he could give. There is many a grave before which we pause, to summon back our half-forgotten memories; some there are that we can hardly leave, and one that we dare not visit. If our sympathizing horse only paws the edge of the sodded ground, and does not moan aloud, it is not because he cannot feel that there is an added burden upon his backgrief that will never pass from earth.

a

Three o'clock! New-York in a full blaze of fashion, and we sighing over mortality! We must be off, to give the world a chance of delighting itself with a view of our horsemanship. What, in that rusty, dingy heir-loom of what was once a black abomination of some nameless kind!' You offend us, Sir; personally, Sir-personally. Do you not see that we are arrayed in our new 'Derby' riding-coat? Can you not see that it has the color of the olive and the texture of the peach? Not to forget its row of bronze buttons, all covered with stags' heads, and pointer-dogs, and boars, and partridges, and rampant horses; works of art that Cellini might have envied. Are you blind to our light-brown pantaloons, elastic as your conscience, and harmonizing so sweetly with the rounded skirts of our coat? Is our brownish-olive vest nothing? Is our deep-green neck-cloth tied in vain? Have you no eye for our polished boots; and is the glory of our golden spurs lost upon you? Go to! go to! These different half-tints-all approaching the one grand color, greenbecome us hugely; and in these colors, therefore, we issue from the ferry-boat, and quietly walk our horse up Broadway. Through excited stages and precipitate trucks, we wind.our way with the grace of a serpent. The cool head, the vigilant hand, and the delicate equilibrium of BAUCHER do wonders for us; and we escape into the more open neighborhood of the 'Park,' without barking a leg or ruffling a hair.

Here our glory begins! We start at a canter, leading first with one leg, then with the other; now we change legs at every step; now we glide into a slow, measured trot, the lifted feet remaining extended for a moment before they are brought to the ground. Hark! those warning shrieks! A stage is driving its pole straight into our horse's chest! Of course we did not see it; oh, no; nevertheless we have ample time to back off from the danger at a full trot, or a gallop, perhaps. How! gallop your horse tail-foremost?' Even so: such are the perfections of BAUCHER'S teachings.

A block, a dead block! We can neither move forward nor backward. Are we motionless? Not at all: our horse keeps on with his trot, bút without advancing or receding an inch, like a soldier marking time. He becomes impatient; his feet fall with increasing celerity, until their motion is so rapid as almost to defy the sight. What is the horse doing? No one can tell. We can, reader; he is merely executing BAUCHER'S 'piaffer? Suddenly he stops, and remains as fixed as if he were of bronze, instead of the thing of fire and air which he really is. The while, what curses are launched at the stolid ears of yon stage-driver, who has drawn up between a pile of old bricks and the stones of a broken pavement! Even ladies' well-bred coachmen begin to swear aloud; and glasses are let down, and inquiring bonnets, with their full displays of artificial floriculture, are thrust forth into the strange sun; and little canary-colored kid hands are tapping impatiently at the windows, or waving from them,

as if they held an empire in their tiny grasp; and check-strings are pulled after the manner of angry dramatic uncles, when they vent themselves on wireless theatrical bell-ropes; and 'Johns' are spoken to, and 'Peters' are gently scolded; and there is the prettiest little excitement imaginable among the daintier part of creation.

What is the blockading fellow doing? Making change, forsooth! with all the visual part of his countenance immersed in a small oval hole at the back of his seat, and all his thoughts occupied in a calculation about a sixpence. We cannot stand this for ever, nor our horse either. So he begins a series of revolutions upon his hind-legs, extending now one fore-leg, now the other. This becomes monotonous, and he varies it by revolving upon his fore-legs, carrying his hinder legs, alternately, the one over the other. What a strange horse! Ay; but he is only executing some of the varieties of BAUCHER's 'pirouette;' and although you cannot detect us, we are the prime movers of the whole. The canary-colored gloves stop their tappings and wavings, and their owners are lost in admiration at the 'love of a horse;' the side-walk is full of spectators. Just then the offending driver raises his head, looks around as innocently as if he had barely awakened from a sweet sleep, slowly gathers up his reins, and moves on. The spectators are dispersed; but our fame remains for ever. You say we are vain? Perhaps: but we are also proud of our horse.

