unrivalled. There is probably no bird in the world that possesses all the musical qualifications of this king of song, who has derived all from Nature's self. Yes, reader, all! No sooner has he again alighted, and the conjugal contract has been sealed, than, as if his breast was about to be rent with delight, he again pours forth his notes with more softness and richness than before. He now soars higher, glancing around with a vigilant eye, to assure himself that none has witnessed his bliss. When these love scenes are over, he dances through the air, full of animation and delight, and, as if to convince his lovely mate that to enrich her hopes he has much more love in store, he that moment begins anew, and imitates all the notes which nature has imparted to the other songsters of the grove..... The musical powers of this bird have often been taken notice of by European naturalists, and persons who find pleasure in listening to the song of different birds whilst in confinement or at large. Some of these persons have described the notes of the Nightingale as occasionally fully equal to those of our bird. I have frequently heard both species in confinement, and in the wild state, and without prejudice, have no hesitation in pronouncing the notes of the European Philomel equal to those of a soubrette of taste, which, could she study under a MOZART, might perhaps in time become very interesting in her way. But to compare her essays to the finished talent of the Mocking Bird, is, in my opinion, quite absurd. THE WOOD THRUSH. FROM THE SAME. How THIS bird is my greatest favourite of the feathered tribes of our woods. To it I owe much. often has it revived my drooping spirits, when I have listened to its wild notes in the forest, after passing a restless night in my slender shed, so feebly secured against the violence of the storm, as to show me the futility of my best efforts to rekindle my little fire, whose uncertain and vacillating light had gradually died away under the destructive weight of the dense torrents of rain that seemed to involve the heavens and the earth in one mass of fearful murkiness, save when the red streaks of the flashing thunderbolt burst on the dazzled eye, and, glancing along the huge trunk of the stateliest and noblest tree in my immediate neighbourhood, were instantly followed by an uproar of crackling, crashing, and deafening sounds, rolling their volumes in tumultuous eddies far and near, as if to silence the very breathings of the unformed thought! How often, after such a night, when far from my dear home, and deprived of the presence of those nearest to my heart, wearied, hungry, drenched, and so lonely and desolate as almost to question myself why I was thus situated, when I have seen the fruits of my labours on the eve of being destroyed, as the water, collected into a stream, rushed through my little camp, and forced me to stand erect, shivering in a cold fit like that of a severe ague, when I have been obliged to wait with the patience of a martyr for the return of day, silently counting over the years of my youth, doubting perhaps if ever again I should return to my home, and embrace my family!—how often, as the first glimpses of morning gleamed doubtfully amongst the dusky masses of the forest-trees, has there come upon my ear, thrilling along the sensitive cords which connect that organ with the heart, the delightful music of this harbinger of day! -and how fervently, on such occasions, have I blessed the Being who formed the Wood Thrush, and placed it in those solitary forests, as if to console me amidst my privations, to cheer my depressed mind, and to make me feel, as I did, that man never should despair, whatever may be his situation, as he can never be certain that aid and deliverance are not at hand. The Wood Thrush seldom commits a mistake after such a storm as I have attempted to describe; for no sooner are its sweet notes heard than the heavens gradually clear, the bright refracted light rises in gladdening rays from beneath the distant horizon, the effulgent beams increase in their intensity, and the great orb of day at length bursts on the sight. The gray vapour that floats along the ground is quickly dissipated, the world smiles at the happy change, and the woods are soon heard to echo the joyous thanks of their many songsters. At that moment all fears vanish, giving place to an inspiriting hope. The hunter prepares to leave his camp. He listens to the Wood Thrush, while he thinks of the course which he ought to pursue, and as the bird approaches to peep at him, and learn somewhat his intentions, he raises his mind toward the Supreme Disposer of events. Seldom, indeed, have I heard the song of this Thrush, without feeling all that tranquillity of mind, to which the secluded situation in which it delights is so favourable. The thickest and darkest woods always appear to please it best. The borders of