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seventeenth, and then to 68.25 in the eighteenth. It must be remembered that these figures were deduced from the cases of those only who at tained the age of thirty years. Turning next to that class, which devoted it self to the fine arts —subdivided into engineers, Ac., sculptors, painters, engravers, musicians, vocalists, and actors—he found that, as might have been expected, from the sedentary nature of their occupations, the engravers stood lowest on the list Next came painters, who were much confined within doors, but whose employ ment was less sedentary. Engineers, architects, and surveyors, who combined the sedentary pursuits of the draughtsman, with active super intendence out of doors, gave a higher average of life. With them ranked musicians; and even actors and vocalists seemed to have some advantage over engravers and painters. All this class, like the scientific class, showed a pro gressive improvement, during the three centu ries above referred to. Comparing generally the classes devoted to literature, ecience, and art, it appeared that scientific men had the most favorable duration of life; those engaged in literature stood lowest on the list. It would seem, however, from the tables, that though the pursuits of literature were destructive to life in its early periods, they were favorable in its more advanced stages. There were more old men among authors than among artists. — Boston Transcript. Mr. J. B. Cumming’s Address. 11 THE DUTIES OF THE YOUNG CITIZEN.’ We have before us a pamphlet of two dozen pages, entitled: “ Address delivered before the De mosthenian and Phi Kappa Societies of the Uni versity of Georgia, in the College Chapel, at Ath ens, August 4th, 1859, by Joseph B. Cumming, Esq." % Fearing that this remarkable production would not, in the pamphlet form in which it has reached us, enjoy the wide circulation which it deserves, we had set apart several columns of the present number of our paper, for extracts, which we pro posed to select from it: and we sat down this morning, pencil in hand, to make our selections for publication. Having reached the last page, we threw down the pencil, and took up our scis sors to make the necessary clippings for the compositors. But we had no need of scissors. Every page was marked. Well, we are not dis posed to revise the decision which was thus un wittingly made. The Address shall be published entire. It shall have all the publicity that our Journal can afford, with all the recommendation that our pen can give. Let every one read it It is an admirable, and, as we have said above, a really remarkable production, worthy—we writp it deliberately—worthy in thought and style of a man of twice, we had almost said of thrice his years. It treats of the duties of the Young American citizen. Oh, that ‘ Young Amer . ica' would read and be instructed. Mr. Cumming is a young man of some twenty-three years of age; and it was, we be lieve, upon the occasion of this Address, that he made his debut as a man and an Ameri can citizen, upon the arena of life militant. It is only since the delivery of this Address, about two weeks ago, that he was admitted to the Bar of the Middle District of this State as an Attor ney at Law. He has made a debut that may well be called promising; promising of success, professional and political, for himself, and of em inent usefulness to the State. May he advance steadily, bravely, faithfully, upon tho path he has so well indicated to the young men he was ad dressing I But we fear that he has ouly half real ized the difficulties of doing so. Theory and prac tice 1 Alas, how many faint by the way, and fall wofully short in the attempt through life-to make the perfect theory with which they started, coincide with practice. "Who, in all tho South ern States, that shall read this address, will not be able instantly to point to an unscrupulous, reckless demagogue, devoured by “ personal am bition,” who has already sacrificed upon its altar, honor and principle, and who is ready to sacri fice country, and his very soul ? Yet he com menced life with as fair and, perhaps, as honest ly prepared a programme as this of yours, Mr. Cumming. “ But we hope better things of you, though we thus speak.” Made virtute esto! Gentlemen of the Demosthenian and Phi Kappa Societies: With well warranted misgivings I appear be fore you. Apart from any purely personal ap prehension, I fear that I am about to convict you of a mistake in departing from your usual course in appointing your annual orator Hitherto it has been your custom to look aVound among your fellow-citizens of this and her sister States, and singling out some one distinguished in the forum, in the legislature or in literature, or some one, at least, who could preach to you from the mount of superior experience; to bestow upon him an honor, which he has been glad to accept. Such men have not considered that the honor, which, by your partiality, I enjoy this day, was an ungraceful wreath twined among their other laurels. Even the sages, who, having in their due time served the Republic, had sought the repose