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edge of an alluvial valley, which recedes from
the margin of the river about a quarter of a
mile. A nohle view is thus obtained from
the bosom of the river, of the whole extent of
the town. Still on the banks of the Hudson,
and six miles only above the capital, is the
beautiful and prosperous city of Troy, from
whence, as from Albany, the traveller toSar
atoga may find rail-roads at his service, daily,
•and indeel almost hourly. Troy has long
been celebrated for its admirable schools.
The “ Rennsalaer Institute” holds a high po
sition, and few persons in the length and
breadth of our land, but have heard of the
Female Seminary, under the supervision of
Mrs. Willard. The beautiful eminence bear
ing the classic name of Mount Ida, rises im
mediately back of the city, and is prettily
spotted with villa and cottage, The most in
teresting and picturesque of these buildings,
commands a noble view from the summit of
the hill, and what is rather funny, is occupied
by a blind man.
Leaving Albany or Troy, for the Springs,
you soon pass through the city of Schenecta
dy, built on the south branch of the Mohawk
river, the shores of which you skirt for seve
ral miles after leaving the town. Schenectady
is a place of very considerable trade, being as
it is, the centre of so many railway routes. —
The great road from Albany to Buffalo, and
the course of the Erie canal between the same
points, pass through it. This city is noted
also as the seat of Union College, an am
ply endowed and successful institution, and
enjoying a high reputation. Schenectady is
famous, too, for the tragic scene of 1690,
when the village was attacked and burned by
the French and Indians from Canada, and
more than sixty of the inhabitants murdered.
Continuing your journey, you pass the shores
of Long Lake, a beautiful sheet of water of
five miles extent, and abounding in fish.—
Soon after, you enter the village of Ballston
Spa, like Saratoga, celebrated for its mineral
waters, but now nearly deserted for that more
favored locale. The Sans Souci, Hotel, here,
is a pleasantly situated retreat, but verging
upon the passee in its fashionable career.
And now, that you have duly followed me,
through my pleasant journey hither, please
brush off the dust of travel from your habili
ments, and me to the table d'hote ,
of the “United States,” where you shall be
refreshed with an excellent dinner, and may
afterwards join me in a stroll to the numerous
mineral Springs—the Congress, Washington,
Putnam’s, Union, Pavilion or lodine. When
you have imbibed to your satisfaction, we
will select a cozy seat amidst one of the sha
dowed walks, and dream day dreams, or spec
ulate upon the characters and purposes of the
varying groups of loungers and promenaders,
which surround us. When night comes, we
will make our toilet and mingle with the mot
ley crowd, in the merry dance, or steal off by
moonlight, with fair maidens to whom we will
vow a devotion, the very memory of which
shall pass with the passing shadows of the
night. Avery small dose of Saratoga life or
water suffices me, and I have now only to
make a visit to the neighboring lake, which
pilgrimage all orthodox visitors are expected
to perform, and then depart for more interest
ing scenes. FLIT.
if ibhe sa* error vxjiVTittxsm
SATURDAY NIGHT.
BY W 11, LIA MC . RICHARDS.
How welcome is this season of repose!
Now on our hours of toil the sun hath set,
And a rich flood of radiance lingers yet—
A parting blessing which he well bestows,
In token that his next bright advent brings
The day of rest from all but sacred care,
When the pure soul the holy bliss may share
! ‘f heavenward soaring, as on angel’s wings !
sis good from earnest toil awhile to rest,
1 he bow too long unstrung at length must break,
1 he hope of ease is labor’s sweetest zest;
Man toileth ever for some future’s sake :
et he alone is wise, who strives to gain
Rest in that clime where “ there is no more pain!”
sfsmnantEEi il his §is& is m 1 3 &s g in? g ♦
(lateral (Eclectic.
CHILDLESS.
BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.
Oh, when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then lor pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows—all her tears,
An over-payment of delight.—[Southey.
