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introduction to him at Lamb’s chambers, j'Vis made still more proud and happy by L appearance at my own on such an errand which, my poverty, not my will, rendered bortive. After some pleasant chat on indif ferent matters, he carelessly observed that he had a little bill for £l5O falling due on the morrow, which he had forgotten till thatmorn ■ v all (i desired the loan of the necessary a mount for a few weeks. At first, in eager hope of being able thus to oblige one whom J regarded with admiration akin to awe, I be n°to consider whether it was possible for me to raise such a sum; but, alas! a mo ment’s reflection sufficed to convince me that the hope was in vain, and I was obliged, with much confusion, to assure my distinguished visitor how glad 1 should have been to serve him, but that I was only just starting as a epecial pleader, was obliged to write for mag azines to help me on, and had not such a sum in the world. “Oh dear,” said the philoso pher, “ I thought you were a young gentle man of fortune—don’t mention it; I shall do very well elsewhere,” —and then, in the most gracious manner, reverted to our former top ics* and sat in my small room for half an hour, as if to convince me that my want of fortune made no difference in his esteem. A slender tribute to the literature he had loved and served so well, was accorded to him in the old age to which he attained, by the gift of a sinecure in the exchequer of about £2OO a year, connected with the custody of the re cords ; and the last time 1 saw him he was heaving an immense key to unlock the mus ty treasure of which he was guardian —how unlike those he had unlocked, with finer tal isman, for the astonishment and alarm of one generation, and the delight of all others. Talfourd's Final Memorials of Charles Lamb. ©aural (Pdcctic. NEW YORK IN SHOES. Under the above somewhat quaint title, Mr. Foster, of that city, is contributing to the Tri bune a series of very clever sketches, in one of which he affords us a pleasant glance at the “ Literary Soirees' ’ so frequently alluded to by our own “Flit.” We annex a few fragments, which will interest our readers. — Here is a good-humored, and, we opine, a very truthful portraiture of that great compi ler and editor of books — RUFUS WII.MOT GRISWOLD. Stalking about with an immense quarto volume under his arm, (it is an early copy of his forthcoming ‘Female Poets of America,’) is a thin, nervous man —his grey eyes look ing shyly about like a girl’s, and his mouth twitching every now and then, with the con ception of anew biography. He carries his head ponderingly upon his shoulder, as if there were a good deal in it—and so there is; for his room in the University is crammed full of books, and he has managed somehow to absorb the contents of most of them into his own brain. In literary topography he is a peripatetic gazetteer. He knows when ev ery book or other intellectual bantling in America was born, who was its father, (or mother.) how old it was when it died, how many teeth it had, and of what money or other effects it died possessed, lie is as fa miliar with the pedigree of every tyro and blue-stocking, from the Fredoniad down, as a Virginia turfman with that of his stable. His memory is a miscellaneous storehouse of ce lebrities of whom nobody has ever heard, and of great poetesses who didn’t know how to make dumplings. lie is the most unselfish of mortals, and has dwelt so much mid the excellences and perfections of others that he scarcely retains cognizance of his own iden tity. Yet is he, by nature, the equal and the superior of many whom his protection has warmed inlo vitality. He is a poet of no mean powers, a critic of fine taste and appre ciation, although a great deal too good-na tured, and a logician of very respectable cali bre. Beside these, he is something of an or ator and a good deal of a rhetorician ; and we have heard of people being profitably ex ercised under the influence of his ‘stated preaching.’ He began life without a friend or a dollar—having quarreled with his wealthy family, who wished to bring him up in the counting-house. Escaping from a thraldom which his soul abhorred, he took refuge in a printing-office, where he obtained bis educa tion, a knowledge of the world, and a good many hard knocks, all for a hundred dollars a year and found. From this point he work ed away and ipade himself, by the force of his talents and an indomitable industry, a pa tron and protector of American Literature. — if his books are neither perfect nor strictly § © onr h&ie ei &afn la m ® a suit if impartial, yet they are incomparably the best of the kind that have been produced : and it is entirely through them that a host of Amer ican writers are known in Europe, who would otherwise have been unheard of. Whatever may be thought of the critical justice of Dr. Griswold, we cannot deny that his labors have been of incalculable benefit to the Lite rature and Literary Men of his country, and that they form the only accessible or reliable authority respecting a good deal of our na tional intellectual development. Here we have a picture that ‘ stirs the blood’ and makes us long for cominunings with beings so bright and beautiful as it rep resents. We will not even he so ungallant as to imagine, much less to hint, that the sketcher has flattered his portraits, hut take them with that perfect confidence which is the very main-spring of admiration. The ladies are scattered all about, as thick as stars; yet we do not know how to approach them. There is the stately Mrs. Seba Smith, bending aristocratically over the centre-table, and talking in a bright, cold, steady stream, like an antique fountain; and yonder, nestled under a light shawl of heraldic red and blue, like a bird escaped from its cage and already longing to get back again, is the spiritual and dainty Fanny Osgood, ciapping her hands and crowing like a baby. Next her sits, as quiet as a pet lamb, the petite and piquante Mrs. Ellet, her sparkling black eyes humid with the glitter of some wicked repartee she has been forging. If she were not in Home, you might see on the opposite side of the table, Miss Fuller, her large grey eyes lamping in spiration, and her thin quivering lip prophe cy ing like a pythoness. Yonder by the fire place, sits the dark-eyed and poetic-faced Grace Greenwood, talking earnestly and cast ing bright glances of lambent defiance around her, as if she loved yet contemned everybody. Behind her, in a low arm-chair, which sways gently to a half-murmured tune, sits the heart and soul of tenderness and poetry, in the plump and temporal person of Louisa Maria Child. She never leaves her own retreat, and sings ever loudest and sweetest from her nest. It is strange that we should have en countered her here amid this gay parade of beauty and distinction. Though well de serving place any where, by virtue of the depth and purity of her genius, her fervid and o'ermastering worship of the beautiful, and the sincerity and classic sympathy of her soul, yet she all too seldom strays from home, and seems even now to be uneasy and restless, as if she fancied the room about to compress and flatten everybody —and she de tests flat people. Southern (Exlecttc. THE RAINY HAY BY MARY E. LEE. “ I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’iiL” I love to look on a day like this, Os never tiring rain, When the blue sky wears it.s sack-cloth robe?, And the streets are a watery plain ; When the big drops fall on the sounding roofs, With a cool and a startling splash, And the flute-like breeze pours its music-notes ’Gainst the close shut window-sash. I remember yet, though ’twas long ago, The beat of my childish heart, When with hall'-conn’d lesson I watched somo morn, For fear that the clouds might part ; And oh ! what bliss when the skies’ wide hall Feemed paved as with sheets of lead, Till the warning rain at the dark school hour, Forbade my out-of-door tread. And in youth’s gay season, when wiser grown, 1 own, though 1 blush to tell, That each rainy day brought that untasked time, Which my spirit loved too well: When the book of knowledge was thrown aside. For some light and romantic lore, And of antique ballads and honied rhymes, My memory won full store. Though youth has gone, I’ve a passion still For the cool rain’s pleasant tunes, Whether they steal on the midnight hours, Or peel on the sultry noons; Whether they come with the fitful spring Or the equinoctial spell, From the fierce black north, or the sweet south-wost, In all changes I love them well. ’Tis folly to talk of my spirit’s freaks, But its loftiest flights of thought, And its friendliest feelings to human kind, From a clouded sky are caught; And my mirth b.eaks out in its merriest peal, And I feel most t he gift of life, When the wind and rain o’er a silent world, Hold elemental strife. ’Tis pleasant to watch how the green trees quench Their thirst with a long full draught; While the bright flowers hoard up an after store, In the cup but so lately quaffed; And ’tis pleasant to see how those other flowers, The children of every home, Are stirr’d with jov when their parted lips Catch the drops as they slowly come. Oh ! better far than a written page, Is the sermon it reads to me, This pdenteous flood of delicious scent, That falls in a torrent free ; It brings me nearer to Him who gave The early and latter rain, And my heart swells ever as now it does, In a fresh and an answering strain. TRUE HEROISM. BY HENRY R. JACKSON, ESQ.