GEORGE STILLMAN HILLARD. that waves it to and fro. We set it in a becoming position, relieve it with some appropriate background, and touch it with soft melancholy lightwith the mellow hues of a deepening twilight, or, better still, with the moon's idealizing rays. In Rome, such visions, if they exist in the mind, are rudely dispelled by the touch of reality. Many of the ruins in Rome are not happily placed for effect upon the eye and mind. They do not stand apart in solitary grandeur, forming a shrine for memory and thought, and evolving an atmosphere of their own. They are often in unfavorable positions, and bear the shadow of disenchanting proximities. The tide of population flows now in different channels from those of antiquity, and in far less volume; but Rome still continues a large capital, and we can nowhere escape from the debasing associations of actual life. The trail of the present is everywhere over the past. The forum is a cattle-market strewn with wisps of hay, and animated with bucolical figures that never played upon the pipe of Tityrus, or taught the woods to repeat the name of Amaryllis. The pert. villa of an English gentleman has intruded itself into the palace of the Cæsars-as discordant an object to a sensitive Idealist as the pink parasol of a lady's-maid, which put to flight the reveries of some romantic traveller under the shadow of the great pyramid. The Temple of Antoninus Pius is turned into the custom-house. The mausoleum of Augustus is encrusted with paltry houses, like an antique coin embedded in lava, and cannot even be discovered without the help of a guide. The beautiful columns of the Theaupon tre of Marcellus-Virgil's Marcellus-are stuck the walls of the Orsini Palace, and defaced by dirty shops at the base. Ancient grandeur is degraded to sordid modern uses. Mummy is become merchandise; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 66 To most men, ruins are merely phenomena, or, at most, the moral of a tale; but to the antiquary they are texts. They have a secondary interest, founded upon the employment they have given to the mind, and the learning they have called forth. We value everything in proportion as it awakens our faculties, and supplies us with an end and aim. The scholar, who finds in a bath or a temple a nucleus for his vague and divergent reading to gather around, feels for it something like gratitude as well as attachment; for though it was merely a point of departure, yet, without it, the glow and ardor of the chase would not have quickened his languid energies into Monastery," life. Scott, in his introduction to the " has described with much truth as well as humor the manner in which Captain Clutterbuck became interested in the ruins of Kennaqhair-how they supplied him with an object in life, and how his health of body and mind improved the moment he had something to read about, think about, and talk about. Every ruin in Rome has had such devoted and admiring students, and many of these shapeless and mouldering fabrics have been the battle-grounds of antiquarian controversy, in which the real points at issue have been lost in the learned dust which the combatants have raised. The books which have been written upon the antiquities of Rome would make a large library; but when we walk down, on a sunny morning, to look at the Basilica of Constantine or the Temple of Nerva, we do not think of the folios which are slumbering in the archives, but only of the objects before us. THE PICTURESQUE IN ROME-FROM SIX MONTHS IN ITALY. Every young artist dreams of Rome as the spot where all his visions may be realized; and it would indeed seem that there, in a greater degree than anywhere else, were gathered those influences which coffee, a little girl glides in, and lays a bunch of tend over the whole horizon. In the moonlight evenings he walks to the Colosseum, or to the piazza of St. Peter's, or to the ruins of the Forum, and under a light which conceals all that is unsightly, and idealizes all that is impressive, may call up the spirit of the past, and bid the buried majesty of old Rome start from its tomb. To these incidental influences which train the hand and eye of an artist, indirectly, and through the mind, are to be added many substantial and direct advantages,-such as the abundance of models to draw from, the facility of obtaining assistance and instruction, the presence of an atmosphere of art, and the quickening impulse communicated by constant contact with others engaged in the same pursuits, and animated with the same hopes. If, besides all these external influences, the mind of the young artist be at peace,-if he be exempt from the corrosion of anxious thoughts, and live in the light of hope, there would seem to be nothing wanting to develope every germ of power, and to secure the amplest harvest of beauty. HUGH MOORE, A SELF-EDUCATED man, and practical printer, was born in Amherst, N. H., Nov. 19, 1808. He served his time as an apprentice with his brother-in-law, Elijah Mansur, at Amherst; published Time's Mirror, a weekly newspaper, at Concord for a short time, in the autumn of 1828; commenced the Democratic Spy at Sanbornton, October, 1829, which was removed to Gilford in 1830, and discontinued in June, the same year. He was afterwards editor of the Burlington Centinel, and at one time connected with the Custom House in Boston. He died at Amherst, February 13, 1837. The New Hampshire Book, which gives two specimens of his poetical pieces, which were written when he was quite young, speaks of his death as occurring when he was "about entering upon a station of increased honor and responsibility." OLD