spanish Guide for Conversation and Commerce, in two parts; being a Sequel to the author's Spanish Grammar and Translator: by Julio Soler, one of our most successful and popular Spanish teachers; a prospectus of a work entitled 'Annals and Occurrences of New-York City and State in the Olden Time;' being a collection of memoirs, anecdotes, and incidents, concerning the city, country, and inhabitants, from the days of the founders; intended to exhibit society in its changes of manners and customs, and the city and country in their local changes and improvements; with pictorial illustrations; Mrs. Child's 'Letters from New-York;' and Dr. Pereira's new work on food and diet, with observations on the dietetical regimen, suited for disordered states of the digestive organs; and an account of the dietaries of some of the principal metropolitan and other establishments for paupers, lunatics, children, the sick, etc., etc. We have heard this work highly commended by competent judges; but to our humble conception, there is something very auldwifeish in publishing a book to tell people how to devour their food. There is no mystery in the matter. Hunger and thirst are simple, strait-forward instincts, not likely to be much improved by artificial erudition. We have late numbers of the 'Rivista Ligure,' of Genoa, for which we are indebted to the courtesy of our consul at that capital. Brief notices of the following works are in type: 'Usury;' Thomson's 'Day's Algebra,' 'The New Purchase,' 'The Karen Apostle,' etc. * * * Our readers have lately had an opportunity of enjoying several of the early prose-papers of the gifted Sands. Here are a few pleasant poetical extracts from a New Year's Address, written seventeen years ago, touching among other things upon Adams's election, the great Erie Canal celebration, Kean's reception at Boston, hard times, broken banks, etc.:
The next thing that deserves reflection
Is Mr. Adams, his election;
With which we all must be content,
And say 'God bless the President.'
How far his talents may be great
The aforesaid Poet cannot state;
All that he knows of his abilities,
Is that he interchanged civilities
With him one morning at the Hall,
When he shook hands with great and small;
And also got some punch and vivers
The Corporation gave to divers.
You all do know that the last stitch
Of work is done on the Big Ditch;
And saw, no doubt the grand procession
That was got up on the occasion:
When soldiers, tailors, printers, furriers,
Free-masons, soap boilers, and curriers,
Cordwainers, college-boys, and bakers,
Butchers, and saddle-and-harness-makers,
Boat builders, coppersmiths, and tanners,
Walked forth with badges and with banners,
And every other craft and mystery,
(A show unparallelled in history.)
The Poet had no place assigned
In the parade with his own kind;
He stood apart amid the squinters,
The carrier trudged among the printers,
Distributing from time to time
Small odes that were pronounced sublime.
The Poet also was worse slighted,
Not being to the Hook invited;
Of course he has no just conception
Of the Lake's marriage with old Neptune,
Or if the salt sea felt compunction
With the fresh lake to make a junction;
Or whether Neptune took the sense
Of Doctor Mitchell's eloquence;
But all who witnessed the solemnity,
Returned from sea with full indemnity,
Pleased with the punch, the sail and speeching,
Returning thanks they had no reaching,
Or collapsed flues to spoil the pleasure,
Although they steamed beyond all measure.
The child that is unborn may rue,
He did not live that day to view.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
To mention now we can't refrain
How naughty Kean came back again,
Despite of many a rotten pippin,
Contrived his ancient orb to keep in,
And (such the morals of the age!)
Once more to re-usurp the stage;
Acquiring bravos, praise, and pelf,
And Richard is again himself.
But when to Boston bold he went,
The 'winter of their discontent'
Began to blow with so much force,
He gave his 'kingdom for a horse,'
And galloped off at such a pace,
As if 'six Richmonds' were in chase.
But hark! a voice! a voice of squalling;
Cotton is falling—falling—falling!
Credit grows low, and faith is shaking,
Banks won't discount, and firms are breaking;
Dead lies the Eagle of New-Haven,
And many honest folks are shaven;
Stopped are the Lombard and the Derby,
And many people suffering thereby.
Cash has grown scarce, and none can know it
Better than him the carrier's poet,
Who having in the funds no money
Looks on the moil as rather funny.
He to whom scarce for ever cash is
Little regards the daily smashes;
But what of this? the radiant sun
Will shine as he has always done,
And round, and round him as of old,
The earth her annual course will hold;
Eyes will be bright, and hearts be gay,
At ball, at opera, and play;
As sweetly to the brilliant ring,
The syren of the stage will sing;
And the full burst of melody
Will soar, as strong, as clear, as high,
Though hearts are broke, and hopes have fled,
And you have failed, and I go dead;
And suns will set, and moons will vary,
And men die, as is ordinary.
'The Clubs of New-York' we recognize to be from the pen of a lady. She writes, however, of clubs as they exist in London, not in this metropolis, where they are few, and far less exacting of the time and affections of their members. We quite agree with our fair correspondent in her animadversions upon the devotion which they attract from the heads of families. Mrs. Malaprop argues that married men ought to give up their clubs, 'because Hercules gave up his when he got spliced!' * * * A word to our friend 'H.' at 'H——, on the Hudson:' We have long cherished the intention to avail ourselves of your kind offer; but we shall lay down no more pieces of stone in the infernal pavement. Cordial thanks, however, in any event. * * * 'Lucy' is a very good versificatrix, but she greatly lacks condensation. Try again; and 'take your time, Miss Lucy.' * * * 'Neanias,' of Danville, Kentucky, is again unsuccessful. ''T is true 't is pity, and pity 't is 't is true.' Let him not be discouraged, however. * * * Perhaps our musical readers will relish a little intelligence 'from the other side,' touching their favorite science. We learn from that mad wag, Punch, that the society of Musical Antiquaries have traced the origin of Scottish Minstrelsy to Norway; so that it is possible the lays of Burns are remotely connected with the Scandinavian Scalds. We hear also of a remarkable concert given by an artist to whom a distinguished maëstro had bequeathed his sheet-iron fiddle. 'He has all the rapidity and tone of his master, and equals every other great solo-player of the day, in never knowing when to 'leave off!' * * * 'The beautiful sentence quoted in your last 'Gossip,'' writes a correspondent, ''That charity which Plenty gives to Poverty is human and earthly, but it becomes divine and heavenly when Poverty gives to Want,' has recalled to my mind an old song, which I should be glad to see in your pages:'
I.
Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake,
Gaffer-Gray!
And why doth thy nose look so blue?
''Tis the weather that's cold;
'Tis I'm grown very old.
And my doublet is not very new,
Well-a-day!'