By that most gloomy day, when with a cry
Young Hyacinth fell down, and his black eye
Was filled with dimming blood-when, on a bed
Of his own flowers, he laid his wounded head

And breathed deep sighs: by those heart-cherished eyes
Of long loved Hyacinth-by all the sighs
That thou, O young Apollo, then didst pour
On every gloomy hill and desolate shore,—
Weeping at thy great soul, and making dull
Thy ever quenchless eye, till men were full
Of strange forebodings for thy lustre dimmed,
And many a chant in many a fane' was hymned
Unto the pale-eyed sun--the Satyrs stayed
Long time in the dull woods, then on the glade
They came and looked for thee; and all in vain
Poor Dian sought for love, and did complain
For want of light and life-By all thy grief,
O bright Apollo! hear and give relief

To all who cry to thee—

O come! and let us now thy glory see.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF WALKING.

DEAR Reader, what kind of gait do you use? I would I knew, so I might show my affection for you by analyzing it. I say my affection-for I love one who sits as you do, and hears quietly what I whisper in your ear.

I say the philosophy of walking-perhaps I should have said the Epicurism of it; but as the former is at the head, there it shall stand, propriety to the contrary, notwithstanding. But what sort of gait do you use? See if I describe you by and by. I hold that there is as much Epicurism in the matter of walking as in that of eating. I hold that there is as much taste in this matter as in poetry. I am always exceedingly observant of the manner in which those around me walk about. I have become fastidious in this matter at last, and there are but few people in the world who suit me. I think it is as fine a study as that of the mind, in a cool evening, at an open window, with a cigar, to watch the difference in movement of all who chance to pass. Nothing pleases me so much now as to see some one pass in a way that suits my ideas of taste; and as I am too idle to dwell of an evening among the angels of our world, the only pleasure which I

desire from them, is the glow I feel at heart when one steps by me with a motion which I like-it is the same kind of pleasure which I receive from a sudden thought in poetry, or a touching bar in music-and when it is joined with a beautiful form and countenance, it dwells with me awhile like the remembrance of a beautiful dream. I was struck so the other night-I was just going homeward, at twilight, when, raising my head, I saw a sunny face and beautiful form close to me, with a motion like a sailing swan. I shall never forget it.

But to be brief-there are a thousand different ways of getting along in the world. Look, dear Reader-here is one coming up-he is your man of method; he has never, to my sure knowledge, turned his head to the one side or the otherin public, I mean-for these ten years; or altered his pace of going for a single moment during the same time. He has no taste; he is a good, upright, positive kind of man-but as to the luxury and Epicurism of walking, he knows nothing about it-just nothing at all. I cannot bear this way of going through the world methodically. I like your man of quips and cranks. I do abhor the dignified gravity of a white bear or a Greenland seal. No; I'll none of them.

Then there is your man who goes driving onward as if in the chase or the pursuit-he has no taste. What luxury does a man enjoy who drives through a book of poetry at the rate of a hundred pages an hour? Why, he does not take time to enjoy himself on his way. I would as soon be drawn in a pleasant spring morning by a team of rein-deer. Just think of going through the sunshine, and breezes, and dew drops of a morning, at twenty miles an hour. I have walked with such people, but I would not do it now for a slight recompense. Who would walk fast at noon in the shade, or at night in the moon-shine?

There is your man who walks about as if he were afraid of people-quick and restlessly-troubled with the disposal of his hands-now, thrusting them into his pockets-now, pushing up his hat, or holding by the collar of his coatlooking to either side of the road through mere awkwardness. I have seen many such people, and those too who ought to know better. I have one in my eye now-and a good fellow too as ever stepped upon a pavement-and yet put him in a city and you shall take him for some rustic. He never enjoyed a walk in his life, unless he chanced to be alone, and where no one could see him. He has a good taste, notwithstanding,

and I think might walk about handsomely if he possessed a little more of moral courage. I think he will improve by and by. I have put him under the hands of my friend, of whom we have talked before.

Then there is your man who steps about with an air of superiority. What a pity it is that most men do not know how to appear proud or vain to advantage. I have one of these gentry in my eye now-he is a little man, and he walks about with an air of dignity which appears as ridiculous in him as it would in a turkey. I make no doubt though, that he supposes his gait and appearance to be quite in taste and a la Turque. He has no idea of luxury in walking—not he ; nor any taste. There is nothing that requires so much taste as the showing of superiority.

Then there is your man who walks struttingly, and with head elevated like some new recruit, with a tremendous stock to stiffen his neck; or like the left hand man in Johnson's militia muster. He is a perfect Vandal in the matter of taste. He is like a tailor inditing an epic with a starched collar; not a whit of taste has he; and there is no luxury to him in walking.

