single-looking ladies, hanging to their parasols with one hand and fighting the wind out of their petticoats with the other; yellow-visaged East Indians forgetting their livers while they watch the struggles of these unwilling aeronauts; here and there a dandy, looking blue and damp with the chill of the salt air; and all along the beach, half in the water and half in the sand, in singular contrast to all this townishness, groups of rough sailors cleaning their boats, drying their nets, and cooking their messes on cross sticks, apparently as unconscious of the luxury and magnificence on the other side of the street, as if it were a mirage on the horizon.

The Royal Pavilion is not on the sea, and and all you can see of it from the street, is a great number of peaked balloons, some small and some large, which peer above the shrubbery and wall, like the tops of the castors beyond a dish of salad.

The seed of this great flower upon the seaside, was a whim of George the Fourth's, and to the excessive fright of the Brighthelmstonians, little Victoria has taken a particular dislike to it, and makes her visits briefer and briefer. The population, with the exception of tradespeople, and a small circle of professional persons, and invalid families, is as transient as it well can be; and the last and newest speculator is Nugee, the tailor, who has invested a small fortune, in some superb houses at Kemp Town, and he is likely to keep up his character as "the sufferer.". -Willis's Letters.

MICHAEL ANGELO AND HIS PUPILS.

[From the French, by an American.] AMONG the scholars who crowded to Michael Angelo's painting-room, was Andrea, a poor young man, a stranger, to whom his comrades had given the name of il Triste, from his melancholy temper. He never mingled in their noisy amusements, but loved to wander by the flowery banks of the Arno, listening to its murmurs or gazing on the fading glories of sunset. All that was known of him was that he was no Florentine, but a total stranger in the city, and his means were equal to his

few expenses. The common people thought him slightly deranged, because his look was sad and wild, and he would often talk long to himself. The secret of his melancholy was, however, soon discovered.

Michael Angelo had taken into his house a distant relative, an orphan girl of some seventeen years, named Vesperia. She had studied music long and successfully, and had a voice of remarkable sweetness. One day, when the great artist was entertaining at dinner a party of friends, among whom were Benvenuto Cellini, Francisco Francia, Carlo Dolce, and some of his pupils, the subject of conversation happened to be music. Michael Angelo boasted highly of his young relative's

talent, and proposed to his guests to invite her to visit them and give a specimen of her skill. The proposition was received with acclamation, and he sent a servant to request the young girl to wait on him. When she entered the room, there was a profound, admiring silence. Vesperia, in her hurry to obey the orders of her relative and protector, had not had time to arrange her yellow locks, which fell in thick curls on her neck and shoulders, and her usually pale cheeks were covered with a brilliant flush of excitement. Her voice trembled at first, but she now gained confidence, and sang with so much sweetness and expression, that the guests sat with their eyes fixed upon her, in utter forgetfulness of the wines of Sicily and Cyprus that shed a perfume round the table. As soon as she ceased, the company broke out into that frenzy of applause which is unknown out of Italy. Michael Angelo, who cultivated poetry as well as the sister arts, called the attention of the guests to the beauty of the verses. Francisco Francia asked for the author. The young men bent their heads forward to listen while Vesperia, blushing still more deeply than before, whispered rather than uttered the name of Andrea. This was a thunderbolt to his pupils. They eyed each other in surprise, and one of them, a young patrician named Marino, was so vexed, as to let fall the large drinking vase he held in his hand. The vessel broke to pieces, and injured in its fall one of Benvenuto Cellini's cups of rare workmanship. This drew a reproach and an oath from the fiery artist, which Marino dared not retaliate in the presence of his master, so that the reproach ended peaceably.

This little circumstance made Andrea's fellow-students regard him with more attention. It was plain that he loved Vesperia, and that she was not indifferent to his passion, since she sung his verses. Moreover, Marino recollected that once when he spoke to Vesperia of Andrea's strange character, she answered that there were some spirits so harmoniously sad, some voices so musically plaintive, that it was sweet to lament along with them. Be this as it may, jealousy soon made its appearance among Vesperia's suitors-more than once a duel on her account terminated their nightly revels, and once in a fray on the banks of the Arno, one of the students was dangerously wounded. When this came to the ears of Michael Angelo, he answered, to put an end to all disputes, that he would give his relative's hand to him among his pupils whose picture should surpass the others. He gave them as a subject to paint Cecilia composing a hymn, and fixed on the next Michaelmas as the day when he would decide on the merits of their performances.