murmuring streamlets, overshadowed by the dense foliage of the lofty trees growing on the gentle declivities, amidst which the sunbeams seldom penetrate, are its favourite resorts. There it is, that the musical powers of this hermit of the woods must be heard, to be fully appreciated and enjoyed. FLIGHT OF THE GREAT HORNED OWL. FROM THE SAME. It is during the placid serenity of a beautiful summer night, when the current of the waters moves silently along, reflecting from its smooth surface the silver radiance of the moon, and when all else of animated nature seems sunk in repose, that the Great Horned Owl, one of the Nimrods of the feathered tribes of our forests, may be seen sailing along silently yet rapidly, intent on the destruction of the objects destined to form his food. The lone steersman of the descending boat observes the nocturnal hunter, gliding on extended pinions across the river, sailing over one hill and then another, or suddenly sweeping downwards, and again rising in the air like a moving shadow, now distinctly seen, and again mingling with the sombre shades of the surrounding woods, fading into obscurity. NIAGARA. FROM THE SAME. AFTER wandering on some of our great lakes for many months, I bent my course toward the celebrated falls of Niagara, being desirous of taking a sketch of them. This was not my first visit to them, and I hoped it would not be the last..... Returning as I then was from a tedious journey, and possessing little more than some drawings of rare birds and plants, I reached the tavern at Niagara Fatls in such plight as might have deterred many an individual from obtruding himself upon a circle of well-clad and perhaps well-bred society. Months had passed since the last of my linen had been taken from my body, and used to clean that useful companion, my gun. I was in fact covered just like one of the poorer class of Indians, and was rendered even more disagreeable to the eye of civilized man, by not having, like them, plucked my beard, or trimmed my hair in any way. Had HOGARTH been living, and there when I arrived, he could not have found a fitter subject for a RoBINSON CRUSOE. My beard covered my neck in front, my hair fell much lower at my back, the leather dress which I wore had for months stood in need of repair, a large knife hung at my side, a rusty tin-box containing my drawings and colours, and wrapped up in a worn out blanket that had served me for a bed, was buckled to my shoulders. To every one I must have seemed immersed in the depths of poverty, perhaps of despair. Nevertheless, as I cared little about my appearance during those happy rambles, I pushed into the sitting-room, unstrapped my little burden, and asked how soon breakfast would be ready. In America no person is ever refused entrance to the inns, at least far from cities. We know too well how many poor creatures are forced to make their way from other countries in search of employment, or to seek uncultivated land, and we are ever ready to let them have what they may call for. No one knew who I was, and the landlord looking at me with an eye of close scrutiny, answered that breakfast would be on the table as soon as the company should come down from their rooms. I approached this important personage, told him of my avocations, and convinced him that he might feel safe as to remuneration. From this moment I was, with him at least, on equal footing with every other person in his house. He talked a good deal of the many artists who had visited the Falls that season, from different parts, and offered to assist me, by giving such accommodations as I might require to finish the drawings I had in contemplation. He left me, and as I looked about the room, I saw several views of the Falls, by which I was so disgusted, that I suddenly came to my better senses. "What!" thought I, "have I come here to mimic nature in her grandest enterprise, and add my caricature of one of the wonders of the world to those which I here see? No.-I give up the vain attempt. I will look on these mighty cataracts and imprint them where they alone can be represented, -on my mind!" THE DEER HUNT. FROM THE SAME. WE will suppose that we are now about to follow the true hunter, as the Still Hunter is also called, through the interior of the tangled woods, across morasses, ravines, and such places, where the game may prove more or less plentiful, even should none be found there in the first instance. We will allow our hunter all the agility, patience, and care, which his occupation requires, and will march in his rear, as if we were spies, watching all his motions. His dress, you observe, consists of a leather hunting shirt, and a pair of trowsers of the same material. His feet are well moccasined; he wears a belt round his waist; his heavy rifle is resting on his brawny shoulder; on one side hangs his ball-pouch, surmounted by the horn of an ancient buffalo, once the terror