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they were spurred on by daily and violent encroachments on the rights of each other. Their several partisans were equally violent and vindictive; each side contemptuously rejecting or adding its favorite or neglected letter.

For instance, if the animal or building of their several names were to be mentioned, the enemy of I would talk of his orse, or his ouse, and so forth. In some particular circumstances (as is pretty much the case among the leaders of all parties and °factions) there was a set of men who did not scruple to drop a small portion of their H-onesty. The admirers of H, equally vigilant on the other side, would always repair any loss or damage he sustained this way, by placing him before his antagonist without rhyme or reason; they were resolved to have their H-oxen, their Ha-ltars, and their H-ornaments.

V and W stood exactly in the same predicament. They were subalterns in the two opposite factions, and, like two noisy little flies, were so fond of their finery, and so jealous of each other, that the whole army was pestered with their janglings. V, partial to himself (as those in the army who have the least pretensions are most apt to be), was always asking W V-y he V-as so foolish as to compare with him, V-en he knew it V-as all in vain? W had his reply ready, and would often answer that it was W-ery W-exatious, but that W-irtue would W-anquish: that V was a W-ile W-arlet, and as sour as W-inegar.

U, another inveterate enemy to great A, took every opportunity of stepping into his place, and perpetually talked of his veng-u-nce, and his defi-u-nce. U, during the whole war, continued to make stolen marches on the united troops of A and I, because he said he was cert-u-n they were two vill-u-ns.

E and R, a couple of turbulent letters, like pert swaggerers, as they were, whenever they could thrust their noses in any place, never had the good manners to wait for an invitation, and propriety was very much shocked at the improp-er-iety of their conduct.

The modern orators, anxious as they were, with the aid of all the authors, to put an end to these perplexing disputes, instead of appeasing, added fresh fuel to the flames of discord; each letter insisting that he could produce an equal number of authorities in his favor to those his antagonist boasted himself able to bring forward.

The ladies divided their favors so impartially among them all, one day adopting one side, and changing their minds the next, that most learned philosophers were inadequate to name the parties they either countenanced or rejected. The more fashionable, the more were both sexes in confusion; but the critics increased that confusion into a "confusion worse confounded."

Now, in describing this ever memorable battle, it is essential that,

like other heroic writers, I should inform my readers what was said and done by the gods and goddesses on this occasion. Well, then, the "immortals" began wrangling and fighting like so many imps; Envy, Malice, and Spleen were divided between both parties. Wisdom was for neither.

Jove, weary of this jar about nothing, called a council of all the wits and critics in heaven.

He flatly told the wits they were a pack of fools; they murmured, but Truth, touching them with her wand, confirmed the decree. He pronounced the same sentence against the critics, who immediately began to revenge themselves by finding fault with his works, maintaining he knew nothing of what was the effect of his own invention, that light was darkness, and darkness light.

Naturally enraged at this, Jove told them they were as pert as jackdaws, as vain as peacocks, and as stupid as owls. To which Truth cried Amen!

He then sentenced the rebellious critics to tear each other to pieces; they immediately fell eagerly to work, and have continued the practice till the present day.

As for the contending letters, they were sent into banishment to various provinces, where they have remained ever since, and established a wide-extended empire of provincial barbarism.

SAMUEL MAUnder.

CXXXVIII.--FUNERAL CHANT FOR THE OLD YEAR.

'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year!

And it calleth from its shroud

With a hollow voice and loud,
But serene:.

And it saith-"What have I given

That hath brought thee nearer heaven?

Dóst thou weep, as one forsaken,
For the treasures I have taken?
Standest thou beside my hearse
With a blessing or a curse?
Is it well with thee, or worse
That I have been?.

'Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year!
The midnight shades that fall,-

They will serve it for a pall,

In their gloom ;

And the misty vapors crowding
Are the withered corse enshrouding;
And the black clouds looming off in
The far sky, have plumed the coffin,
But the vaults of human souls,
Where the memory unrolls

All her tear-besprinkled scrolls
Are its tomb!

'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year!
The moon hath gone to weep

With a mourning still and deep
For her loss:

The stars dâre not assemble

Through the murky night to tremble-
The naked trees are groaning
With an awful, mystic moaning-
Wings sweep upon the air,
Which a solemn message bear,

And hosts, whose banners wear
A crownèd cross!

"Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year!
Who make the funeral train

When the queen hath ceased to reign?
Who are here

With the golden crowns that follow
All invested with a "halo?
With a splendor transitory

Shines the midnight from their glory,

And the pean of their song

Rolls the aisles of space along,

But the left hearts are less strong,
For they were dear!

