With here and thêre a pearl, an emerald-stone, There, then, had she found a grave; SAMUEL ROGERS. CXXXVII. THE COMBATS OF THE ALPHABET, OR THE ORIGIN OF PROVINCIAL DIALECT. A GREAT many years ago, in those days of learning which I fear are fled, like solemn visions, never to return, a very violent warfare broke out among the letters which compose the English alphabet. Many very ingenious and fabulous accounts are given of the origin of this quarrel; and, if we had time and room, we should, in imitation of our comical brother historians, set our poor brains to work, and produce a number of marvellous tales which everybody will allow to be very pretty, though nobody will allow that they are very true. The grand foundation, then, of this contest originated in the partiality of many celebrated authors and orators of the day to particular and favorite letters, in expunging some, and thrusting others in, violently by the head and shoulders, without the least appârent symptom of necessity or provocation. The injured letters, thinking themselves a very respectable corps, rose, vi et armis, against this formidable attack on their credit and validity. The war I am about to describe will have an evident advantage over many other recorded contests. For instance, the war of Troy, the battles of the frogs and mice, and the combats of the cranes and Opigmies, may (be it spoken with all due reverence) be termed poetical wars; now, my war is literal in every sense of the word. In this contest, the ever-renowned great A was the most formidable leader of one party, and the truly magnanimous great H was the most distinguished hero in the ranks of the enemy. Both these warriors had suffered many hardships, having been most barbarously hacked and mangled by the different orators of the day; besides this, they were spurred on by daily and violent encroachments on the rights of each other. Their several partisans were equally violent and vindictive; each side contemptuously rejecting or adding its favorite or neglected letter. For instance, if the animal or building of their several names wère to be mentioned, the enemy of H would talk of his orse, or his ouse, and so forth. In some particular circumstances (as is pretty much the case among the leaders of all parties and °factions) there was a set of men who did not scruple to drop a small portion of their H-onesty. The admirers of H, equally vigilant on the other side, would always repair any loss or damage he sustained this way, by placing him before his antagonist without rhyme or reason; they were resolved to have their H-oxen, their Ha-ltars, and their H-ornaments. V and W stood exactly in the same predicament. They were subalterns in the two opposite factions, and, like two noisy little flies, were so fond of their finery, and so jealous of each other, that the whole army was pestered with their janglings. V, partial to himself (as those in the army who have the least pretensions are most apt to be), was always asking W V-y he V-as so foolish as to compare with him, V-en he knew it V-as all in vain? W had his reply ready, and would often answer that it was W-ery W-exatious, but that W-irtue would W-anquish: that V was a W-ile W-arlet, and as sour as W-inegar. U, another inveterate enemy to great A, took every opportunity of stepping into his place, and perpetually talked of his veng-u-nce, and his defi-u-nce. U, during the whole war, continued to make stolen marches on the united troops of A and I, because he said he was cert-u-n they were two vill-u-ns. E and R, a couple of turbulent letters, like pert swaggerers, as they were, whenever they could thrust their noses in any place, never had the good manners to wait for an invitation, and propriety was very much shocked at the improp-er-iety of their conduct. The modern orators, anxious as they were, with the aid of all the authors, to put an end to these perplexing disputes, instead of appeasing, added fresh fuel to the flames of discord; each letter insisting that he could produce an equal number of authorities in his favor to those his antagonist boasted himself able to bring forward. The ladies divided their favors so impartially among them all, one day adopting one side, and changing their minds the next, that most learned philosophers were inadequate to name the parties they either countenanced or rejected. The more fashionable, the more were both sexes in confusion; but the critics increased that confusion into a "confusion worse confounded." Now, in describing this ever memorable battle, it is essential that, like other heroic writers, I should inform my readers what was said and done by the gods and goddesses on this occasion. Well, then, the "immortals" began wrangling and fighting like so many imps; Envy, Malice, and Spleen were divided between both parties. Wisdom was for neither. Jove, weary of this jar about nothing, called a council of all the wits and critics in heaven. He flatly told the wits they were a pack of fools; they murmured, but Truth, touching them with her wand, confirmed the decree. He pronounced the same sentence against the critics, who immediately began to revenge themselves by finding fault with his works, maintaining he knew nothing of what was the effect of his own invention, that light was darkness, and darkness light. Naturally enraged at this, Jove told them they were as pert as .jackdaws, as vain as peacocks, and as stupid as owls. To which Truth cried Amen! He then sentenced the rebellious critics to tear each other to pieces; they immediately fell eagerly to work, and have continued the practice till the present day. As for the contending letters, they were sent into banishment to various provinces, where they have remained ever since, and established a wide-extended empire of provincial barbarism. SAMUEL MAUnder. CXXXVIII.--FUNERAL CHANT FOR THE OLD YEAR. 'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year! And it calleth from its shroud With a hollow voice and loud, And it saith-"What have I given Dóst thou weep, as one forsaken, 'Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year! They will serve it for a pall, In their gloom;— And the misty vapors crowding 'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year! The moon hath gone to weep With a mourning still and deep The stars dâre not assemble Through the murky night to tremble- And hosts, whose banners wear 'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year! Who make the funeral train When the queen hath ceased to reign? With the golden crowns that follow Shines the midnight from their glory, And the pean of their song Rolls the aisles of space along, But the left hearts are less strong, 'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year! Lingering with their faces groundward, But Earth waves them from her view,— And they shiver, as spars do, Before the blast! 'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year! For the infant and the stranger MISS E. J. BAYARD. CXXXIX.-FROM A LETTER TO THE UNKNOWN PURCHASER AND NEXT OCCUPANT OF GLENMARY. SIR: In selling you the dew and sunshine ordained to fall hereafter on this bright spot of earth-the waters on their way to this sparkling brook—the tints mixed for the flowers of that enamelled meadow, and the songs bidden to be sung in coming summers by the feathery builders in Glenmary, I know not whether to wonder more at the omnipotence of money, or at my own impertinent audacity toward Nature. How you can buy the right to exclude at will every other creature made in God's image from sitting by this brook, treading on that carpet of flowers, or lying listening to the birds in the shade of these glorious trees--how I can sell it you, is a mystery not understood by the Indian, and dark, I must say, to me. "Lord of the soil," is a title which conveys your privileges but poorly. You are måster of waters flowing at this moment, perhaps in a river of Judea, or floating in clouds over some spicy island of the tropics, bound hither after many changes. There are lilies and violets ordered for you in millions, acres of sunshine in daily installments, and dew nightly in proportion. There are throats to be tuned with song, and wings to be painted with red and gold, blue and yellow; thousands of them, and all tributaries to you. Your corn is ordered to be sheathed in silk, and lifted high to the sun. Your grain is to be duly bearded and stemmed. There is perfume distilling for your clover, and juices for your grasses and fruits. Ice will be here for your wine, shade for your refreshment at noon, breezes and showers and snow-flakes; all in their season, and all "deeded to you for forty dollars the acre!" Gods! what a copyhold of property for a fallen world. |