which their country reluctantly yielded them—even they have in times past hearkened to your invitation in their serene retreats, and at your bidding have come up once more to the assemblies of the people. Surely an honor so illustrious and so illustrated, no one should rashly accept, and that I have done so I have diligently sought an excuse in every circum stance of your kind appointment; and though the earnest consideration of these circumstances has failed in this purpose, at any rate it has sug gested a subject upon which to address you. I have considered that such a departure from established precedents is a sure intimation, that, for once, you desire to have something else than the lessons of wisdom; otherwise you would have sought some one like those whom I have known to precede me in this honorable office, who, “ thrice-schooled in all the events of human life,” could tell you of the duties to be performed almost to the final hour of man's accountability. I have considered that your invitation almost conveyed with it the instruction to select some theme, such as your sympathy could rest upon —such as were likely to engage the thoughts of one, whose experience was bounded by the same circle which circumscribes your' own—whose view embraced no more familiar objects than those which meet your vision. And that theme, those objects, which do, or ought mostconspicu XBK 80XTXBK&JS EXELJI JOD XX&EBXBS. ously, to meet our mental vision from our pres ent stand-point, are the duties of the young cit izen. As the world now stands, there are few coun tries where this would not be a subject of most unprofitable discussion. In most of the States even of Christendom, the duty of the citizen, young or old, is so simplified, his country can receive from him so little exercise of his will, so little employment of his thoughts, that the sin gle word obey expresses the sum of his obliga tions. But we, in this respect, have turned back to antique times, to the younger days of humanity, before the honest thought and free act of the citizen were compressed into the slender func tions of the subject With us, every citizen is a free agent, and it behooves all, young and old, to know their appropriate duties, that they may approach the general good in harmonious pro gress. What, then, are the duties which rise before the young citizen ? Undoubtedly certain servi ces have been recognized in all times, if not as peculiar, at least as most appropriate, to the younger members of a State. As the despoilers of the dead have wandered over every battle field of the world the night after the conflict, and have turned the faces of the slain to the light of the moon, it has been the countenance of youth which has oftenest met their view. H' the classic mythology were true, that the ghosts of the unburied dead wander around their former tenements, then legions of the spirits of youth, invisible to mortal eyes, would be flitting over the surface of the ocean. And when, in verifi cation of the teaching of a true faith, the dead shall rise again in their natural bodies, then will be recognized the ranks of young men who fell, where, when they fell,reigned the solemnity of the virgin forest To fight the battles of their coun try, to seek her interests on the ocean, and, in these latter times, to extend her dominion into the wilderness, whether of nature or of barbar ism—these services, requiring the strong arm and the stout heart, have ever fallen to the lot of the younger citizen. And another duty is his —not because it requires the ardor of youth or the vigorous muscles of early manhood —not one, whose perfoaraanee will elevate him to the dazzling distinction of many others—not one, which even the Romans, mindful of the achieve ments of their citizens, rewarded with crown of laurel or of oak —but one which he may claim in right of his courage and in right of his ability to perform it. If I were confined in the search for one who had well done his duty, to the range of a limited experience; if I were com pelled to find him among those early dead, whom some of us have lamented, and all of us might have lamented, so excellent was their ca reer, so recent their departure; I would not seek him among the hundreds of young men, who, in the memory of all of us, have fallen on the hills and plains of Mexico; nor among the smaller but less heroic band of those, who, here and there, in the quiet of the Western wilder ness, while upholding the rights of their coun try, have fallen, pierced with the noiseless arrow of the Indian. I would have to go to the courts dedicated to the departed, and show you on an humble monument there a brief history of dead ly pestilence, point a little higher on the monu ment to unpretending tracings of the sculptor’s chisel, and leave you te recognise in them the memorials of the “good Samaritan” no more than of the good citizen. These are but exam ples. Not only in the occasional wars of human passions and the never-ending contentions of the ocean: not ouly among the lurking enemies of the wilderness, and the unseen dangers of the pestilence, but everywhere that the country demands