of the herd, but now containing a pound of the best gunpowder; his knife is scabbarded in the same strap, and behind is a tomahawk, the handle of which has been thrust through his girdle. He walks with so rapid a step, that probably few men could follow him, unless for a short distance, in their anxiety to witness his ruthless deeds. He stops, looks at the flint of his gun, its priming, and the leather cover of the lock, then glances his eye towards the sky, to judge of the course most likely to lead him to the game. The heavens are clear, the red glare of the morning sun gleams through the lower branches of the lofty trees, the dew hangs in pearly drops at the top of every leaf. Already has the emerald hue of the foliage been converted into the more glowing tints of our autumnal months. A slight frost appears on the fence-rails of his little cornfield. As he proceeds, he looks to the dead foliage under his feet, in search of the well-known traces of a buck's hoof. Now he bends toward the ground, on which something has attracted his attention. See! he alters his course, increases his speed, and will soon reach the opposite hill. Now, he moves with caution, stops at almost every tree, and peeps forward, as if already within shooting distance of the game. He advances again, but how very slowly! He has reached the declivity, upon which the sun shines in all its glowing splendour; but mark him! he takes the gun from his shoulder, has already thrown aside the leathern cover of the lock, and is wiping the edge of his flint with his tongue. Now he stands like a monumental figure, perhaps measuring the distance that lies between him and the game, which he has in view. His rifle is slowly raised, the report follows, and he runs. Let us run also. Shall I speak to him, and ask him the result of this first essay? Assuredly, for I know him well. "Pray, friend, what have you killed?" (for to say, "what have you shot at?" might imply the possibility of his having missed, and so might hurt his feelings.) "Nothing but a buck." "And where is it?" "Oh, it has taken a jump or so, but I settled it, and will soon be with it. My ball struck, and must have gone through his heart." THE LAUREL. FROM THE SAME. THE LIFE OF A NATURALIST. THE adventures and vicissitudes which have fallen to my lot, instead of tending to diminish the fervid enthusiasm of my nature, have imparted a toughness to my bodily constitution, naturally strong, and to my mind, naturally buoyant, an elasticity such as to assure me that though somewhat old, and considerably denuded in the frontal region, I could yet perform on foot a journey of any length, were I sure that I should thereby add materially to our knowledge of the ever interesting creatures which have for so long a time occupied my thoughts by day, and filled my dreams with WHAT a beautiful object, in the delightful scason of spring, is our Great Laurel, covered with its tufts of richly, yet delicately, coloured flowers! In imagination I am at this moment rambling along the banks of some murmuring streamlet, overshadowed by the thick foliage of this gorgeous ornament of our mountainous districts. Methinks I see the timid trout eyeing my movements from beneath his rocky covert, while the warblers and other sylvan choristers, equally fond of their wild retreats, are skipping in all the freedom of nature around me. Delightful moments have been to me those when, seated in such a place, with senses all in-pleasant images. Nay, reader, had I a new lease tent, I gazed on the rosy tints of the flowers that seemed to acquire additional colouring from the golden rays of the sun, as he rode proudly over the towering mountains, drawing aside as it were the sable curtain that till now hung over the landscape, and drying up, with the gentleness of a parent toward his cherished offspring, the dewy tears that glittered on each drooping plant. GUILLEMOTS IN A STORM. FROM THE SAME. The STAY on the deck of the Ripley by my side this clear and cold morning. See how swiftly scuds our gallant bark, as she cuts her way through the foaming billows, now inclining to the right and again to the left. Far in the east, dark banks of low clouds indicate foul weather to the wary mariner, who watches the approach of a northern storm with anxiety. Suddenly the wind changes; but for this he has prepared; the topsails are snugged to their yards, and the rest are securely reefed. A thick fog obscures all around us. waters, suddenly checked in their former course, furiously war against those which now strike them in front. The uproar increases, the bark is tossed on every side; now a sweeping wave rushes against the bows, the vessel quivers, while down along her deck violently pour the waters, rolling from side to side, seeking for a place by which they may escape. At this moment all about you are in dismay save the Guillemots. The sea is covered with these intrepid