* T’ e true nature of Courage, as a trait of human character, is not always properly un derstood. A distinction is commonly drawn between moral and physical courage; yet, this is not enough ! A broad stretch of dis puted territory lies between them.—Courage, in its true signification, is the quality which enables the creature to face danger, and to en dure suffering, whether mental, moral or phys ical. To test the existence or power of the quality, it is necessary that the danger should he fully realized, and the suffering fully felt. The brute cannot be said to exhibit courage, which does not comprehend the danger it fa ces. There is reality in the lion’s fury— none whatever in the idea of the lion’s cour age : and the homage we pay to the chival ry of the warrior bird, our national eagle— “majestic monarch of the cloud!”—is a relic of the idle though beautiful creations of pa gan imagination. Courage, as it is frequent ly understood among mankind, may be the result of a want of perception approaching to stupidity, or a want of sensibility approach ing to callousness. The imagination does not picture the danger which approaches; no ap peal is made to the moral nature to resist it; and, consequently, the quality of Courage is never called into exercise. The deaf man, who sleeps through the battle, unconscious of the roar of the cannon and the flash of the bayonet, is as much entitled to the reputation of Courage, as he who enters the conflict with an imagination dead to the future, and a heart callous to danger. The effect, in both cases, is the result of a similar cause. Pro duced by a defect in the natural organization of the creature, it is a mere negative condi tion. If this be Courage, it has no positive existence of its own. Its possession presup poses the want of other and far more estima ble faculties. It deserves neither admiration nor respect as an attribute of character, and is possessed in a correspondingly greater a mount by the descending orders of the natu ral world—by the brute to a greater extent than the man —by the vegetable to a greater extent than the brute—by the mineral to a greater extent than the vegetable—since the helianthus has sufficient sensibility to turn in mute adoration to its God, and the mimosa perception enough to close its leaf at a touch. To speak of an individual as a man with out fear, is to picture a being lower, not high er, than human; for fear is an emotion as natural to man, as love, pride, sympathy or sorrow; and the angels and archangels, the cherubim and seraphim, who wander through the golden courts of Heaven, look up with emotions of awe, as well as admiration, of fear as well as of love, to “ Him who sits up on the throne,” —the Omnipotent, the Om niscient, the Immutable, the Eternal. There is as little to admire in the character of a man without fear, as there was in the character of Rob lioy McGregor—the man without a tear. To conquer fear, r.ot to be devoid of it, con stitutes heroism. A thorough analysis of the whole subject will shew that Courage, after all, is the power to conquer one’s self—to “ force one’s soul to his own conceit;” and, in proportion as the task is more difficult, the physical nerve weaker, or the imagination more vivid and creative, the fire that burns the body more excruciating, or the sense of danger that racks the mind more overwhelm ing ; so is the achievement the greater, and the final triumph the more brilliant and com plete. He is the true hero who, with a ner vous organization keenly susceptible to pain, lies upon the rack or stands among the flames, confessing the agony by his convulsions, but subduing it by his will. He is the true con queror, whose imagination imparts to the ap proaching danger more than its real horrors —who feels hope but flickering in his bosom —who beholds the black features of despair scowling hideously upon him—who groans beneath the tortures of a sensibility that sick ens at a touch—who starts, trembling from his midnight dream, at the image of terrors depicted by a mind with too piercing an eye sight, and of tortures conceived by a heart with too keen a sensation; but who main ♦ From an Address delivered before the Literary Societies of Franklin College, Geo Au-3d, 1848. tains himself, undaunted, among them all — who walks, like the Pilgrim through the val ley of the shadow of Death, with a determin ed step —who is the Man throughout, hold ing his head up, in