courage rather than deliberation, devo tion rather than wisdom, there is the muster ground of her younger citizens. But I meant not to lose even this much time in speaking to you, gentlemen, of those duties of tho citizen which require courage, ardor and enthusiasm. lam not before the inhabitants of a modern Sybaris. lam not before an assembly of young men, sunk in material interests to the smothering of generous qualities. lam not ad dressing those, to whom tyranny has proscribed the religion of patriotism. I remember well what have been your studies and contemplations during this last Olympiad. I know how often within those walls, from which you have just is sued, bringing with you these suggestive ban ners, you have made your vows of devotion to your country. I remember what themes there occupy the hours of debate and inquiry; how often the sentiments of patriots are embodied in your words; how often your hearts have beat with the desire to be in a grander arena, bat tling with error, battling with enemies of every kind which assail your country; how impatient you have become that the hour would ar rive, when you might go forth to do vigorous warfare in behalf of your country; how you have sometimes almost wished some gulf would open, that you, Curtius like, might leap into its depths, all for the sako of your country. I know that it is to such citizens that I speak, and it is for such that I have fashioned my remarks. I would convince you that there is something no bler in the virtues of the young citizen than this impelling generosity, that there is a quietness more useful than this burning eagerness, that there is a patriotism more self-sacrificing than that of Curtius. I confess, that when my thoughts are busy with the ideal of the youthful citizen, they dwell less often on that Roman youth than on a Roman statue. There is in a distant gal lery of ancient art an effigy of “Eternal Re pose.” The figure is not one of an old man, whose limbs are shrunken, whose muscles di minished, whoso eye is dim—not a figure ex pressive of hopeless lassitude, not a figure sug gestive of that repose which departed strength compels. But the “Geniusof Repose” has as sumed the semblance of a young man. His well turned limbs, his firm muscles, his attitude, not supine, not even recumbent, but gently reclining, suggest no thought of weakness or decay. He seems so ready for action, he seems to await so gentle a summons to spring forth, vigorous, in stinct with life, that we wonder why it is that his repose should be “eternal," unless it be in the interest of beauty ; for indeed that form is most beautiful. As themes like the present have occupied my thoughts, and my eyes have rested upon this statue, it has seemed to me most symbolical of what should be the normal state of the young citizen, most expressive of a quality which, for lack of a better name, I shall call “ the virtue of repose, ” —a quality, which in the young citizen, is more dignified, more useful, and (in the young citizen of such aspirations as I attribute to you) more self-sacrificing than any degree of patriotic eagerness. Nobler, as dignified repose is no bler than imperfect action. • More dignified, as he who quietly awaits the battle, well armed and strong, is more dignified than he who goes forth unarmed and presumptuous. But if this is too much of metaphor and ab straction, too little of the earnest life which lies before us; too much of the distant halls, where stand the pulseless beauties of fiction, too little of this, where our hearts are stirred with se rious realities, let us return to this very scene to watch the progress hence of two of this reunion. A young man leaves his alma mater with ea gerness for action. Fortunately for his country, she is not often engaged in wars where his ar dor would find appropriate employment But he sees other enemies assailing her. She is beset by factions, she is betrayed by dema gogues, she is plundered by knaves, she is fallen among thieves and sorely wounded. His thoughts are full of attacking the enemy, of un masking false friends, of rebuking the careless. His imagination is excited at the thought of pub lic assemblies, where he shall denounce her en emies, of the contentions and the triumphs of a public career; and he starts out eagerly, aye franticly, to make ‘‘ashort cut” to the high places of influence. Let him be granted all sin cerity of motive; let him be granted a generous fearlessness devoting him to the sile of truth at any hazard. Still what has made him a leader of the people ? By what warrant does he stand forth to instruct and rebuke ? IThat years of experience, what traces of thought, what lines of dignity, stamped upon his brow, mark him as schooled to discover error and proclaim the truth? Is there anything in his training here which renders thought and experience superflu ous? or has some mysterious hand appeared to him, while he sojourned within these walls, as to Ezekiel in the wilderness, giving him a roll of inspiration from which he is to read and in struct the nation ? What is there in his inten tions but presumption,- what in his hopes but folly, what in his attempts but failure ?