honest compact-the sudden conversion of former hostility into intimate alliance the violation of the express instructions of the State he represented, as of the general sense of the whole section of the Union to which he belonged-the long protracted suspense in which he held the scale between the two competing candidates for the office which circumstances placed it in his power to bestow-the positive evidence that existed of overtures, looking to the Secretaryship of State as the reward of his support, being addressed by friends of his to one of the candidates, General Jackson, whose manly uprightness refused to listen to them-and finally the consummation of the intrigue by the bestowal and reception of its rich reward-on the first presentation of these broad apparent facts of that transaction, by the plain and simple process of putting that and that together, the prompt sagacity of the popular instinct fixed itself at once on an irrefragable conviction of corruption-of dishonest and dishonorable bargain and sale of political influence-which it is equally in vain for Mr. Clay now to attempt to elude by bold denial, or by an angry and absurd retort of similar charges against a political rival—more fortunate because more honest-on a state of circumstances in all its aspects the reverse of that which characterized his own case.

We pass over the subsequent stages of his declining career-his desperate struggles for popularity in every direction, east, west, north, and south-his anxious identification of himself with every new movement of the public sentiment, as soon as its direction became apparently decided and important, accompanied ever with this unfortunate fatality, that he always took them up just a little too late, to carry them just a little too far-we pass over all this, to contemplate the position which he has now at last reached, as the meet reward of this long career of unscrupulous ambition, prostituting the loftiest powers of talent and eloquence, and demoralizing (in a political sense) a character designed by nature for one of the noblest; and which even in its ruins, like that fallen angel whose form "had not yet lost all its original brightness," is still half an object of our sympathy and admiration. We behold him now-his way of life fallen into the sere and yellow leaf-his once gigantic powers enfeebled, sadly enfeebled, by years, misapplication, and excess-miserably destitute of moral force and weight of character, in comparison with what might and ought to have been his-the great end and aim of his political life now more hopelessly remote than at any former hour from its outset -abandoned by his own friends, half in despair and half in ingratitude, for a mere man of straw-repulsed in his application for an honor most justly and rightfully his due from the party for which he has sacrificed so much-disappointed and dishonored, with the stings of his own mortifications sharpened by their contrast with the brightening triumphs of his old political rivals-a ruined and bankrupt politician, with little else left him than the memories of prostituted

powers, betrayed principles, forfeited fame, and wasted life—a broken-down man, with the debility of age settling alike on mind and body, and its gathering snows upon his head while his bosom still burns with the volcanic passions of youth-passions that burst forth from time to time, in explosions of rankling bitterness which can awaken no other sentiment in the breast of the illustrious object against whom they are most angrily directed, than the compassion of calm and dignified strength toward the petulance of disappointed impotence! Such, such is the picture

-heu, quantum mutatus ab illo

Hectore, qui redit exuvias indutus Achillis!

-of the HENRY CLAY of to-day-which we have to draw with reluctant hand and half-averted eye, and from which we now turn with unaffected sadness, as from the contemplation of some noble old ruin, picturesque in its very desolation and uselessness. We have thus dwelt upon it for the purpose of exhibiting the warning moral of the fate of a man, of the most glorious original powers and prospects, whom an inordinate ambition was able to tempt astray in the pursuit of the false lights of dishonest expediency, and whom it has thus at last conducted, from such an outset, through such a career, to such a close. To illustrate this moral, which should sink deeply into the minds of all who contemplate it, we believe to have been the intended mission of Mr. Clay's political life. Fully is it now performed―

Requiescat in pace!

SONNET.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

"They had no poet, and they died!"

Where are the conquerors? where the mighty? where
The men of old, who wore the laurel crown?
Where is their fame, their glory, their renown?
All vanished—all, like mist in morning air!
And could not Time, the ruin-maker, spare

Greatness and strength, dominion, power, and pride,
Which they alone could gain and no one share;
Though millions to acquire them, bled and died?
No! these have crumbled with the arches raised
To blazon their high triumphs-these have flown
Into oblivion, like the scrolls that praised

Virtues, achievements doomed to be unknown

But for a lustre; THEY survive alone

Whose names to every age th' immortal bard hath shown!

THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Among our hills and valleys, I have known
Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands
Tended or gathered in the fruits of earth,
Were reverent learners in the solemn school
Of Nature. Not in vain to them were sent
Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower
That darkened the brown tilth, or snow that beat
On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn,
Some truth; some lesson on the life of man,
Or recognition of the Eternal Mind

Who veils his glory with the elements.

One such I knew long since, a white-haired man,
Pithy of speech, and merry when he would;
A genial optimist who daily drew
From what he saw his quaint moralities.
Kindly he held communion, though so old,
With me a dreaming boy, and taught me much
That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget.

The sun of May was bright in middle heaven,
And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills
And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light.
Upon the apple tree, where rosy buds.

Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom,
The robin warbled forth his full clear note

For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods

Whose young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast

A shade, gay circles of anemones

Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers, Brightened the glens; the new leaved butternut

And quivering poplar to the roving breeze

Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields

I saw the pulses of the gentle wind

On the young grass. My heart was touched with joy

At so much beauty, flushing every hour

Into a fuller beauty; but my friend,

The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side,
Gazed on it mildly sad. I asked him why.

"Well may'st thou join in gladness," he replied,

"With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers,

And this soft wind, the herald of the green

Luxuriant summer.

Thou art young like them,

And well may'st thou rejoice. But while the flight
Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame,

It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims
These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quenched
In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird?"

I listened, and from midst the depth of woods
Heard the low signal of the grouse, that wears

A sable ruff around his mottled neck;

Partridge they call him by our northern streams,
And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat

'Gainst his barred sides his speckled wings, and made
A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes

At first, then fast and faster, till at length
They passed into a murmur and were still.

"There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type
Of human life. "Tis an old truth, I know,
But images like these will freshen truth.
Slow pass our days in childhood, every day
Seems like a century; rapidly they glide
In manhood, and in life's decline they fly;
Till days and seasons flit before the mind
As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm,
Seen rather than distinguished. Ah! I seem
As if I sat within a helpless bark,

By swiftly running waters hurried on

To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks
Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock,

Bare sands and pleasant homesteads; flowery nooks,
And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear
Each after each, but the devoted skiff
Darts by so swiftly that their images
Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell
In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep
By other banks and the great gulf is near.

"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,
And this fair change of seasons passes slow,
Gather and treasure up the good they yield-
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts
And kind affections, reverence for thy God
And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come
Into these barren years that fleet away

Before their fruits are ripe, thou may'st not bring

A mind unfurnished and a withered heart."

VOL. VII. NO. XXVI.-FEB. 1840. H

Long since that white-haired ancient slept-but still,
When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough,
And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within
The woods, his venerable form again

Is at my side, his voice is in my ear.

THE ITALIAN OPERA.

BY AN ITALIAN.

Il faut des spectacles dans les grandes villes, il faut des romans dans les provinces." Such are the most harmless as well as the most successful sources of excitement to which civilized nations have had recourse hitherto-novels in the country, plays in the cities. The progress of social order and quiet, a perfect security at home and abroad, has brought about a total extinction of chivalrous spirits, and despoiled real life of all the charms of romance and adventures. The tailors of Paris have stripped all nations of their picturesque costumes; gens-d'armes and cruisers have deprived travelling of all the poetry of pirates and banditti; and constables and watchmen, the only knightserrant of our days, have taken upon themselves the redressing of wrongs and the protection of orphans and widows. In such a tame state of things, the poet or novelist, who knows how to exhibit before us characters and incidents bearing some marks of originality, and departing from the dull monotony of human affairs, is a true benefactor of our race; and we can easily understand why the bards of ancient nations were called to share the laurels of the hero and the honors of triumph.

But there is a certain large class of very good people constantly warning us against the dangers of illusion, and preaching a crusade against the most innocent works of fiction; for whom the tamest girl, indulging, in the secrecy of her closet, in the perusal of a volume of Earnest Maltravers or Henrietta Temple, is a fantastic, extravagant damsel, watching the first opportunity to set out, on a white palfrey, in quest of adventures; for whom, as we have heard of a worthy zealot in one of our northern cities, that day will be a day of triumph and grace, when they shall raise a steeple on the top of the last play-house.

Whether the theatre, in itself, and of necessity, must be regarded

Raccolta dei melodrammi di Felice Romani. Genoa, 1832.