WINTER IS COMING. Old Winter is coming again-alack! How icy and cold is he! He cares not a pin for a shivering back- A witty old fellow this Winter is— A mighty old fellow for glee! He cracks his jokes on the pretty, sweet miss, He is wild in his humor, and free! Old winter is blowing his gusts along, From morning 'till night he will sing his song- Old Winter's a tough old fellow for blows, He will trip up our trotters, and rend our clothes, A cunning old fellow is Winter, they say, He peeps in the crevices day by day, SPRING IS COMING. Every breeze that passes o'er us, In the rainbow's hues is dyed! O'er some loved and faithless one; Rouse thee! give thy tears in keeping To the glorious morning sun! Roam thou where the flowers are springing, Where the whirling stream goes by; Where the birds are sweetly singing Underneath a blushing sky! Rouse thee, hoary man of sorrow! Let thy grief no more subdue; Frosty Winter, cold and dreary, As the Winter's keenest breath; B. B. THATCHER. BENJAMIN B. THATCHER was born in the state of Maine in the year 1809. His father was a distinguished lawyer, and for many years a representative in Congress. The son, on the completion of his course at Bowdoin College in 1826, commenced the study of law, and was admitted to practice at Boston, where he resided during the remainder of his life. He was a constant contributor to the leading literary periodicals of the day, and in 1832 published a work entitled Indian Biography, which forms two volumes of Harpers' Family Library. He afterwards prepared two volumes on Indian Traits, for s juvenile series, "The Boys' and Girls' Library," issued by the same house. He also wrote a brief memoir of Phillis Wheatley. In 1838 he visited Europe for the benefit of his health, but returned after passing nearly two years in England, in a worse state than that in which he left home. HANNAH FLAGG GOULD is the daughter of a soldier of the Revolution, who fought in the battle of Lexington, and served in the army throughout the war. She was born at Lancaster, Vermont, but removed soon after to Newburyport, Mass. While yet a child she lost her mother. Her father survived for several years, his declining age being tenderly cared for and cheered by his constant companion, his daughter, whose subsequent poems contain many touching traces of their intercourse. Hannah Flagg Goul I Miss Gould's poems, after a favorable reception in several periodicals, were collected in a volume in 1832. By 1835, a second had accumulated, and a third appeared in 1841. In 1846, she collected a volume of her prose contributions, entitled Gathered Leaves. Miss Gould's poems are all in subject, form, and expression. ral, harmonious, and sprightly. VOL. II.-32 short, and simple They are natuShe treats of the He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest A coat of mail, that it need not fear He went to the windows of those who slept, By the light of the morn were seen Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees, There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver sheen! But he did one thing that was hardly fair He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there Now, just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, MARY DOW. "Come in, little stranger," I said, As she tapped at my half-open door, While the blanket pinned over her head, Just reached to the basket she bore. A look full of innocence fell From her modest and pretty blue eye, As she said, "I have matches to sell, And hope you are willing to buy. "A penny a bunch is the price; I think you'll not find it too much; They're tied up so even and nice, And ready to light with a touch." I asked, "what's your name, little girl?" T is Mary," said she, "Mary Dow." And carelessly tossed off a curl, That played o'er her delicate brow. "My father was lost in the deep, The ship never got to the shore; And mother is sad, and will weep, When she hears the wind blow and sea roar. "She sits there at home without food, Beside our poor sick Willie's bed; She paid all her money for wood, And so I sell matches for bread. " For every time that she tries, Some things she'd be paid for, to make, And lays down the baby, it cries, And that makes my sick brother wake. "I'd go to the yard and get chips, But then it would make me too sad; To see men there building the ships, And think they had made one so bad. "I've one other gown, and with care, We think it may decently pass, With my bonnet that's put by to wear To meeting and Sunday-school class. "I love to go there, where I'm taught Of One, who 's so wise and so good, He knows every action and thought, And gives e'en the raven his food. "For He, I am sure, who can take Such fatherly care of a bird, Will never forget or forsake The children who trust to his word. "And now, if I only can sell The matches I brought out to-day, And mother 'll rejoice at the pay." Fly home full of joy to your nest!" For I took all the matches she brought, And Mary may tell you the rest. IT SNOWS. It snows! it snows! from out the sky As dancers in an airy hall, But now the wind comes whistling loud, It spreads! it curls! it mounts and whirls, And then, away! but, where, none knows, Before his beams, in sparkling streams, And thus, with life, it ever goes; "Tis shade and shine!