—I had almost added, what in our thoughts of him but contempt? But another leaves at the same time this sphere of preparation. He yields not to his contemporary in patriotism, not even in ambi tion. He has the same generous desire to main tain the truth, the same earnestness in behalf of his country, the same iadignation against her enemies. But with justef ideas of the qualifi cations of the public man, with an appreciation that the great principles of truth, which govern a nation, must be sought pn the serene heights of knowledge—that he who would rule a peo ple must be experienced and dignified; must bring with him to his task the lessons of wis dom, the deliberation of age, and in its calmness, unruffled by ambition, proof against the temp tations of power; that he must bring something more than earnestness, something more than courage, something more than enthusiasm; that he must have some mono acquaintance with truth than the mere aspiratiqn after it, some more knowledge of falsehood than the mere loathing for it; that he must be acquainted witlr the events of his country's history, learned in the truths of the ancients, above all, disciplined in those truths, which from the flight of years drop quietly into the breast of every man —apprecia- ting that such is the man to rise in the councils and assemblies of the people, the youthful citi zen modestly declines a career which he is not yet ready to enter. Is not this one more com mendable, more admirable, more dignified in his modest retreat, than ho who rushes to certain and inglorious discomfiture? Let the soft music of approving words follow his retiring footsteps. Let our hopes of future good hover over his retreat. Let him anticipate the time “when he will come again,” our hopes realities, and the music changed to a loud “All Hail,” in welcome of a worthy citizen. But I have said useful is this quality in the younger citizen. If he shall have done no more than make room for a fitter man, then has the act been useful to his country. But why must his retirement from the view of his fellow-citi zens be one of ease? He is not to go whither the sounds of the eternal warfare between good and evil may not come. He does not retire to such Tartarean shades that the world of men will be hidden from his view. He does not withdraw where he may not see the progress of events, the workings of parties, the triumph or defeat of principle. He may be every day, every hour, reminded of his country, be renew ing his vows to his country, aye, and tiiat very day, that very hour, be serving her. Let him think for a moment how the country is served; and if aspirations alter public life occupy his immagination, let him think by what manner of public men she is truly served. Let him not look to our national halls for the ideal of the public man. Let him not seek it m public as semblies because many public men are there. Let him not listen to tho loud voices which va por there. Let him not heed the noisy wrang ling of men and factions. Let him not be misled by the self-report of some worthy patriot, enumer ating his useful deeds and his virtuous emotions. Let him close his eyes and his ears against such sights and sounds as these. Let him turn from such false models, and seek somewhere else the true ideal of the public man. Let him think whether a loud voice, rather than true eloquence, be not cultivated in these assemblies; whether personal ambition, rather than a love of truth, be not the motive of these men ; whether the learning of these pursuits be not a knowledge of trickery, rather than the product of exalted wisdom. Let him seek elsewhere than among these men tho true ideal of the public man. Let him examine well less doubtful models. The first efforts of Cicero convinced him, though years of cultivation had produced great fruit in his mind, that there was too much of feeling and too little of truth in his eloquence ; that his voice was too strong-and his thought too weak; that there was too* much of the fire of youth, too little of the calmness of study. Back then he retreats into the retirement, whence his ambition and his patriotism had for a moment impelled him, and years after he had passed that age, which we have reached, found him iu Athens, studying philosophy and literature, journeying in Asia Minor, gathering from the wisdom of sages as he went, lingering in Rhodes, ever in the contemplation of truth. It was emerging from this retirement that he stood forth the Cicero whom we admire, and who served his country. Demosthenes spent the early years of his life iu even deeper retirement and in more arduous studies, before he thought himself prepared to engage as a leader iu the affairs of his country. And so it has ever been. Wherever you find a man prominent in the peaceful annals of his country, one who has served her as well as distinguished himself, whose patriotism is undimmed by a shadow of demagogueism—look well at that man. He has begun his public career with a degree of discip line in study, of practice in the search of truth, which are impossible in the first days of early manhood. Seek