navigators of the deep. Over each tumultuous billow they swim unconcerned on the very spray at the bow of the vessel, and plunging as if with pleasure, up they come next moment at the rudder. Others fly around in large circles, while thousands contend with the breeze, moving directly against it in long lines, toward regions unknown to all, save themselves and some other species of sea birds. of life presented to me, I should choose for it the very occupations in which I have been engaged. And, reader, the life which I have led has been in some respects a singular one. Think of a person, intent on such pursuits as mine have been, aroused at early dawn from his rude couch on the alder-fringed brook of some northern valley, or in the midst of some yet unexplored forest of the west, or perhaps on the soft and warm sands of the Florida shores, and listening to the pleasing melodies of songsters innumerable saluting the magnificent orb, from whose radiant influence the creatures of many worlds receive life and light. Refreshed and reinvigorated by healthful rest, he starts upon his feet, gathers up his store of curiosities, buckles on his knapsack, shoulders his trusty firelock, says a kind word to his faithful dog, and re-commences his pursuit of zoological knowledge. Now the morning is spent, and a squirrel or a trout afford him a repast. Should the day be warm, he reposes for a time under the shade of some tree. The woodland choristers again burst forth into song, and he starts anew to wander wherever his fancy may direct him, or the objects of his search may lead him in pursuit. When evening approaches, and the birds are seen betaking themselves to the retreats, he looks for some place of safety, erects his shed of green boughs, kindles his fire, prepares his meal, and as the widgeon or blue-winged teal, or perhaps the breast of a turkey or a steak of venison, sends its delicious perfumes abroad, he enters into his parchment-bound journal the remarkable incidents and facts that have occurred in the course of the day. Darkness has now drawn her sable curtain over the scene; his repast is finished, and kneeling on the earth, he raises his soul to Heaven, grateful for the protection that has been granted to him, and the sense of the divine presence in this solitary place. Then wishing a cordial good night to all the dear friends at home, the American woodsman wraps himself up in his blanket, and closing his eyes soon falls into that comfortable sleep which never fails him on such occasions. ROBERT WALSH. [Born about 1782.] have discovered so much literary merit in his gallican spirit. Mr. Walsh's hatred of France indeed was so strong as even with the British reviewer to cause an instinctive distrust of his accuracy, though it is admitted that the operation of his prejudice was in a great measure corrected by an uprightness of principle and a habit of careful reasoning. On the first of January, 1811, Mr. Walsh published the initial number of The American Review of History and Politics. This was the first American quarterly, and was too far in advance of the popular taste to be successful. Mr. Walsh himself wrote nearly all the contents of the first and second numbers, among which were two able articles on the life and genius of Alexander Hamilton, and several on his more favourite subject of France and her foreign relations. Altogether the Review was eminently creditable to him, and its discontinuance at the close of the second year of its publication was with good reason lamented by the friends of literature throughout the country. MR. WALSH is of Irish Catholic descent, and was born about the year 1782, in Balti-Letter, if it had been informed with a more more, where his father was a merchant. He received a liberal education, and after passing several years in Great Britain, France, and other parts of Europe, for the improvement of his mind, at twenty-six years of age he returned to the United States, selected Philadelphia as his place of residence, was admitted to the bar, and married. The infirmity of partial deafness, or it may be a predominant love of letters, soon induced the abandonment of the profession of law for that of literature. His first essays were in The Port Folio, a monthly miscellany which has been before mentioned in these pages, and which was then in the zenith of its reputation. In December, 1809, he published his first book, under the title of A Letter on the Genius and Dispositions of the French Government, including a View of the Taxation of the French Empire. It is stated in the advertisement that it" was written amid a variety of pursuits in the course of two months," and hastily published, from an impression that it was called for, if at all, at the moment. It secured for him at once a wide popularity. Perhaps nothing from the American press had ever produced a greater sensation. It furnished a subject for the leading article