'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year!
With a dull and heavy tread
Tramping forward with the dead,
Who come last?

Lingering with their faces groundward,
Though their feet are marching onward,
They are shrieking,--they are calling
On the rocks in tones appalling,

But Earth waves them from her view,-
And the Godlight dazzles through,

And they shiver, as spars do,

Before the blast!

2

'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year!
We are parted from our place
In her motherly embrace,
And are alone:

For the infant and the stranger
It is sorrowful to change her-
She hath cheered the night of mourning
With a promise of the dawning;
She hath shared in our delight

With a gladness true and bright:
Oh! we need her joy to-night-
But she is gone!

MISS E. J. BAYARD.

CXXXIX.-FROM A LETTER TO THE UNKNOWN PURCHASER AND NEXT OCCUPANT OF GLENMARY.

SIR: In selling you the dew and sunshine ordained to fall hereafter on this bright spot of earth-the waters on their way to this sparkling brook-the tints mixed for the flowers of that enameled meadow, and the songs bidden to be sung in coming summers by the feathery builders in Glenmary, I know not whether to wonder more at the omnipotence of money, or at my own impertinent audacity toward Nature. How you can buy the right to exclude at will every other creature made in God's image from sitting by this brook, treading on that carpet of flowers, or lying listening to the birds in the shade of these glorious trees--how I can sell it you, is a mystery not understood by the Indian, and dark, I must say, to me. Lord of the soil," is a title which conveys your privileges but poorly.

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You are master of waters flowing at this moment, perhaps in a river of Judea, or floating in clouds over some spicy island of the tropics, bound hither after many changes. There are lilies and violets ordered for you in millions, acres of sunshine in daily installments, and dew nightly in proportion. There are throats to be tuned with song, and wings to be painted with red and gold, blue and yellow; thousands of them, and all tributaries to you. Your corn is ordered to be sheathed in silk, and lifted high to the sun. Your grain is to be duly bearded and stemmed. There is perfume distilling for your clover, and juices for your grasses and fruits. Ice will be here for your wine, shade for your refreshment at noon, breezes and showers and snow-flakes; all in their season, and all "deeded to you for forty dollars the acre!" Gods! what a copyhold of property for a fallen world.

Trying to look at Glenmary through your eyes, sir, 1 see too plainly that I have not shaped my ways as if expecting a successor in my lifetime. I did not, I am free to own. I thought to have shuffled off my mortal coil tranquilly here; flitting at last in company with some troop of my autumn leaves, or some "bevy of spring blossoms, or with snow in the thaw; my tenants at my back, as a landlord may say. I have counted on a life interest in the trees, trimming them accordingly; and in the squirrels and birds, encouraging them to chatter and build and fear nothing; no guns permitted on the premises. I have had my will of this beautiful stream. I have carved the woods into a shape of my liking.

First of all, sir, let me plead for the old trees of Glenmary! Ah! those friendly old trees! the cottage stands belted in with them, a thousand visible from the door, and of stems and branches worthy of the great valley of the Susquehanna. For how much music played without thanks, am I indebted to those leaf-organs of changing tone? for how many whisperings of thought breathed like oracles in my ear? for how many new shapes of beauty moulded in the leaves by the wind? for how much companionship, solace, and welcome? Steadfast and constant is the countenance of such friends; God be praised for their ostaid welcome and sweet fidelity. If I love them better than some things human, it is no fault of ambitiousness in the trees. They stand where they did. But in recoiling from mankind, one may find them the next kindliest things and be glad of dumb friendship. Spâre those old trees, gentle sir.

For my spoilt family of squirrels, sir, I crave nothing but immunity from powder and shot. They require coaxing to come on the same side of the tree with you, and though saucy to me, I observe that they commence acquaintance invariably with a safe mistrust. One or two of them have suffered, it is true, from too hasty a confidence in my greyhound Maida, but the beauty of that gay fellow was a trap against which nature had furnished them with no warning instinct! (A fact, sir, which would prettily point a moral.) The large hickory on the edge of the lawn, and the black walnut over the shoulder of the flower garden, have been, through my dynasty, sanctuaries inviolate for squirrels. I pray you, sir, let them not be "reformed out," under your administration.

Of our feathered connexions and friends, we are most bound to a pair of Phebe birds and a merry Bob O' Lincoln, the first occupying the top of the young maple near the door of the cottage, and the latter executing his bravuras upon the clump of alder bushes in the meadow, though, in common with many a gay plumaged gallant' like himself, his whereabouts after dark is a dark mystery. He comes every year from his rice plantation in Florida to pass the summer at Glenmary. Pray keep him safe from percussion caps, and let no

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