then, I say, your ideal of the public man elsewhere than in those assemblies with which you are most familiar. Wander up and down the fields of history, search the realms of con templation, descend into the depths of your own mind. Try your creation by your reason, measure it by well-approved standards, subject it to the test of a sensitive honor. If your ideal, so created, be. as I doubt not it will be, an im age of beauty; if it be imposing, complete, symmetrical; if, being such an image of humau ity, it is unlike the most of those whose places you may desire to occupy, (as, alas 1 for them, it will be) you will recognise in it qualities which, as yet, you have not. You would feel that you must attain to that perfect stature in a freer at mosphere than that of the college, and in the course of years which yet are future. You would see that the dignity, the serenity, the pu rity of your ideal drew not their strength from the uncongenial, the heated, dusty air of public life, but from the etherially serene atmosphere of retirement [to be continued.] [For tho Sonthern Field ond Fireside.) CHARLES LAMB’S SUPPERS, AND DR. HOLMES’ BREAKFASTS. One of the most gifted of Authors, in a beau tiful biographical notice of his friend, has placed side by side in well managed contrast, two scenes of “ social enjoyment” The one, where all the most charming, the most gifted of high bred En glish society gather at dinner around the hos pitable board of the wealthiest, the most win ning and distinguished of English noblemen.— The other, where, in tho lowly parlor of a hard worked clerk, a band of rare intellects, com posed mostly of the aristocracy of talent assem ble at ten o'clock at night, to partake of a sup per, so simple in all its appointments, so almost frugal, that one can scarce restrain a smile at the mention of its delicacies, —“ Cold roast lamb, or boiled beef,” not even that highly appreciated morsel, “ roast pig,” “ hot potatoes, and porter;” truly, as we should count it, in these days of much luxury, a plowman's meal. And yet, in this simple parlor, as in the nobleman’s saloon, assem bled once a week, the wit, the talent, the ge nius of great old England. What matter wheth er such intellects gather around a board where “ every appliance of physical luxury, which the most delicate art can supply, attends on each," where “ every faint wish which luxury creates, is anticipated,” where “ the choicest wines are enhanced in their liberal but temperate use, by the vista, opened in Lord Holland's tales of bac chanalian evenings at Brooke’s, with Fox and Sheridan, when potations, deeper and more se rious, rewarded the Statesman’s toils, and short ened his days;” or, whether in the old fash ioned parlor, with its worn furniture, “ its clean swept hearth,” its air of “hearty English wel come,” its social whist table, Charles Lamb, the gentle host, welcomed with a cordial smile and nod, such men as Hazlitt Montague, and Lloyd, and was, sometimes, made more than happy, by the presence of his dearest friends, Words worth arid Coleridge. What matter, that in stead of luxury, and silver, and rare wines, “ Becky—under the direction of the kindest and most sensible of women, laid the cloth upon a side table, to receive the heaps of smoking pota toes, the joint of cold meat, the vast jug of por ter,” which was to refresh the jaded author or the overtasked actor :—what matter, when in neither circle, were the creature comforts the at traction ; they came in, to be sure, and were en joyed as accessories, a starving body seldom producing a frolicsome mind, but they were not the magnet; Lord Holland and Charles Lamb, the respective hosts of the dinner and supper. The charm of mind and mirth, these drew the wits of the ago together, when wines and rare viands, beef and porter, would have proved unavailing. In both circles perfect freedom prevailed, jokes and puns flew about, and were enjoyed as keen ly as graver dissertations. In each, “ literature and art supplied the favorite topics, and in each, whatever the topic, it was always discussed by those best entitled to talk about it, no others having a chance of being heard.” These “two scenes of rarest human enjoy ment,” have passsd away : —naught now re mains to us of them, but the vivid picturing to our imaginations of what they were, we cannot call it a memory; but, just about the time that these suppers, on the other side of the Atlantic, ceased, preparations were being made here, among ourselves, for another repast, a “ Break fast,” which, if we may, without presumption, we would like to contrast with tlie suppers just passing away. As compared, they seem to us as youth to age. Is it fanciful to feel as if these suppers, these breakfasts, were but lively rep resentations of the states of society, the differ ent orders of mind enjoying each ?—Of the old world as of an old man, with his depth of know ledge, his stores of wisdom, his boundless ex perience, his grandeur, his brilliancy, but, his overtaxed powers, calling to his aid the comforts of an evening fireside, the coziness of a whist table and hot punch and a bottle and fresh glasses to start anew, and give a preternatural br.lliancy to his flow of ideas ?