And then, if one did not like these things, he had the privilege of sitting on a stool, or talking with the helmsman, all night. GENTLE READER these are literally odds and ends.' I commenced the aforegoing some time since, with the intention of telling you a pretty little incident which occurred in the course of my travels. But I was unfortunately interrupted-(perhaps I should modestly say, fortunately-but n'importe.) I have taken it up once or twice within the last few days, with the intention of completing it, but have laid it down again in despair of making the sketch worthy either of the subject of it or you. Rather than it should longer encumber my port-folio, an instance of an unattained end, I am fain to print it. A NEW-YORKER ought to be obliged to leave the city once a year, in order properly to appreciate his state of existence, and to know how infinitely preferable this is to all other places, as a residence. How delightful is it, to one who, for a month or two, has been experimenting in rural felicity, eat up with ennui- sleeping until ten o'clock in the morning, taking a nap in the afternoon, going to bed at nine o'clock precisely, and who, in the intermediate spaces of time between sleeping, occupies himself with wondering when it will be dinner or tea time, and what they will have upon the table good to eat- how delightful is it, I say, to one who has been thus nobly employed for a season, once more to return to the city, to join the busy crowd to resume his accustomed occupations to feel again the excitement of business, the throes of ambition, and the lures of pleasure! I take it for granted, that every resident of New-York feels as happy to return to it again, after a temporary absence, as I did. I felt inexpressibly comfortable, when I had once more fairly regained my seat at my table. I thought I should never desire to leave it again. Labor was an absolute enjoyment a privilege. And then there were the comforts of my long-deserted home. When I left it, I thought it only tolerable; but when I returned to it, the wife of a long absent husband never seemed to him more beautiful on his reunion, than did my home to me. Every thing about it was so familiar and so natural! Not an article had been removed. There were my books, my favorite chair, my table, my papers, just as I had left them. My neighbors were all engaged in precisely the same occupations that employed them at my departure. The hatters across the way were still ironing and brushing; the tailors were still pressing, and cutting, and stitching; the brandy-andwater at the gin-shop, next door, was still flowing; the foundation of the house, a little below, was and still is being laid; and I am sorry to say, the pile of brick was and is yet encumbering the street.* Then at precisely a quarter past seven o'clock in the evening, the opening music at Hannington's Diorama, (a near neighbor,) strikes *If it be not soon removed, I shall consider it a duty I owe to the community to refer the obstruction to the street inspector. It is shameful. up as was its wont. I can as usual hear the thunder and rain appertaining unto the 'Deluge.' At eight o'clock to a minute, I can still hear the first blast of martial music of Napoleon's army as it is entering Moscow; then, as of old, follow the conflagration, the reports of the artillery, the booming of the cannon, and finally, the usual explosion, and the falling of the Kremlin. Next in order is the Great Fire in New-York. The ringing of the bells the rattling of the engines the sudden flashes of light — the roar of the flames -the cries and shouts of the distracted citizens are given, as the bills have it, with appalling effect!' Afterward, comes the representation of the newly-discovered regions in the moon. I can tell when the exhibition reaches this part, by the flapping of the wings of the man-bats. Then succeeds a half hour of silence, and I know that the Cosmorama is being exhibited: suddenly the clarionet and piano strike up a slow march, and then I know that all is over, and the audience is retiring. My rear windows overlook a complete little world. Poverty, affluence, industry, profligacy, and vice, are all assembled beneath them. Oaths and curses reach my ears from a little den of drunkenness and debauchery on one side, while from the other, the sweet tones of a piano, and the soft, clear voice of a little golden-haired maiden, come floating in at my window. I have a species of eye-acquaintance with all my neighbors in the rear. The little songstress I have mentioned, of a summer afternoon, will take her work and seat at the window, and ever and anon, while she plies her busy fingers, her eyes will raise to meet my expecting orbs. There is no smile of recognition no wink no outward indication of greeting; and yet, after such a communion, I return to my task, feeling as if I had asked the young gipsy how she found herself this fine day. I have a particular friend in an old negro servant, who belongs to the next yard. She spends about half her time in gleaning little sticks and chips to boil her tea-kettle, from a spot where about a year and a half ago was a load of wood. For these last six months, we have had a bowing acquaintance, and now she never sees me, without bending her woolly head in recognition. The only neighbors with whom I have no communication, are the occupants of a gambling-house nearly opposite. The building fronts on the next street, and the rear windows look out upon mine. The curtains are ever drawn. I can see only the shadows of the eager occupants of the rouge-et-noir table, and the movement of the rake as it draws together the heaps of gold. Night after night, for weeks and months, and even years, the bright light has still burned in those rooms without cessation. I have seen it at every hour in the long night-watches, and when the morning dawn has begun to steal over the earth, I have found it still blazing, and have heard the eager, angry voices of those who were there indulging their dreadful passion for gaming. I HAVE fallen into such a slip-shod habit of writing, that I frequently find it necessary to lay aside my pen, and take up my manuscript, for the purpose of ascertaining what road I was travelling, be fore I turned aside into the last pleasant lane. This has generally been a very easy matter, occupying only a moment of time; but unfortunately for my present situation, I listened last evening to the temptings of a printer's devil. He assured, me with tears in his eyes, that there was no 'copy' in the office, and in a moment of weakness, I gave him every thing-even to the last word which precedes this paragraph. I have for half an hour been trying to recollect what I was scribbling about, when I last held my pen, but it is in vain. According, however, to the best of my recollection, I was expatiating on my attachment to the city and city life. It is indeed surprising, how strong this feeling will become. One would suppose that it would require a mighty heart, and long drawn out sympathies, to hold within their affectionate grasp the huge mass of animate and