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the base, and gradually contracting its limits and becoming beautifully less till it rose to the apex, which was decorated with a tuft vulgarly called cow-lick, which waved gracefully over the hairy hill beneath, like a warrior's plume. He had a huge mouth, graced with a most portentous set of teeth, forming an acute right angle with a monstrous pair of ears, whose rough and ragged sides it almost touched. He wore a rusty brown hat, stuck upon his head with mathematical precision, and a thread-bare black coat, cut in right angles, each of which was demonstrably correct; and his nose, overlapping his mouth, seemed to threaten a descent upon a huge greasy stock, buckled tightly about his neck. Such was the outward man of Porter Piper.

By dint of persevering and desperate digging, aided by a continual thunder of moods, tenses and conjugations in his ears by his instructor, and a sturdy application of the birch to that part of the 'human frame divine' which has been made from time immemorial to serve as a conducting medium to the brain, Porter mastered a sufficiency of Latin and Greek to enable him to enter college, where his father had determined to send him, wisely thinking that even if his son were an ass, there was nothing to prevent him from becoming a good mathematician.

So Porter, in the fulness of time, was dispatched to college. The evils and accidents that befell him on the road, we have not space to relate. Suffice it to say that he arrived, was examined and admitted on account of his proficiency in mathematics, although it is unnecessary to say, his examination in his other studies was far from being brilliant. The first night of his instalment, his room was entered by a marauding pack of sophomores, who saw a large quantity of rich material for sport in him, and who encased his head in his basin instead of a night-cap, put him into bed, inserted the coal-hod into his embraces, and tucking him nicely up, left him muddled and stupified, without any very clear perception of where he was or what had been done to him.

The next day he commenced the regular routine of study. He was utterly impenetrable to history, philosophy, or metaphysics, which he could neither understand nor remember, but in mathematics he bore away the palm. The brilliant logician, the polished writer, and the profound philosopher, could not compete with him a moment. Like the bat, he could see with the greater ease the thicker the darkness; but if dragged into light he was blind in a moment.

Porter was a hard student. He dug without cessation in the labyrinth of mathematics, until he reached such a depth as was never known to have been attained but by those gifted like himself. His efforts reminded one of an industrious maggot assiduously penetrating a decayed cheese. Nor was his attention distracted from his favorite pursuit by any other studies. For all but the pure mathematics he entertained the most sincere contempt; at least as far as he was capable of the feeling. Various attempts were made to induce him to read something beside propositions and theories, and Milton was put into his hands by a well-meaning friend. Porter perused it for some time in silence. At last he threw down the book with a mingled air of astonishment and disgust, and after a long and pro

found deliberation, pronounced it as his opinion that the book was good for nothing: For, Sir,' said he, 'it is all assertion and not a word of proof,'

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After spending the usual time in college, he took his degree with distinguished honors. Shortly after graduating, he published a work upon the Parabola of the Concatenary Fluxion,' which immediately attracted the attention of all the mathematical literati, and took a high rank at once. The fame of this work, and the reputation he had before acquired, induced the college to appoint him professor, with a high salary; being glad at any price to secure the services of a man so singularly adapted to his science.

His friends, after a long series of fruitless attempts, succeeded in convincing him that it would be well for him to take unto himself a helpmate. They accordingly looked about to find a suitable match for him, and pitched at last upon a lusty buxom widow of forty, the relict of a rich vintner. Porter's attempts at wooing were at first abortive. After being introduced to the lady he was persuaded to pay her a visit of ceremony. The widow received him with great politeness, and seating him beside her on the sofa, awaited the object of his mission. But in vain; for Porter, sitting bolt upright, looked into vacancy, grim and ghastly. At last, driven to desperation, she addressed him some random questions. Porter, roused, turned his huge goggle-eyes upon her with an expression of intense sagacity, and seemed about to reply. But words and sentiments were not the tenants of Porter's brain. The situation grew momently more embarrassing; neither spoke, but the widow sat as if fascinated, gazing upon the portentous pair of blinkers fastened upon her. At last, driven to desperation, he grinned, gasped, wheezed, and finally, grasping his rusty beaver, lumbered from the room with unwonted precipitation.

This had nearly disgusted him with the fair sex; but at last the importunities of his friends induced him to send her a written proposal. Accordingly, after two days' labor, he produced the following epistle :

'MADAM: My love for you to marriage.

Your devoted

'PORTER.'

This laconic epistle was forthwith despatched, and the widow capitulated. It was only after a long training that Mrs. Piper was able to initiate him into his connubial duties, of which he seemed not to have the least idea. But at last she succeeded. In the fulness of time a host of white-headed brats were squalling about the door, to the infinite delight of Mrs. Piper, and to the huge disquiet and vexation of poor Porter, who shambled about, sometimes tumbling over them, and occasionally treading on them, while engaged in deep meditation. In the mean time he went on writing and publishing, until he was allowed on all hands to be the Napoleon of mathematics. But all earthly things must have an end, and so had Porter. On one unlucky day he tumbled into a ditch, whose cubical contents he was endeavoring to ascertain, and received a severe ducking, which carried him off with a fever in two days. His last words were: The unknown and known quantities will soon be put into equation.'

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June 4, 1849.