—Of the new world, iu his youth and strength, starting at dawn from the delicious and refreshing sleep of boyhood, and rushing out to the hill tops, “ to welcome the new born day,” and to drink in bliss and in spiration, from the breath of morning, and the smile of God ; then returning to the “ Breakfast table,” with his heart overflowing with love, his brain teeming with n.erry thoughts, and a song upon his lips, brightening up with gay sal lies the gravity of the old mau, and showing an earnestness of purpose, and a depth of feeling and philosophy which were with him, either in tuitive perceptions, or, had been learned, un consciously, from the open book of nature ? Not that we dislike the suppers; far from it; they have been to us, always, cherished fancies, gatherings that we would dearly have liked to have been iu, to have seen, to have enjoyed; and although, with good Mary Lamb, we must cast a disapproving glance “ as the second tumbler is mixed,” and rather shrink from the noise of the spoons, and the rattling of the glasses, and think “ Coleridge's gentle voice, undulating in music,” would have been more ravishing without such accompaniments; still, they must have been glo rious meetings ; such a host would, make any gathering charming, for, such a host must draw congenial spirits around him ; and the breakfast which has just been served up, seems to us as a most delightful sequence to the suppers past. — And such a breakfast as it is 1 A long time ago was the cloth laid, but it was worth waiting for, and now we gather around, and with the Auto crat by our side, how we do cujoy it 1 One or two of the last night’s guests are with us, and we delight to meet them. There is that “ Prin cess of a Schoolmistress,” about whom Charles Lamb expatiated to Bernard Barton, after this fashion : “ 1 have a picture of a Schoolmistress — a Princess of a Schoolmistress. She wields a rod, more lor show than use. She sits in an old Mo nastic Chapel, with a Madonna over her head, looking just as serious, as thoughtful, as pure, as gentle, as herself.” Aud this morning we walk to the breakfast table, aud there she sits, and we welcome her as the Madonna Schoolmistress of Lamb, almost the same as the one to whom the Autocrat in troduces, us as “ The pale Schoolmistress,” and sayß of her,There are meek, slight women, who have weighed all that this planetary life can give, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of their sleuder hands. This was one of them, Fortune had left her. Sorrow had baptized her. The routine of labor was before her, yet aa I looked upon her tranquil face gradually regain-, inga cheerfulness which was almost sprightly. I saw that eye, and lip, and every shifting linea ment, were made for love.",',- •, * Last night, toa we thought that there was a ■# r ?~^ r 7"^ 3-v satire, almost an ill nature, in the generally ge- / nial current of Lamb’s humor, when he spoke of a “ Poor relation, especially a female one, as one 1 of the greatest evils under the sun,” and said, “ you may do something with the male, pass * him off tolerably, but in her, there is no disguise; there can be none in female poverty. Her garb 1 . is something between a gentlewoman and a beg gar, yet the former, evidently, predominates.— No woman dresses below herself from sheer ca* 1 price. She is most provokingly humble, and os tentatiously sensible to her inferiority,”—and 1 at breakfast we opened our eyes wide, as the Autocrat introduced “an angular female in < oxidated black bombazine, ” and we laughed out right, when, as she snubbed a boarder with the declaration that “Buckwheat was skerce and high,” the Autocrat said (aside) that “ she was only a poor relation, sponging on the landlady, ] and as she paid nothing for her board, must be ready to stand by the guns and repel boarders.” But we must not be misunderstood; we do not charge, we do not mean to charge, our bril- I liant countryman with plagiarism, in re-intro ducing to us at breakfast, the charming School mistress whom Lamb admired, nor for making the poor relation so real, that each angle stands vividly out, —any more than we would charge 1 him with a base imitation of Coleridge, because, last night we sat spell bound with Lamb and i Hazlitt, and a room full of kindred spirits, as the magician poured forth a stream of eloquence I and beauty, which entranced us with its musical sound, even when we could not understand it; and, at the breakfast table to-day, he, the Auto- 1 crat, compelled us to sit even more spell-bound, listening with the Professor and the Schoolmis - | tress, and the Divinity student, as he poured fortu that glorious passage, about our brains be- i ing seventy-year clocks; listening and gazing until we felt grand all over, as if we had origins- l ted the idea. Charge him with plagiarism 1 Oh no. With Professor Reed, we can say, “We have no sympathy with the spirit which f delights in detecting plagiarism, in the casual and innocent coincidences which > every student knows are frequently occurring ” Who would think of charging any such