Five o'clock! We dine at six, and have eight good miles before us. Our conjugal and parental heart begins to warm with the increase of our appetite; and the gnawing of the gastric juice affects our fancy, displaying our sea of damasked table-linen, with its islands of burnished covers, not few nor far between- -a beautiful gastronomic Archipelago!—its margin of little people, divided by their charming mother, all radiant with positive hunger and hopeful digestion; while over the whole scene is spread a halo of wax-candle-light, that makes the sunshine seem a mere mock illumination, gotten up in honor of our approaching dinner. The man who has never dined by candle-light knows not what a dinner is; and into all such people's houses a well-disposed gastronomic missionary should be sent at once.

Out the 'Avenue' we trot again, amusing ourselves with the impromptu matches which are coming off between all kinds of animals that can be called quadrupeds. Helter-skelter, hurry-scurry, there they go; skipping and catching, breaking and grabbing! Some on a gallop, some on a trot, if scrambling before and ambling behind may be so dignified; some on a resolute canter, from which all the sawing upon earth cannot shake them; some hard in hand, with their necks and noses outstretched, like a browsing giraffe's; and some fairly running away, with their heads between their legs and their heels in the air. Every phase of bad training and worse horsemanship is spread before us, and we shudder at the unhappy lot of horses, and glorify BAUCHER in our inmost heart.

Thus we travel along by the taverns. By the taverns!' Yes, indeed: we seldom drink before dinner; or if we do, it is something very light; a glass of brandy-and-water, or some old Monongahela, for instance;

both strange liquids in a tavern, although they have a variety of things which go by such names. The 'Avenue' is passed. We breathe the pure air of our country lane; a cluster of peaked gables is in the distance, which we know like the first chapter of Genesis; a curling mist hangs over them, and the evening-star looks through it, like a pure thought through a good man's eyes. Our appetite is redoubled; our heart fairly glows! One bound clears the welcome gate; and before us, far down the narrowing vista of trees, we behold a constellation of shining faces, ranged round a central light of greater magnitude and of deeper lustre : our horse neighs, and the stars dance all together. 'Behold,' say we 'Copy, Sir!"

A single word from that terrestrial 'devil' of the printing-office has dissolved our reverie, and dissipated all our glowing fancies.

WHAT TIME I AM AFRAID, I WILL TRUST IN TELE '— PSAIKS.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE ANCIENT HISTORY OF HERODOTUS. Translated from the Original Greek by Rev. WILLIAM BELOE with the Life of HERODOTUS, by LEONARD SCHMITZ, LL. D., F. R. S. E., etc.

THE HISTORY OF ANCIENT GREECE, ITS COLONIES AND CONQUESTS, to the Division of the Macedonian Empire: including the History of Literature, Philosophy, and the Fine Arts. By JOHN GILLIES, LL. D., F. A. S.

THESE two valuable works are from the press of the enterprising and wellknown house of BANGS, BROTHER AND COMPANY, in Park-Row. The first is a revised and corrected edition, with notes, of an immortal work by the 'Father of History,' which has withstood the war of time in which nearly all the writings by contemporary authors have been swept into oblivion. 'HERODOTUS,' says the translator, 'is styled the 'Father of History' because he was the first who wrote general history, and the first to adorn it with the graces of eloquence. So delightful and engaging is he in narrative, and such perfect simplicity is there in his manner, that we fancy we see before our eyes a venerable old man, just returned from his travels through distant countries, and sitting down in his armchair, relating without restraint all that he has seen and heard.' SCHMIDT's admirable 'Life' of the author, carefully-printed text, and a full index, leave nothing to be desired in the volume. The second of the works whose titles are given above contains a notice of the author and his last corrections. It commences with the infancy of Greece, and describes its gradual advancement toward civilization and power. The main design of the learned author is confined to the space of seven centuries, which elapsed from the settlement of the Ionians in Asia-Minor till the establishment of the Macedonian empire in the East; during which memorable period the arts and arms of the Greeks, conspiring to excite the admiration and terror of the ancient world, justly merit the attentive study of the present age and of posterity. In the general revolutions of their national confederacy the author has interwoven the description and principal transactions of each independent republic; and, by comparing authors seldom read, or consulted for historical materials, he has traced the intricate series, and explained the secret connection of seemingly detached events, thus reducing the scattered members of Grecian story into one perpetual, unbroken narrative; a design well calculated to promote the great purposes of pleasure and utility. A portrait of the author and an excellent pictorial title-page embellish the well-printed volume. The same publishers have given us, in a uniform style with the works we have been considering, an excellent edition of the 'Tatler' and 'Guardian,' of which we shall take occasion to speak more at large hereafter.