inanimate matter which composes this great metropolis. I am not remarkable for either the strength or extent of my feelings, and yet I like New-York, and take as much pride in it, as if it were all mine. What matters it to me whether the fine houses in Waverly-Place belong to me or my neighbor? What matters it whether my property or that of my friend is about to be improved by the opening of Union Place, or the extension of Canal-street? As I walk past the noble edifices, my eye rests with affectionate satisfaction on their lofty exterior, their marble columns; and the owners themselves, while they tread their proud halls, do not feel a higher glow of pride or pleasure, than the middle-aged, quiet-looking gentleman, who pauses for a moment at their doors: while I pick my way over the rubbish in the newly-opened streets, or stand on one side of some new square, and picture to myself the change a few months will make in them, the stately dwellings that will spring up as if at the rubbing of Aladdin's lamp, the showy equipages that will dash through them, and the moving mass of beings that will ever afterward there be passing and repassing, I am ready to lift up my hands and eyes in ecstacy-to wonder if there ever was such another city as ours, and to wish the whole world were here, that they might see, (as Sam Patch would say,) that some people can do some things as well as others. The fire in December last almost broke my heart. I felt like a father in whose household a pestilence had broken out, and swept off the pride of his life, and the stay of his declining years. I was inconsolable. I wandered about the place of devastation for days, scraping about in the ashes, peeping into the choked cellars, picking up and saving bits of old iron, nails, and any other little matter, that might have escaped from the flames. Many of my fellow-citizens were engaged in the same praiseworthy occupation, and many, (particularly those who, from their dilapidated exterior, might have been supposed to have had no sympathy to spare, and whose interest on this occasion, for that reason, should have been the more highly appreciated,) were treated by the city authorities in the most unworthy Some who had collected a few valuables, and were carrying them to a place of safety, in order, I suppose, to restore them on some future occasion, were even carried off to jail. For one gentleman, in particular, I was much grieved. He had been engaged in rescuing property from the flames, and in the heat of the moment manner. had placed a piece of fine linen under his arm, beneath his coat. Finding himself much fatigued, he was leaving the scene of destruction to seek the peaceful bosom of his family. He was walking leisurely along, with his arms hanging down by his side, when one of those pests of society, a suspicious watchman, called upon him to stop. What have you got under your arm?' he exclaimed. 'Nothing!' answered the indignant citizen. 'Do you call this nothing?' replied the watchman, taking hold of the linen, which happened to protrude through a large rent in the citizen's coat. And this man this citizen of a free country—for this little mis take, was taken to the watch-house. M. CAUGHT AT LAST. 1. I HAVE roamed many lands, many faces have seen, And heart-speaking sighs from the blossom of twenty; I have always remembered quite soon to forget II. Alas! for the day when those eyes of deep blue First glanced into mine, with a lustre so killing, I was once a gay fellow as any you'd find, But this love, ah! it alters one's temperament greatly; III. About two weeks ago it will ease me, I think, To the youth who adored her beyond all expression: With bewitching simplicity, turning half round, And threading her needle the while quite sedately, She replied: Then he's told you he loves me -poor Fred! IV. I feel 'tis all over-1 'Poor Fred' - Lord what coxcombs the women will marry ! Sports whiskers, eats frogs, and costumes à la Paris. I've no doubt it's all settled!-the puppy to-day, - B. LETTERS OF LUCIUS M. PISO, FROM PALMYRA, TO HIS FRIEND MARCUS CURTIUS, AT ROME: NOW FIRST TRANSLATED AND PUBLISHED. NUMBER EIGHT. THE words of that Christian recluse, my Curtius, still ring in my ear. I know not how it is, but there is a strange power in all that I have heard from any of that sect. You remember how I was struck by the manner, the countenance, and above all, by the sentiments, of Probus, the Christian whom I encountered on his way to Carthage. A still stronger feeling possesses me, when I hear the same things from the lips of Julia. It seems as if she herself, and the religion she discourses of, must proceed from the same author. She is certainly a divine work. And there is such an alliance between her and those truths, that I am ready almost to believe that for this reason alone they must have that very divine origin which is claimed for them. Is there any thing in our Roman superstitions, or philosophy, even, that is at all kindred to the spirit of a perfect woman?any thing suited to her nature? Has it ever seemed as if woman were in any respect the care of the gods? In this, Christianity differs from all former religions and philosophies. It is feminine. I do not mean by that, weak or effeminate. But in its gentleness, in the suavity of its tone, in the humanity of its doctrines, in the deep love it breathes toward all of human kind, in the high rank it assigns to the virtues which are peculiarly those of woman, in these things and many others, it is throughout for them as well as for us - almost more for them than for us. In this feature of it, so strange and new, I see marks of a wisdom beyond that of any human fabricator. A human inventor would scarcely have conceived such a system; and could he have conceived it, would not have dared to publish it. It would have been in his judgment to have wantonly forfeited the favor of the world. The author of christianity, with a divine boldness, makes his perfect man, in the purity and beauty of his character, the counterpart of a perfect woman. The virtues upon which former teachers have chiefly dwelt, are by him almost unnoticed, and those soft and feminine ones, which others seem to have utterly forgotten, he has exalted to the highest place. So that, as I before said, Julia discoursing to me of christianity is in herself, in the exact accordance between her mind and heart and that faith, the strongest argument I have yet found of its truth. I do not say that I am a believer. I am not. But I cannot say what the effect may be of a few more interviews with the hermit of the mountains, in company with the princess. His arguments, illustrated by her presence, will carry with them not a little force. When, after our interview with the Christian, we had returned to the queen's villa, we easily persuaded ourselves that the heat of the day was too great for us to set out, till toward the close of it, for the city. So we agreed, in the absence of the queen and other guests, to pass the day after our own manner, and by ourselves. The princess proposed that we should confine ourselves to the cool retreats |