thing ( against a talker who could say such tender, beautiful things, as all that about the sense of i smell? Do, you remember what he says about the peaches which were put to ripen on the closet f shelves, where bundles of sweet marjoram and lavender were laid to dry, and which staid there V “in the dark, thinking of the sunshine they had lost, until, like the hearts of saints that , dream of Heaven in their sorrow, they grew fragrant as the breath of angels ?" Was ever i anything finer I even in old Jeremy Taylor. Oh, no ! No charge against any man who has told us so exquisitely of the old gentleman who said 1 —“ He was fond of poetry when he was a boy; his mother taught him to say many little pieces ; t he remembered one beautiful hymn; and the " old gentleman began in a clear, loud voice, for ( bis years: * The epacionn firmament on high t With all the bine ethereal iky 1 And spangled Heavens’ “He stopped as if startled by our silence, and a faint flush ran up beneath the thin white hairs that fell upon his cheek. As I looked round, I was reminded of a show I once saw at the Mu- i seum— * The sleeping Beauty,’ I think they called it. The old man’s sudden breaking out ( in this way, turned every face towards him, and each kept his posture as if changed to stone.— l Our Celtic Bridget, framed for action, not emo tion, was about to deposit a plate upon the table, when I saw the coarse arm stretched by my ) shoulder, arrested, motionless as the arm of a terracotta Caryatid. She could not set the plate Jj down, while the old gentleman was speaking.” No wonder, for we plead guilty to a choking sen- , sation in the throat, a kind or garroted feeling, and great dimness of the eyes. All that we i meant to express was, a strong sense of enjoy ment, at finding in two such minds any, even little verbal similitudes, which can make us like / either, more, just as we are drawn irresistibly to a stranger, who, even in a chance expression of 1 face, or tone of voice, reminds us of one known ' and loved from childhood. So when, in our own , brilliant and gifted Holmes, we find traces of that genial, tender humor which has charmed l the world in Charles Lamb, we admire him all the more. We feel almost at times bewildered, as if the Supper of years ago, and the Break- f fast of to-day, were one; as if the gentle, loving, devoted brother, the tried friend, the humorist, y whose wit, like summer lightning, irradiated, but < never scathed, had come back to us, in the per- ( son of our own Holmes; had come back to us, bringing with him a greater brightness, a more \ vivid realization of the true and the beautiful; had, without losing any portion of his genial and mirthful humanity, brought back a deeper, f more far seeing philosophy ; as if Wordsworth and Southey had stretched out their arms to em- y brace the Autocrat, and had given him a por tion of their poetic fire, and had taught him to c write (as Lamb never could) such exquisite ver ses as “ The Chambered Nautillus,” “ The Old & Man’s Dream,” “ The Two Armies,” and “ The Voiceless;” as ifj in fact, he had been wandering among bright angels, had taken the talker Cole- I ridge for lys bosom friend, and had come back from the contact, all heart and soul, and fancy y and imagination, to reproduce for our benefit, the brilliant images; nay, almost the very peo ple, who charmed and dazzled, and instructed a world, years ago. { Lamb and Holmes! £like, and yet so unlike. The one, saving up, as it were, the remnants of time, drawing around him, as all good and / great men should do, the young aspirants just starting into life, keeping them ever near, in y social and unreserved intercourse, teaching them great good, warning them, it may be, by a view of little frailties in themselves, from great wrong; then passing away as a father from loving chil- dren, or a brother from a baud of brethren, and leaving, in even the recollection of a social eve ning, a memory of joy and pleasure and regret. ; And Holmes, the living Autocrat, of whom one hardly dares to speak, in that he is alive ; , who comes to us with the freshness of morning i upon his lips. There are no stale odors of the weed about his “Breakfast table,” no headaches and redness of the eyes from the second glass of last night; but all is racy, fresh, and vigorous ; ' he draws into his charmed circle, to listen and admire, and profit, wise men and good men, j professors and poets, and Divinity students; wins over and charms till they love him, even . such as “ little Benjamin Franklin,” “ and the young man whom they call John.” Long may he be spared to us ; a Host, who will never need tb seek for guests for his “ Breafast Table,” , —an Autocrat, under whose reign democrats be come submissive! A correspondent writing from Niagara Falls, ■ ' says that where the Suspension Bridge origi nally sagged two or three inches under the weight ofa train, it now sags nearly twenty inches. The general impression in the neigh borhood is that this great work will one of these days give way and fall into the river. Visitors > now walk over the bridge, instead of crossing in the trajps as formerly. 1i . m 139