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The Summer Rain has now begun,
And falling heavy, one by one,
The great drops patter on the leaves,
And tramp along the mossy eaves,
And scatter o'er the brooks and springs
Fetters of crystal, broken rings,
Which toss, and widening link again,
And bind them with a jewelled chain.

The brawny mower that sung so blythe,
In withering pastures drops his scythe;
The reaper, cutting down the grain,
His sickle, hurrying from the rain
Beneath the shade of sheltering trees,

Where Tray, the mastiff, stretched at ease

Beside the keg of cider lies,

Panting and snapping at the flies.

The old horse by the loaded wain

Pricks up his ears and shakes his main,

And snuffing o'er the hay about,

Pulls all the scented clover out;
The oxen drag the shining share
From out the stony furrows bare,
And stealing to the pasture's edge,
Go browsing by the briery hedge.

The children coming home from school
Are wading in the wayside pool;
Barefoot, with trowsers o'er the knee,
Splashing along with roguish glee:
And NED, the loitering truant, sails
His clumsy boat in brimming pails
Foaming by every cottage spout,
And urchins in the windows shout.

The rain is o'er; the clouds have shed
Their treasures on the earth, and fled;
The birds awake a jocund strain,
The laborers seek the fields again;
The earth is freshened green and bright,
The heavens are filled with laughing light,
And bannered clouds have thrown an arch
Over the sun's triumphal march!

R. H. STODDARD.

LITERARY NOTICES.

PHANTASIA, AND OTHER POEMS. BY MRS. JAMES HALL. In one volume. New-York: GEORGE P. PUTNAM.

POETRY is no longer in America a sickly struggling plant; it is fast opening into splendid blossom. Poems which twenty years ago would have made a reputation are now found as usual occurrences in the pages of our periodicals, and sometimes in the columns of the daily newspapers; frequently anonymous, as if the author did not think it worth his while to be known or to be identified with them. These things tend to show that poetry is more generally cultivated and perhaps better appreciated among us now than formerly. At all events, our country can boast at present a large and brilliant cluster of poetical stars, of which it may well be proud. Particularly may we point to the genius which has been shown by our female writers, whose poems, sometimes gathered into a bouquet, and sometimes scattered like wayside flowers, adorn our rising literature.

We have been well pleased in reading the volume of poems lately published by Mrs. HALL. Its typographical beauty first arrested our attention, but we soon found 'metal more attractive.' There is in its small compass much profound thought, much deep and tender sentiment, and frequent manifestations of high descriptive power. The writer's home is the realm of passion and feeling. The thoughts of other days haunt her. In the moonlight night her mind wanders back to the days of dawning life; of youth, with its hopes, joys and aspirations. She feels the bleakness and barrenness of real life, which the advance in the path of existence discloses. The first and principal poem in the collection is an exemplification of this. It reminds us of WORDSWORTH's sublime ode:

"THERE was a time when meadow, grove and stream,

The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,' etc.

The same thought is well developed in the following stanza from Phantasia :'

VOL. XXXIV.

THIS is life's bitterest portion; thus to mark
How the free heart is shadowed day by day,
How lost its early music, as the bark

On life's dimmed tide floats silently away;

How the quick chords of sense, whose graceful play
The slightest breath could waken; symphonies

Of Memory's harp beneath morn's glancing ray;

How things that life adorn, etherealize,

Give place to sterner thoughts, to toil and care:
And none go back, if they have past that bound,
Unto the early freedom; much to dare

And much to win remains, but ever found

Unwreathed with the fresh bloom of that enchanted ground."

5

Who has not felt the cares and duties of life benumbing the fine fresh emotions of youth, which colored every object with a rosy hue?

'But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.'

It is a part of the noble task of the poet to strive against this tendency of worldly cares, and like religion, to make men become ' as little children;' to teach them the lesson contained in the last stanza of Phantasia:'

'OH, strong should be the purpose not to lose
Our holy freedom from the cares of dust;
And firm, to bid the mind triumphant choose
Its place in love omnipotent, and trust

That bends not, shrinks not, gathers not the soil of earthly rust.'

Mrs. HALL'S reflective turn of thought tinges nearly all of her poetry with a hue of sadness. We would not accuse her of being

'As sad as night, Only for wantonness.'

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We are rather disposed to think that this is a common characteristic of many female poets. They too often like to indulge in the luxury of wo.' Yet we confess that we should prefer to see from Mrs. HALL's pen more such lines as the following:

'FOR all of earth is beautiful,
Where'er the blue skies shine;

From the rosy summer flowers we cull,
To the snow-wreath on the pine:

The stream upon its gurgling way

The willow shades above;

The still noon of a summer's day,

In some far quiet grove :

The blue waves' music on the strand,
When stars begin to glow;

To the white glaciers that command
The embosomed vales below.'

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We should be glad, had we the necessary space, to quote from some of the miscellaneous poems in this volume, especially from those entitled POMPEY' and ' BRUTUS ;' from Christmas Times,' When in Summer,' and others; but we must leave such selections to the readers of the volume. Where all the poems are so worthy, it is difficult to choose; yet we cannot forbear presenting a glimpse of 'Sunshine in the City,' for its graceful and melodious flow and poetic thought:

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