The subject was exactly suited to Andrea's genius. He resembled Raphael more than he did his teacher. His outlines wanted

boldness, he did not bring out every nerve, vein and muscle; but his figures were smooth, soft and rounded. Consequently, his female figures were the best things he did, and the reason that his talent had never been discovered was, that he had always been employed on bold and severe subjects, such as the Prophets in the Sistine Chapel. He commenced his work with a beating heart, full of hope: he had within himself a female figure, and a wondrously soft and beautiful one. It would have been useless for him to draw any other; the same one always came back upon him.

As for Marino, he felt that his triumph was certain. He had no doubts of his superiority. He handled flesh with almost as much ease as his master. His men always looked like prize-fighters. For this reason, Michael Angelo had employed him in preference to his other pupils, to paint the figures of the damned in his great work of The Judgment, and his comrades tacitly yielded him the palm among them. But when he began to paint for the prize, he was greatly disappointed. His imagination was silent. His design was harsh, his colouring gray and cold, and illsuited to the harmonious form of the patroness of music. He tore his canvass in pieces, and began again and again, with no better success. His temper, always proud and quick, became so irritable that he lost the affection of his former friends. Cristoforo, commonly called Pescarenico, the best of the students, was sick, and could be of no assistance to him. As to the others, they were so far inferior, that if they made an effort for the prize, it was only because there is in the mind of every artist, even the humblest, a secret vanity which tells him that his merits are not appreciated, and that they will one day come to light.

This was a period of extreme rivalry and hatred among the masters of the art. They attacked each other and their productions with equal fury, employed corrosive preparations to destroy their rival pictures, and the dagger and poison against themselves. phael introduced himself by stealth into the Sistine Chapel, and stole from Michael Angelo the head of the patriarch Isaac.

Ra

Mi

chael Angelo himself had forced an entrance into the Chigi palace, and painted a huge satyr's head just below Raphael's Psyche. Marino was only too ready to follow the example thus set him. Surprised at seeing joy reappear on Andrea's visage, and knowing that he spent many hours in working privately, he felt the keenest jealousy. One night, when il Triste was absent, he broke into his little room, and hurried to the picture; what was his astonishment, at recognizing in the face of St. Cecilia the very features and smiles of Vesperia! Unable to contain himself, he threw down the canvass

and trampled it under foot, so as to make it impossible to finish it.

Meanwhile, the appointed time drew nigh. Marino's picture was finished. Andrea had said nothing of his misfortune, for he had no friends to sympathize with him; only his fleeting joy had disappeared, and he was gloomier than ever. On Michaelmas eve the students had a carouse, and they drank the health of their master and Vesperia so deep and so often, that they were half intoxicated the next morning when they went to the painting-room. There were standing there two pictures which the great artist had just finished, and on which the colours were still fresh. The subjects were two of the virtues, Hope and Charity. To pass the time away, while waiting for their master, and perhaps to shew his wit, Marino thought proper to rally Andrea, who sat pensively in a corner. He bore his sarcasm patiently at first, but Marino, who was heated with wine, having alluded to his love for Vesperia, and how much his St. Cecilia resembled her, Andrea's blood began to boil. He drew a poniard, and leaped upon his rival like a tiger. The others threw themselves between and soon separated them, but in the scuffle the two pictures were thrown down with violence. The noise of their fall put an end to the strife. All stood, as it were, stupid, and did not even notice that Andrea was slightly wounded. After a long silence. "We must lift up the pictures, at any rate," said Marino, affecting more indifference than he really felt. They were lifted up and the colours were found to have been completely rubbed off.

"Oh, brothers, what have we done!" cried Bartolomeo. "Look, Charity is blind, and the mouth of Hope grins like one of the damned! Oh, my friends, you have destroyed, in one instant, two years of labour, and twenty ages of glory!"

It was necessary to do something, however, for the teacher was expected every hour.