the beautiful idea of his Grecian name, and made in the image of the Christian’s God. He has but faintly realized the agonies or the heroism of the Saviour of mankind, who has merely beheld him hanging upon the Cross, enduring the tortures ot physical cru cifixion ; the thieves on his right hand and his left suffered the same. But their’s were the pangs of an hour—his had been the en durance of years. Hope had left them but lately ; Hope had been with him—never ? Their’s was a short-lived crucifixion of the body ; his, from his childhood up, had been an eternal crucifixion of the soul. The veil which had never been lifted to mortal eyes was lifted to his, and God’s benevolence did not conceal the future from his gaze. As he laid him down to slumber, it was there ; as he started from his midnight dream, it was before him; as he opened his eyes to the light of the blessed morning, he awoke to a renewed consciousness of his terrible destiny. In vain was health buoyant in his physical frame, and his mind exalted by the sublime consciousness of divinity; in vain were the skies bright, and the earth green; in vain did the Spring come with its bloom, the Summer with its bounty, and Nature exert her revivi fying power in the delightful transition of the seasons. Still was the same terrible destiny* unchanging, unchangeable, glooming upon him like an endless winter of the soul. With all the susceptibilities of the man t 6 the tor ture, he possessed the foresight of the God to the future. From the earliest dawn of rea son—sitting among the Doctors in Jerusalem in his boyhood ; tempted by the devil on the high mountain; selecting his disciples and delivering to them Ins commandments; work ing his miracles and embodying the wisdom of heaven in his parables; adored or perse cuted ; strong in the hearts of the multitude, or weak in the attachment of a few disciples -—they but human and wavering—he still saw, with unclouded vision, the grim specta cle of the Cross; the holes in his hands and his feet; the blood streaming from his side ; the crown of thorns upon his head; the gall and vinegar at his lips. Yet did he walk calmly on to the terrible consummation—not in excitement—not in the expectation of hon or, or of glory, or of profit—but, forgetful of self, conquering temptation, fear and afflic tion ; weeping over the sorrows of others, but patiently enduring his own ; described by a heathen writer as “ a man of great vir tue ;” “in speaking, very temperate, modest and wise j” “in conversation, pleasant, mix ed with gravity;” “it cannot be remembered that any have seen him laugh, but many have seen him weep.” And what human conception can adequate ly picture the agony which must have been at work upon his vitals, when, towards his last moments, as the breath of the horror was hot upon his soul, and indicated its immedi ate presence, he exclaimed, “Oh! my father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me !” And what human soul could have approxi mated to Ihe heroism of the words that im mediately followed this first, last, and only confession of weakness from the Saviour of the world ? “ Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt!” Pagan philosophy said to her disciple, “ Know thyself !” Christian philosophy would add, “ Conquer thyself !” To con quer self, is the noblest of all heroic achieve ments. The career of the Saviour was a per petual martyrdom of self. Courage shone conspicuously in his eventful life and horri ble death : not the Courage which simply braves physical danger, but the Courage whicli sustains in the solemn discharge ot terrible duty : not the Courage which triumphs in the damage and afflictions of others, but the Courage \vhose power is tested, and whose trinmpn is won, in the conquest and sacrifice of self-—the Courage which fights its chief est battles within the soul, subjects its pow ers and emotions to the control of the will, conquers it from the dominion of circum stance, nerves it to the discharge of the most fearful duties in contempt of physical resis tance, and enables it firmly to face a frown ing world, if sustained by a smiling God.— So lar as human heroism assimilates to this, it is no longer the attribute of the murderer, the gladiator, the detion—but a characteris tic of the philosopher, the philanthropist, the God. He who has waged a successful cam paign through the variegated realms of his own character—who has marshalled his rea son against the bristling phalanx of passio.: —who has made affliction, both mental and physical, bow to the yoke of endurance— who has conquered and purified the miasmat ic regions of morbid sensibility—whe has 205