Childless once more, my sister! Thy sad heart
Again is stricken with deep loneliness ;
Why art thou called to see the loved depart 7
Why should the evening shadows round thee press,
Thus in the morning of thy gentle life 7
Hope and Despair within thy soul have strife !
Hope—for thy children were most beantiful,
And with a mother’s pride thy soul was full:
Wild, deep despair—for as their lips had learned
To murmur tenderly thy much-loved name,
A fever-flush upon each bright cheek burned,
By Death’s cold hand a fearful message came.
When one brief year ago we parted lightly,
Who could have dreamed our faith would thus be
tried;
A smile within thy boy’s blue eyes beamed brightly,
Thy lips gave blessing to a happy bride.
A lonely vigil now my love is keeping,
The moonlight on two graves is coldly sleeping,
Yet should we stifle heedless, wild complaining,
For unto us a hope is still remaining.
Thy heart’s bright chain thus link by link is riven,
(Although the parting much thy soul doth pain,)
That it may be united up in heaven:
Thy loss is nought when measured by their gain !
Thou shalt rejoin thy loved ones chastened, holy,
If, bending to the stroke with spirit lowly,
Thou dost not murmur at the high decree,
But waitest patiently appointed days,
Thy children shall again be given thee.
How will all earthly sorrow be repaid,
When on thy breast these precious gems are laid;
When like the Roman matron whose high name
thou bearest,
Thy jewels brightly set, once more thou proudly
wearest!
MEXICAN LITERATURE.
A correspondent of the Boston Atlas writ
ing from Mexico, says that the literature of
Mexico stands very much in relation to that
of Spain as our own does to that of Great
Britain. The works of the dramatists, poets,
romancers and historians of the mother coun
try, are to be found in almost any number, and
are familiar to the more intellectual portions
of the population, of both sexes. The writ
ings of all French authors of celebrity may
be had in most of the private, and in many of
the public libraries of the city. The ancient
classics, too, are on their shelves, or in the
cloisters. The military library, at Chapulte
pec, I well remember, (for I was half a day
in ransacking it,) contained many volumes of
each of the classes I have mentioned. I have
also repeatedly met them in the different con
vents of the city. Indeed, it is no uncommon
thing to hear an accomplished Spaniard or
Mexican—whether lady or gentleman—quo
ting the ancient or modem classics.
But Mexico cannot be said to have a na
tional literature of her own. I do not mean
that there are not accomplished scholars with
in her borders, who can write an able treatise,
upon some passing political occurrence—or
furnish poetry for the columns of a newspa
per or annual. But I mean that Mexico has
never yet, so far as my knowledge extends,
produced any great national work, either in
poetry, history, philosophy or science, which
places her at once upon a high and proud po
sition. I have recently seen the sheets of a
History of Mexico, by a native author, which
has been long in preparation; but it is dan
gerous for any one, either in Mexico or out
of it, to attempt to chronicle the events of the
conquest, with the work of our own accom
plished countryman before him. A History
of the war between Mexico and the United
States is also announced. Its impartiality is
vouched for by those who have seen portions
of it, but one can judge better on that import
ant point when he has given the volume a
persual. At any rate, the author will be for
tunate indeed, if it rises to the rank of a stan
dard \vork.
The Mexican annuals, which I have seen,
are edited with taste and ability. The poe
try is generally of a passionate and voluptu
ous character, as you might suppose it would j
he, under the influence of a tropical clime.
From the sale of several of these, the number
of admirers of light literature must be very
considerable,
The periodical literature is more than re
spectable in character. Since the nation has
been in a state of war, no literary magazines
have been published. Indeed, the condition
of the republic in this respect presented a
great obstacle to the cultivation of belles let
tres. It has not, however, always been so.
Ihave’seen bound volumes of different period
icals, running through a long series of years,
devoted to the discussion of literary topics,
and to poetical contributions. The daily pa
pers are conducted with much ability, and a
large space in them is occupied with original
or select sketches.