"Some one of us must retouch the pictures," was timidly suggested by Albertazzi. "Who will dare to pass his pencil over the work of Michael Angelo?" answered Bartolomeo. "Not I, certainly."

"Nor I, nor I!" echoed round the room. "Corpo di Caio Mario!" said Apostolo, "it belongs to the authors of the michief to mend it. Let each of them take one of the pictures, and retouch it."

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Or, better yet," said Albertazzi, "let them each draw for the picture they are to take."

It was agreed that the two names should be placed in a cup, and that the first one drawn should take the Hope, and the other the Charity. The name of Andrea was the first proclaimed, and he rejoiced at his good fortune. While they were hard at work,

he was

He happened to be agitated and out of humour that morning. Perhaps he had been meditating on the shortness of life, the vastness of his art, and the empty nature of all earthly glory. Whatever the cause, thoughtful and moody, and spoke much to himself and incoherently, not regarding the confusion of his scholars. Gradually, he grew calmer and more collected. He began to give some lessons on his divine art, and he turned to the two pictures, as an illustration of the rules he had been laying down. No sooner had he fixed his eyes on the picture of Charity, than he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with anger:

"Furies! what woman is this? Can I be so far deceived? Curses on it! Heaven has forsaken me." Then turning to the Hope, "Ah-ah-no, no-here there is some of the true inspiration. But as for this Charity, that looks like a hangman-confound it?"

And he drew his dagger, and cut the canvass to pieces. The whole company were silent with fear, except a few who talked in whispers in a corner. The great master noticed them, and as he saw at once that something had happened, he approached the picture a second time, viewed it closely a few minutes, and said all at once:

"What is the matter here, gentlemen; what is all this? This is not my style, these are not my tints. On your lives, tell me what has happened here!"

The silence continued.

"Am I listened to, when I speak? Can I have an answer when I ask a question?" "Master," said Bartolomeo timidly, "in the agitation inseparable from such a festival, an accident happened, and-"

Michael Angelo reflected for some moments: "Who retouched the picture of Hope?" he asked calmly.

"Andrea!" answered Bartolomeo. "Andrea, come hither," said the artist. He advanced slowly and timidly; his master clasped him in his arms.

"You are a pupil worthy of Michael Angelo," cried he; "you are the only one that understood my Hope.'

Then as he knew that he was ready to weep, and remembering how much he must have suffered," Child," said he, with a tenderness unusual and strange in him, "you were a ray of light hidden behind clouds, but the clouds have passed away, and the sun of thy genius shines out brightly in the sight of heaven and earth. Ask for what you will -it is granted already."

The young man was too much agitated to answer-two big tears rolled down his cheeks. A young girl crossed the garden; he pointed to her in silence.

"Vesperia!" cried Michael Angelo, "by St. Luke! I remember now

He sent for his young relation, and put her hand in Andrea's; then turning to the other pupils, said coldly, "Gentlemen, this is but justice!" The next day Marino's lifeless body was found in the garden; his poniard was thrust into his heart up to the very hilt. He had rolled around the blade a paper which had also entered his breast, on which was written, "There was something here!" When the body was brought to Michael Angelo, he shrugged up his shoulders, and only said" His hatred must have come out with the blood, for the wound is a wide one."

VALUABLE WATER PRIVILEGES. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

and

GENTLE reader, do you remember Monsieur Poopoo? He used to keep a small toy-store in Chatham, near the corner of Pearl-street. You must recollect him, of course. He lived there for many years, and was one of the most polite and accommodating of shop-keepers. When a juvenile, you have bought tops marbles of him a thousand times. To be sure you have; and seen his vinegar-visage lighted up with a smile as you flung him the coppers; and you have laughed at his little straight queue and his dimity breeches, and all the other oddities that made up the everyday apparel of my little Frenchman. Ah, I perceive you recollect him now.

Well, then, there lived Monsieur Poopoo ever since he came from "dear delightful Paris," as he was wont to call the city of his nativity-there he took the pennies for his kickshaws there he laid aside five thousand dollars against a rainy day-there he was as happy as a lark-and there, in all human probability, he would have been to this very day, a respected and substantial citizen, had he been willing to "let well alone." But Monsieur Poopoo had heard strange stories about the prodigious rise in real estate; and, having understood that most of his neighbours had become suddenly rich by speculating in lots,

ne instantly grew dissatisfied with his own lot, forthwith determined to shut up shop, turn everything into cash, and set about making money in right-down earnest. No sooner said than done; and our quondam storekeeper a few days afterward attended an extensive sale of real estate, at the Merchants' Exchange.

