week comes down with a crash: and the headstone of last year is splitting and crumbling?

That stone of dark grey colour has endured the storms of seven score years, prone on the ground:-no atom has shrunk; no tracery is even indistinct!

And now turn and look at the great oaks:-beneath their shade the chariots of five generations of men and women have awaited the end of service:-to the boughs have been attached the "thoroughbreds" of gallants long mouldered in the dust.

The spot which we gaze on so idly was the stage of many comedies-and the comedians, male and female, wore the richest costumes. Strephon came in a great hanging coat and waistcoat, covered with embroidery: his hair powdered and tied with a ribband: his knees decorated with buckles: his cocked-hat with a feather:-Chloe issued from her chariot in a great hooped dress, and square-cut bodice, and hair à la Pompadour-stepping lightly on her high red heels, which were clearly seen as she raised her silk dress and scarlet petticoat. And Strephon and Chloe, and Damon and Daphne ogled and smiled, and languished and laughed— as they went to kneel decorously in the high-backed pews, and listen to Mr. Mossom in the tub-shaped pulpit.

It is easy, as we sit here beneath the great oaks and gaze at the memorials of another age, to renew the old scenes, and reconstruct the past. You lapse into a dream as it were, in presence of these objects-the present disappears: you see all the lights and smiles, and gay carnival of a generation that is forgotten-a day that is dead. But it is only to awake in the prosaic age!

Shall we linger still, for an hour, in the haunted domain of the past? The scenes which we shall witness belong to history; for a great name sheds upon them the unfading light of a matchless

renown.

We stand before an old mansion called the "White House," about three miles from St. Peter's.

It is about noon, on a bright Spring

day of the year 1758:-just a century ago.

Two gentleman-the first an elderly Virginia planter, the other a young officer, of about twenty-five, clad in a military dress, and followed by a tall servant-approach the portal and dismount. The young officer delivers his bridle into the hands of Bishop, his attendant-cautioning him not to leave the spot, as he will return in half an hour to continue his journey. He then enters the hospitable mansion with his host.

The old soldier-servant makes the military salute: allows his hand again to fall and remains motionless like a statue in his saddle, holding the bridle of his master's charger.

Half an hour-an hour-passes, Bishop looks with some astonishment toward the door. Another hour elapses:-Bishop gazes at the "White House" with an incredulous expression. He has never

known his master to break his word before. Still, he knows only one law-military obedience. He will remain in the saddle all night-all the next day—until he receives new orders.

Luckily, however, this is not necessary. A servant comes out and informs him that his master will not ride further that day-decides, indeed, to dine and spend the night with his host.

Bishop nods-leads the charger toward the stables-thinks something strange has happened.

On the next morning he attends before the door again, in obedience to orders:his master will immediately continue his journey to Williamsburg. His horse is fresh, and paws impatiently.

Bishop remains motionless for an houran equestrian statue as before: then the same servant re-appears and says that the Colonel will stay to dinner: prepare his horse immediately thereafter. Bishop slowly returns to the stables, reflecting that the end of the world must be coming, since the Colonel again changed his mind, and countermanded orders.

In the evening, however, the subject of all this astonishment appears at last, and mounts into the saddle, amid many courteous good wishes from his host. He

is a noble cavalier:-tall, graceful, of manly beauty-his bearing lofty and imposing, spite of his twenty-five years, but deprived of all appearance of stiffness by a certain calmness and majesty which seem inseparable from his character. His costume is that of a British Colonel in half dress; a sabre rattles against his horseman's boots: his cockedhat is fixed firmly on his brow. As he reins in his splendid charger until he rears almost, and with his right hand extended, makes a sign of courteous farewell toward the mansion, where at an open window a fair lady may be seenthe young soldier is the model of a hero and a lover.

A handkerchief is waved in return for the salute-the Colonel strikes the spur into his charger-and followed close by Bishop, still erect and silent, disappears at a gallop on the road to Williamsburg.

Colonel George Washington, of "Mount Vernon," in Fairfax county, had seen for the first time Mrs. Martha Custis, the beautiful young widow who, a year afterward, is to become his wife.

Conflicting traditions indicate the "White House" and St. Peter's as the scene of the ceremony:-as the former is destroyed, let us hold to the more pleasant explanation, that the old walls of St. Peter's saw the festival. We, too, may see it, thanks to the brush of the painter who took his figures "from the original pictures of Colonel and Mrs. Washington, the one of the date of 1772, by Peale, and the other of 1759, by Woolaston." It is thus described-the picture.

"The scene is laid in the ancient parish church of St. Peter's, county of New Kent, colony of Virginia, time 6th of January, 1759..