Pulpit literature ought to form an interest
ing feature in the literary history of the coun
try. I am not able to speak with confidence
in relation to its quality or character. One
meets with a good many occasional sermons
in print, remarkable rather for their sectarian
devotion than for any literary excellence.—
And yet there are some highly educated and
most accomplished men among the clergy of
Mexico. The Archbishop of Mexico and
Cesarea is distinguished for his learning and
his eloquence. His letter to General Scott,
asking the release of certain Mexican prison
ers, is a finely conceived and eloquent pro
duction.
Many of the bishops might also be named,
who are men of high order of intellect, and
thoroughly versed in ancient and in much of
the modern literature of Europe. The monks
and friars are a different order of beings. —
Their reading is altogether of a theological
character. They delve into the musty tomes
of the Fathers, and re-produce whole volumes
of them in the Spanish language. You may
go into any convent in the city, and you will
find its library—generally very large—filled
with little more than the Latin works—each
in more volumes than one would suppose
could emanate from a single brain—of the
monks of the middle ages. Among them you
will discover large piles of manuscripts—eith
er translations or original disquisitions upon
some favorite theological doctrine. You wdl
generally find in these libraries also most of
the Latin classics.
■1 >
DIFFICULTY AND PERSEVERANCE.
To the young men, who have to make
their way in their studies and professions,
nothing can be more useful than frequent
counsel on the study and necessity of regard
ing all obstacles on the road as things to be
grappled with a bold determination to conquer
them manfully. One may not succeed; but
if one does, it is sweet to look back upon the
heap ol briers and hurdles that one has forced
a passage by. Hence it is the greater the
difficulty the more glory there is in surmount
ing it. So skillful pilots gain their reputation
from storms and tempests. Burke says, “ Dif
ficulty is a severe instructor, set over us by
the supreme ordinance of a parental guardian
and legislator, who knows us better than we
know ourselves, as he loves us better too. He
that wrestles with us strengthens our nerve,
and sharpens our skill; our antogonist is our
helper. This amicable contest with difficul
ty obliges us to an intimate acquaintance with
our object, and compels us to consider it in all
its relations; it will not suffer us to be super
ficial.” Those who are too apt to quake and
quail before every difficulty, will do well to
learn the song of “Try Again:”
“ ’Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try again ;
If at first you don’t succeed,
Try again;
Then your courage should appear,
For if you persevere,
You will conquer, never fear,
Try again.
Once or twice though you should fail,
Try again;
If you would at last prevail,
Try again;
If we strive, ’tis no disgrace,
Though we do not win the race ;
What should we do in that case 7
Try again.
If you find your task is hard,
Try again;
Time will bring you your reward,
Try again;
All that other folks can do,
Why, with patience, may not you 7
Only keep this rule in view,
Try again.”
—— o
THE SEVEREST CRITIC ON RECORD-
Many of the citizens of Boston no doubt
remember, and with much pleasure too, old
Ostenelli, the charming violinist, fatherof the
present Miss Ostenelli, attached to the Italian
opera. Poor Ostenelli, he met with a severe
accident o%one gs our railroads, secured sev
eral thousand dollars damages, and returned
to Italy, his native country, to live upon his
damages , and educate his daughter in vocal
music. Ostenelli, before the advent of such
a shower of Vieux Temps, Artots, Ole Bulls,
&c., came about with their highfelootin Pag
anini touches, was considered the greatest
cat-gut agitator in New England! His fame
as a violinist spread far and near, and the old
gentleman was a great “card” wherever he
was induced to draw his bow.