There was the auctioneer with his beautiful and inviting lithographic maps-all the lots as smooth and square and enticingly laid out as possible—and there were the speculators➡ and there, in the midst of them, stood Monsieur Poopoo.

"Here they are, gentlemen," said he of the hammer, "the most valuable lots ever offered for sale. Give me a bid for them."

"One hundred each," said a bystander. "One hundred !" said the auctioneer, "scarcely enough to pay for the maps. One hundred-going and fifty-gone! Mr. H. they are yours. A noble purchase. You'll sell those same lots in less than a fortnight for fifty thousand dollars profit!"

Monsieur Poopoo pricked up his ears at this, and was lost in astonishment. This was a much easier way certainly of accumulating riches than selling toys in Chatham-street, and he determined to buy and mend his fortune without delay.

The auctioneer proceeded in his sale. Other parcels were offered and disposed of, and all the purchasers were promised immense advantages for their enterprise. At last came a more valuable parcel than all the rest. The company pressed around the stand, and Monsieur Poopoo did the same.

"I now offer you, gentlemen, these_magnificent lots, delightfully situated on LongIsland, with valuable water privileges. Property in fee-title indisputable-terms of sale, cash-deeds ready for delivery immediately after the sale. How much for them? Give them a start at something. How much?" The auctioneer looked around; there were no bidders. At last he caught the eye of Monsieur Poopoo. "Did you say one hundred, sir? Beautiful lots-valuable water privileges-shall I say one hundred for you?"

"Oui, monsieur; I will give you von hundred dollar a piece, for de lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege; c'est ça."

"Only one hundred a piece for these sixty valuable lots—only one hundred—going -going-going-gone !"

Monsieur Poopoo was the fortunate possessor. The auctioneer congratulated him— the sale closed-and the company dispersed.

"Pardonnez moi, monsieur," said Poopoo, as the auctioneer descended his pedestal, "you shall excusez moi, if I shall go to votre bureau, your counting-house ver quick, to make every ting sure wid respec to de lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege. Von leetle

bird in de hand be vorth two in de tree, c'est vrai-eh ?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Vell den, allons."

And the gentleman repaired to the counting house, where the six thousand dollars were paid, and the deeds of the property delivered. Monsieur Poopoo put these carefully in his pocket, and as he was about taking his leave, the auctioneer made him a present of the lithographic outline of the lots, which was a very liberal thing on his part, considering the map was a beautiful specimen of that glorious art. Poopoo could not admire it sufficiently. There were his sixty lots, as uniform as possible, and his little gray eyes sparkled like diamonds as they wandered from one end of the spacious sheet to the other.

Poopoo's heart was as light as a feather, and he snapped his fingers in the very wantonness of joy as he repaired to Delmonico's, and ordered the first good French dinner that had gladdened his palate since his arrival in America.

After having discussed his repast, and washed it down with a bottle of choice old claret, he resolved upon a visit to Long-Island to view his purchase. He consequently immediately hired a horse and gig, crossed the Brooklyn ferry, and drove along the margin of the river to the Wallabout, the location in question.

Our friend, however, was not a little perplexed to find his property. Everything on the map was as fair and even as possible, while all the grounds about him were as undulated as they could well be imagined, and there was an elbow of the East-river thrusting itself quite into the ribs of the land, which seemed to have no business there. This puzzled the Frenchman exceedingly; and being a stranger in those parts, he called to a farmer in an adjacent field.

"Mon ami, are you acquaint vid dis part of de country-eh ?"

"Yes, I was born here, and know every inch of it."

"Ah, c'est bien, dat vill do," and the Frenchman got out of the gig, tied fast the horse, and produced his lithographic map.

"Den maybe you vill have de kindness to show me de sixty lot vich I have bought, vid de valuarble vatare privalege?"

The farmer glanced his eye over the paper. "Yes, sir, with pleasure; if you will be good enough to get into my boat, I will row you out to them!"