Then there is your man of size and grossness. He walks the earth like a tun of ale-shaking the very pavements. He appears to enjoy himself well-but there is no more tact displayed in his walking than in his eating; and he would tell you, were you to ask him-he would tell you that he was never made to walk-no, the stage-coach was made for him; for let him be never so lazy, he can never arrive at the ultima Thule of perfection in walking. He is a mere Dutch tub, set upon legs and making way in a calm. The paviours as he passes, exclaim-" God bless you, Sir."

There is your man who walks with long, sober strides, like a Scotch Covenanter, surprising you like a sudden movement in an automaton, by jumping, with an awkward spring, over every kennel or other impediment. I have a friend of that stamp; he is an immensely tall fellow, and he jumps over impediments to avoid stepping over them awkwardly. There is no luxury in walking when one supposes himself always making some awkward step or motion.

I have an acquaintance who turns his toes in, and gets along with all the grace and equability of motion of a land tortoise. You will see him toddling about any time in the year with his hands in his pockets. I have seen him dance too; he would have thrown the Graces into convulsions;

he

alas for him! He can never walk as a man should walk; will always get along like a lobster, only with but half the grace.

There is your sailor too-you see him at all times. There is a joviality about that roll of his that goes to the heart; but he makes no pretensions to grace. I like the fun of that gait though it tells of a thousand tales of humor.

There is your oldish man who buckles at the knee, and sports his black silk stockings, and comes down upon the earth with a foot that lifts and falls at the end as flat, and as large, and as well managed as a square foot of deal board. I hate machinery.

Here is one man goes with his hands behind him-under the heading of stationary. Another swings his by his side like a couple of pendulums. I have seen him sweat in the coldest days. I suspect he will demonstrate by and by the theorem that violent exercise produces heat. But there is my friend-you must see him some odd day—he of the Roman nose and sparkling eye. He is the very Eldorado of taste and Epicurism in the matter of walking. I cannot touch him yet. Come and see me, dear Reader, and you shall observe him. You will see him a finely formed person, perhaps a little below the common height; and dressed with excessive taste. You shall see him when he walks alone. He will seldom walk with me; I am taller than he, and he says that he does not appear to so much advantage. But he is exceedingly modest. There is that indescribable something about him-that ease and negligence that confers splendor upon the appearance in every place. I think he enjoys walking.

I have a regular gait-it is a long step that enables a person to walk very lazily, and still pass over the ground exceedingly fast. There are thousands of people who get about with short steps in such a way that they ever seem to be in great haste. I do not remember that I have been in a hurry these ten years. I would as soon think of hurrying over a glass "with beaded bubbles winking at the brim," and that, high treason as it is, foul traitor as he is, who pours down his glass of the cool vintage at one draught, as though he were an oyster taking in his salt water. That I have seen doneyea, and even though I peril my veracity in asserting it, by a man of sense. He never drank with me again.

I had a friend once who walked with me of a star-light evening. He walked, and made me walk our mile and a half in less than an hour. Stewart, the pedestrian, was nothing

to him. I cut him dead as a walking friend--he takes three steps to my one, and gets over the ground like a chamois hunter. My dear Readers, I beg of you never to be in a hurry, especially of a star-lighted night. The stars were not made to run away from--no; if you desire to get through the world in luxury and pleasure, never hurry yourself. Newburyport.

A. P.

66

DEAR EDITOR-I found a rare prize the other day-a lady's Original Scrap-Book of Poetry ;-" Think of that, Master Brook!" And, thinking an extract or two from it would be acceptable to your readers, I have copied out the following ingenious allegory (which combines wit and good poetry in no inconsiderable degree) for your August number.

ENNUI.

Yours,

AVAUNT! thou busy, restless thing,
Hiding the light of day;

Hanging thy dark, ill-omened wing,
A curtain o'er my way:

Thou intercept'st each ray of light,
And rob'st me in a veil of night!

Intent on mischief thou art found,
Barbing e'en Sorrow's dart,
Or weaving potent fetters round

Gay Pleasure's bounding heart:
Each struggle that thy victims make
Rivets the links they cannot break.

For persons no respect hast thou—
Rank can no favor gain;
To thee the greatest, loveliest bow,
Wealth offers bribes in vain,

For thou canst pierce the jewelled vest
That glitters o'er the Monarch's breast;

Canst rudely wake the Poet's dream,
Or Student's volume close,

Intruding on the Miser's scheme,

Worst of the Victor's foes.

Thou wanderest through the Senate-hall,
And Eloquence itself will pall..

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