During rather a slack musical season in
Boston, Ostenelli and several others of our
first musicians took a tour of pleasure and
profit to the neighboring towns in Massachu
setts and New Hampshire, and everywhere
did the tall fiddling of Ostenelli elicit satisfac-
tion and great applause. Just as they were
about to return to Boston, some gentlemen in
New Hampshire were very anxious for the
musicians to visit a small town, not fort)
miles from Boston, where the gentlemen as
sured Ostenelli that his violin would not only
amuse the people, who were excellent critics
and judges oi sweet music, but they would
crowd the house up jam full. The musicians
deeming this a propitious hint, thanked the
gentlemen and posted off to , where the
hills were soon out, and the doors of the con
cert-room thrown open. To the great aston
ishment of the performers, hut a slim audi
ence collected, and those looking like any
thing else than connoiseurs in music! The
musicians, nevertheless, spread themselves
clean out, determined not only to win golden
opinions , hut astonish the folks, if nothing
else. But all indeed seemed in vain, the crit
ics were deaf or mute, and the rich music
could not draw them out. “ Wait a leetle,”
said Ostenelli, “ I give dem de grand solo, ah!
ha! I guess den dey will see!”
Ostenelli, violin in hand, came out, all was
quiet, he gave a few professional twitches
and flourishes, then walked square into one
of his soul-touching solos, that had always,
in Boston, brought down the house! Osten
elli sawed away, getting more and more exci
ted in the ardor of his efforts to wake up the
spirit of criticism and enthusiasm so essential
to the life and being of a performer, but not a
pig’s whisper of satisfaction or delight mani
fested itself among the statue-like auditors, to
the complete chagrin of poor Ostenelli and
the no small glee of his fellow performers.
The solo ended, with the softest and most
scientific finale that ever enchanted the lumi
nous brain of a penny-a-liner, and Ostenelli
was in the act of bowing himself off, when
he was interrupted by one of the audience
bawling out —
“Look a-here, yeou, now yeou’ve been
choonin your darn’d old fiddle ‘bout long e
nough, can't yeou give us a good choon !”
Poor Ostenelli rushed out, fell almost life
less into a chair, and it was really believeJ
he never fully recovered from that critique up
to the day of his death. f
[Boston Rambler.
©ur I3ouil of JJttnd).
THE GHOST OF. GOOD INTENT.
Poor Louis Blanc! Whilst they fought in
Paris, he now and then appeared—the Ghost
of Good Intent, revisiting his former scenes
Now he pops out at* the corner of the Rue
Richelieu, and the National Guard cock theii
muskets and are about to make short work of
the author of the Organization of Labor, and
The Barricades, (just published in granite,
and to he had at the Faubourg St. Antoine,
and other places.) And then Louis is snatch
ed up under the arm of a friend, nut in at the
window of a cabriolet, and whirled, for the
moment, out of danger of hall-cartridge.
A few hours afterwards, and Louis reap
pears somewhere near the Madeleine, desir
ous of making his way to the insurgents.—
Whereupon he is ordered back by the sen -
tries, with a brief intimation that, unless h<j
immediately retires, he will be shot upon th*
spot. We believe that Louis Blanc, ail
through the peice, meant well; therefore is
there something melancholy, touching, in the
figure cut by the late idol of the populace—
the cheered and huzzaed hero of the ateliers
—rebuked, rebuffed, snubbed, threatens! in
the veiy city it was his hope to make airuit
ful garden, every man eating there his own
fig from his own tree. To our mind Louis
Blanc, flits through Paris, hovers about the
Barricades as the restless spectre of a system
—the mere shadow of a good intention. Alas’
Poor Ghost!
> 0
EXTRAORDINARY PHEOMENON.
“Truth,” says somebody, whose name v/e
have been unable to catch, “is strange,
stranger than fiction,” and we can vouch tor
the truth of this, for we have lately witnessed
a wonder that throws all the gigantic goose
berries ever invented completely into the
shade. The marvel we have witnessed was
on a certain railway—if anything in the shape
of a railway can be called certain —on which
a big train was traveling, when the discovery
was made, that though the wheels were twirl
ing round at the rate of 300 miles an hour,
the vehicles were not making any progress
whatever. On examination it was found that
the rails had acquired, by friction, such a won
derful smoothness that the wheels would not
hold, and thus, though the rotatory motion
continued at a speed of five miles per minute,
the whole train remained in one position.
Many wayshave been attempted of account
ing for this great phenomenon, but we be-
101