-It shows! it snows! The prattler had stirred, in the veteran's breast, The soldier returned to his weary campaigns; "I carried my musket, as one that must be Should go, but the chains of my country to melt! "I sprinkled my blood upon Lexington's sod, And Charlestown's green height to the war-drum I trod. From the fort, on the Hudson, our guns I depressed, The proud coming sail of the foe to arrest. I stood at Stillwater, the Lakes and White Plains, And offered for freedom to empty my veins! Dost now ask me, child, since thou hear'st where I've been, Why my brow is so furrowed, my locks white and thin Why this faded eye cannot go by the line, Who bore'sixty years since,' such perils for thee? start? Come! lean thy young head on thy grandfather's heart! It has not much longer to glow with the joy I feel thus to clasp thee, so noble a boy! But when in earth's bosom it long has been cold, A man, thou 'lt recall, what, a babe, thou art told.' HYMN OF THE REAPERS. Our Father, to fields that are white, In praises our voices unite To thee, who hast made them thy care. The seed, that was dropped in the soil, We left, with a holy belief In One, who, beholding the toil, Would crown it at length with the sheaf. And ever our faith shall be firm In thee, who hast nourished the root; And finished the blade and the fruit! To bind up, and bear off thy sheaves, As that which we gather to-day! Flow out our fresh off'rings to yield. The Reapers! the Reapers rejoice, And send up their song from the field! PARK BENJAMIN. The American Mail, of which twelve numbers were issued from June 5 to August 21. Since the discontinuance of these newspaper enterprises Mr. Benjamin has frequently appeared before the pub.ic with favor and success, in different parts of the country, as a lecturer on popular topics and literature. he published another weekly paper on a similar PARK BENJAMIN is descended from a New Eng-plan, involving a liberal outlay of expenditure, land family, which came originally from Wales. His father resided as a merchant in Demerara, in British Guiana. The son in his infancy suffered from an illness, the improper treatment of which left him with a permanent lameness. He was brought to America, was educated in New England, studied law at Cambridge, and was admitted to practice in Connecticut. He soon, however, withdrew from the law to the pursuits of literature, embarking in the editorship of the New England Magazine in March, 1835, shortly after the retirement of its projector, Mr. Buckingham. In less than a year he brought the work to New York, continuing it with the publishing house of Dearborn and Co., with which he became connected, as the American Monthly Magazine, five volumes of which were published from January, 1836, to June, 1838. He next published the New Yorker, a weekly journal, in aŝsociation with Horace Greeley; and in January, 1840, established the New World, a weekly newspaper of large size, which met the wants of the day by its cheap, wholesale republication of the English magazine literature. It was also well sustained by a corps of spirited writers which the editor drew round him in its original departments. Of those more immediately connected with the conduct of the paper were Epes Sargent, James Aldrich, H. C. Deming, and Rufus W. Griswold; while among the frequent contributors were Judge W. A. Duer, Judge J. D. Hammond, author of the Life and Times of Silas Wright, H. W. Herbert, Charles Lanman, W. M. Evarts, John O. Sargent, John Jay, E. S. Gould, and many others. Mr. Aldrich was a merchant of New York, and the writer of a number of poems which find a place in the collections, though never brought together by the author into a volume. One of the most popular of these is entitled A DEATH-BED. Her suff'ring ended with the day, And breathed the long, long night away In statue-like repose. But when the sun in all his state, Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through glory's morning-gate, And walked in Paradise! The success of the New World led to the cheap publishing enterprises of Winchester, which were conducted with boldness, and had for the time a marked effect on the book trade.* Mr. Benjamin conducted the New World for nearly five years, when it passed into the hands of Mr. Charles Eames, a writer of marked ability, by whom it was edited for a short time in 1845, when it was finally discontinued. In 1846 Mr. Benjamin projected, at Baltimore, The Western Continent, a weekly newspaper on the plan of the New World. published only for a short time. The next year It was One of the most extensive of the Winchester publications was an entire reprint in numbers of Johns' translation of FroisBart's Chronicles. The success of this work, in popular form, at a low price, was a decided triumph for his system. He also made a hit with the early translation of Sue's Mysteries of Paris, which was executed by Mr. Demning. Mr. Benjamin's poems, lyrics, and occasional effusions are numerous, but have not been collected. They are to be found scattered over the entire periodical literature of the country for the last twenty years. His only distinct publications have been several college poems of a descriptive and satirical character. A poem on The Meditation of Nature was delivered before the alumni of Washington College, at Hartford, in 1832; Poetry, a Satire, before the Mercantile Library Association of New York, the same year; Infatuation, before the Mercantile Library of Boston, in 1844. THE DEPARTED. The departed! the departed! And they glide above our memories But where the cheerful lights of home Can never more return. The good, the brave, the beautiful, Or where the hurrying night win s In the cities of the dead! I look around and feel the awe I start to hear the stirring sounds Is borne upon the breeze. I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy As their remembered words, I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles I know that they are happy, |