THE PODESTA'S DAUGHTER, and other Miscellaneous Poems. By GEORGE H. BOKER. In one volume: pp. 150. Second Notice. Philadelphia: A. HART, late CAREY AND HART.

WE resume our remarks upon this volume of Mr. BOKER, which we had neither the leisure nor the space to complete in our last number. From the peculiar construction of 'The Ivory-Carver,' we found it impossible to give an idea of the poem by extracts; but we subjoin a few lines from the opening, to stimulate the interest of the reader. The 'Song of the Earth,' a very remarkable poem, appeared some time since, and has been very extensively noticed. The Earth being addressed by a chorus of Planets, 'sings' to them, discoursing to each Planet of the influence it bears upon herself. Icy SATURN is the last she apostrophizes. She has ceased her song; and the finale is the 'Chorus of Stars:'

'HEIR of eternity, mother of souls,

Let not thy knowledge betray thee to folly!
Knowledge is proud, self-sufficient, and lone,
Trusting, unguided, its steps in the darkness.
Thine is the learning that mankind may win,
Gleaned in the pathway between joy and sorrow;
Ours is the wisdom that hallows the child,
Fresh from the touch of his awful CREATOR,
Dropped, like a star, on thy shadowy realm,
Falling in splendor, but falling to darken.
Ours is the simple religion of faith,

The wisdom of trust in GoD who o'errules us;
Thine are the complex misgivings of thought,
Wrested to form by imperious reason.
We are for ever pursuing the light;
Thou art for ever astray in the darkness.
Knowledge is restless, imperfect and sad

Faith is serene, and completed, and joyful.

Chide not the Planets that rule o'er thy ways;

They are God's creatures; nor, proud in thy reason,

Vaunt that thou knowest His counsels and HIM.

Boaster, though sitting in midst of the glory,

Thou couldst not fathom the least of His thoughts.

Bow in humility, bow thy proud forehead;

Circle thy form in a mantle of clouds;

Hide from the glittering cohorts of evening,

Wheeling in purity, singing in chorus;

Howl in the depths of thy lone, barren mountains;
Restlessly moan on the deserts of ocean;

Wail o'er thy fall in the desolate forests,

Lost star of paradise, straying alone!'

If our space permitted, we would copy the 'Vision of the Goblet' entire. We cannot speak of it with too high encomiums. Truly Anacreontic, it bears another evidence to the versatility of the author's genius:

'OLD SILENUS on his ass appears,

Plashed in his hoary beard with purple wine,
Dazzled his silver locks, his reeking brows
Crowned with the ivy and the twisted vine;
Mark how the dotard leers,

As through the maids he steers,

And tries to summon love within his filmy eyne!
Thick with the luscious grape,

His mumbled words escape,

The barren echoes of his youthful vows.'

'AROUND the hairy rout, with streaming hands,

ATHENA'S maidens whirl the dripping urn;

Their floating vestures, loosed from jealous bands,
Half hide, half show what charms beneath them burn.

Their mellow PAN upon the Attic ear,

Framed with a dainty sense for melody,

Pours music from his pipe of knotted reeds,
Lifting the ravished soul to that high sphere

Where joy and pain contend for mastery.'