"Vat dat you say, sare?"

"My friend," said the farmer, "this section of Long Island has recently been bought up by the speculators of New York, and laid out for a great city; but the principal street is only visible at low tide. When this part of the East-River is filled up, it will be just there.

Your lots, as you will perceive, are beyond it; and are now all under water."

At first the Frenchman was incredulous. He could not believe his senses. As the facts, however, gradually broke upon him, he shut one eye, squinted obliquely at the heavens -the river-the farmer-and then he turned away and squinted at them all over again! There was his purchase sure enough; but then it could not be perceived, for there was a river flowing over it! He drew a box from his waistcoat pocket, opened it with an emphatic knock upon the lid, took a pinch of snuff and restored it to his waistcoat pocket, as before. Poopoo was evidently in trouble, having "thoughts which often lie too deep for tears;" and, as his grief was also too big for words, he untied his horse, jumped into his gig, and returned to the auctioneer in hot haste.

It was near night when he arrived at the auction-room-his horse in a foam and himself in a fury. The auctioneer was leaning back in his chair, with his legs stuck out of a low window, quietly smoking a cigar after the labours of the day, and humming the music from the last new opera.

Monsieur, I have much plaisir to fin you, chez vous, at home."

"Ah, Poopoo! glad to see you. seat, old boy.'

"But I shall not take de seat, sare.'
No-why, what's the matter?"

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"Oh, beaucoup de matter.

Take a

I have been to see de gran lot vot you sell me to day." "Well, sir, I hope you like your purchase?"

"No, monsieur, I no like him." "I'm sorry for it; but there is no ground for your complaint.

"No, sare; dare is no ground at all-de ground is all vatare!"

"You joke!"

"Ino joke, I nevare joke; je n'entends pas la raillerie. Sare, voulez vous have de kindness to give me back de money vot I pay?" Certainly not.

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"But, sare, I vill not go to de devil to oblige you!" replied the Frenchman, waxing warmer. "You sheat me out of all de dollar vot I make in Shathame-street; but I vill not go to de devil for all dat. I vish you may go to de devil yourself, you dem yankeedoo-dell, and I vill go and drown myself, tout de suite, right avay.'

"You couldn't make a better use of your water privileges, old boy!"

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Ah, miséricorde! Ah, mon dieu, je suis abîmé. I am ruin! I am done up! I am break all into ten sousan leetle pieces! I am von lame duck, and I shall vaddle across de gran ocean for Paris, vish is de only valuarble vatare privilege dat is left me à present!"

Poor Poopoo was as good as his word. He sailed in the next packet, and arrived in Paris almost as pennyless as the day he left it.

THE HARPERS, BROTHERS, THE EXTENSIVE PUBLISHING FIRM.

THIS firm comprises four partners-brothers. Their names are James, John, Joseph and Fletcher. James established in Dover Street, twenty-three years ago. The first book which they published and in which the imprint appeared, "J. and J. Harper," was Locke's "Essay on the Human Understanding. This was successful-and its name and success afforded a happy prognostic of their future career; for, since the publication of that celebrated philosophical treatise, they have made many successful essays on the human understanding. The brothers are at present, (to use a good Americanism,) located in Cliff street. Upon the building, which they occupy, appears the same sign, which was placed there thirteen years ago, “J. and J. Harper's printing office." Shortly previous to their removal to this place, Joseph

was received into the firm, and about one year afterwards, Fletcher, the youngest, became a co-partner. Thus united by the bands of interest as well as the strongest ties of fraternal affection, these four men present to the world an admirable illustration of the truth of the moral drawn from the fable of the bundle of rods. They have never separated, never dissevered their concerns, but have remained firmly bound and united together. Accordingly their prosperity has been large and constant. They are all married men, and have, each, "sons and daughters." Their father, "the old man, is yet alive." I saw him the other day, a fine, bluff, hale, hearty, ruddy-cheeked farmer, who has outlived the allotted span of "three-score years and ten," yet has he not known a day of that "labour and sorrow,' which the scriptures speak of as the doom of age. I talked with him about the country and the crops, and, hearing every word that I uttered as distinctly as I heard his, he told