in the next number of the Edinburgh Review: "Here is a stout republican," exclaims the critic, "who praises England and declaims against France, with more zeal and intelligence than any of our own politicians; who writes better and shows more learning than most of our men of letters; displays the characteristic keenness of his countrymen, without any of their coarseness, and has all their patriotic prejudices, without their illiberality." Mr. Walsh had made good use of his time while in France, and the fulness of his information respecting that country, and contemporaneous events generally, the boldness and apparent sagacity of his views, and the affluence of his clear and forcible style, naturally won for him the most favourable consideration; but perhaps Mr. Jeffrey might not In 1813 he published his Correspondence with General Harper respecting Russia, and his Essay on the Future State of Europe: works in style and spirit agreeing very closely with his Letter on the French Government. It was about this period, I believe, that he wrote the biographical and critical notices of the British Poets, contained in the part printed under his supervision, of the fifty-volume edition of their works, commenced by Mr. Sanford. In 1817 he undertook the management of the American Register, a periodical devoted to politics, history, statistics, etc., upon which his labours were arduous and of much temporary importance. Indeed the work is still interesting and valuable, and it proves that the editor must have possessed great industry as well as various intellectual resources. In 1819 appeared Mr. Walsh's Appeal from the Judgments of Great Britain respecting the United States of America, containing an R 2 197 Historical Outline of their Merits and Wrongs | reviews of books, though lacking the genial as Colonies, and Strictures upon the Calum- In 1821, Mr. Walsh and Mr. William Fry established in Philadelphia the National Gazette, a small evening newspaper, the editorial control of which was confided to Mr. Walsh. It was at first published but three times a week; but in a short time it was enlarged and issued daily. Under the example of the National Gazette, journalism in this country assumed by degrees some new characteristics. Hitherto the daily press had been chiefly devoted to politics, in the treatment of which the temperance of gentlemanly breeding with the taste of classical training were not often exhibited. Mr. Walsh's system of editing was an innovation. His columns were devoted to literature, science and art, as well as to general intelligence and public affairs. His sympathy of the best critics, exhibited much knowledge, reflection, and good sense. The same may be said of his notices of the stage. The Gazette rose rapidly in the popular estimation and soon had an unprecedented influence, and its success led in all parts of the country to more attention to matters of taste in the journals. Since the failure of Mr. Walsh's quarterly, the North American Review had proved a more successful experiment in Boston, and in 1822, resigning the management of the American Magazine of Foreign Literature, he revived the American Quarterly Review, or rather established a new periodical under that title. It was published for ten years, during which time he wrote for it numerous articles, some of which were on subjects requiring very careful and extensive investigations, besides attending assiduously to the National Gazette, writing the valuable papers in American biography in the Encyclopedia Americana, and performing other literary labours. For fifteen years the prosperity of the National Gazette was unabated; but with changes of times and opinions, and the rise of rival journals with new attractions, it began to lose ground, and in 1837 Mr. Walsh withdrew from it, and quitted the country. Before his departure, he printed two volumes of miscellaneous selections from his manuscripts, newspaper articles, and other ephemera, under the title of Didactics, Social, Literary and Political. He has since resided in Paris, where he is the consul of the United States, and has been for several years the French correspondent of the National Intelligencer. When Mr. Walsh commenced his career, he was in taste, learning and general information among the first of our writers; and though of all that he has written there is but little that promises to survive him, our literature has undoubtedly been much benefited by his industrious and long continued labours. His reading, in various languages, has been extensive, and his memory is remarkably retentive, as is evident from the copiousness of his quotations and allusions, which are generally applied with much felicity. There is something artificial, a pedantic and stately mannerism, in his style, in which he once seemed to imitate Burke, but which is now a compound of the peculiarities of worse writers, both French and English. |