In the foreground and near the altar appears the Rev. Dr. Mossom, the officiating clergyman, in full canonicals; he is about to present the marriage ring. The bridegroom is in a suit of blue and silver, lined with red silk-embroidered waistcoat-small clothes-gold shoe and knee buckles-dress sword-hair in full powder. The bride in a suit of white satin, rich point-faced ruffles-pearl ornaments in her hair-pearl necklace, earrings and

bracelets-white satin high-heeled shoes, with diamond buckles-she is attended by a groupe of ladies, in the gorgeous costumes of that ancient period. Near to the bridegroom is a brilliant groupe, comprising the vice regal Governor of Virginia, several English army and navy officers, then on colonial service, with the very elite of Virginia chivalry of the old règime. The Governor is in a suit of scarlet, embroidered with gold, with bag wig and sword-the gentlemen in the fashion of the time.

"But among the most interesting and picturesque of the personages in the various groupes is Bishop, the celebrated body-servant of Braddock, and then Washington, with whom he ended his days, after service of more than forty years.

"This veteran soldier of the wars of George II. forms a perfect study in the picture. His tall attenuated form and soldierly bearing, as with folded arms and cocked-hat in hand respectfully, he has approached the bridal groupe, gives a touching interest to the whole scene. He is in a scarlet coat, and is booted and spurred, having just dismounted, and relinquished the favourite charger of his chief to a groom. Through the large folding doors of the church is seen the old-fashioned coach of the bride, drawn by six horses; also, the fine English charger bequeathed to Washington by Braddock, after the fatal field of the Monongahela. From the account of the marriage, handed down from those who were present at its celebration, it appears that the bride and her ladies occupied the coach, while the Provincial Colonel rode bis splendid charger, attended by a splendid cortège of the gay and gallant of the land. Such was Washington's marriage in 1759."

Was not that a picturesque scenea fair festival? But in the old days everything was picturesque: for life had not yet become a mere race for cash—a thing of dollars and cents. In those honest days, men and women were so unreasonable as to believe that pleasure, if innocent, was a desirable object:-that costume should be something more than

covering that social gatherings and festivals were eminently promotive of good feeling and regard. Do we live so much more happily than cur ancestors? Were not the lives of the old Virginia planters, after all, enviable?

Beneath the deep blue skies, with their snowy clouds-in presence of dawns which rolled a sea of amethyst from the great forests to the zenith; or sunsets breaking on the shores of evening in imperial purple, all spangled over with the burning and glittering fires of night:on the shores of their great rivers, plashing carelessly with silver ripples, or rolling with a stately and triumphal music to the sea:-in the midst of these scenesamong the forests vocal with sonorous anthems; or the smiling fields, all green or golden:-in this land of fresh and noble beauty, went on joyously the life of the old planters. Is the life of cities better?-dust and glare to be preferred? With great old houses, whose loose win. dows shook in every blast--tables that groaned with profuse, wholesome food— wide fire-places, roaring like so many bonfires in the long hours of the winter night: with freedom, comfort, social amusements, books, the "Virginia Gazette"-last, with horse-races, assemblies, fox-hunts, and marriage jubilees:-thus

lived the planters in the old time, and enjoyed themselves, and laughed, and passed away. They had faults, not a few but after all, are our modern habits really an improvement on the past? Let the impartial philosopher declare.

But I wander far from old St. Peter's. Before we leave it let us bestow a parting glance upon its dilapidated weathercock-its old tombstones with their heraldic emblems-its open vestibule-its great oaks. We will not enter: for there the past disappears. The internal arrangements are all changed-it is a modern church from that point of view.

But, without, all remains unaltered; it stands as it did when the stalwart heel of Washington clashed on the stones: when the graceful figure of Martha Custis descended from the chariot, and passed in-when the scenes of other days were acted under the great trees.

The old building sleeps amid its broken tombs-careless of rain or shine, of snow or storm. The passing years only make its material harder.

We have gazed upon it on this bright forenoon of 1858:-if some convulsion, or the hand of Vandals do not overturn it, other eyes may look upon the edifice two centuries from this time. Ainsi soit-il!

VOL. XXVI-30

In the debates of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, during its recent session in Baltimore, we observed that a proposition was entertained providing for the simplification of the name of the body, so that members might indicate their rights in the confraternity by the employment of less cumbrous initials than M. A. A. A. S. We do not know what was done in the premises, but we confess we are hopeful that the good sense of the Association will never encourage the adoption of vain and high-sounding titles by furnishing its members with any more convenient and less ridiculous appendage than the five letters given above. Decency is constantly outraged in this country by the parade of empty dignities on the part of obscure and conceited individuals, and there is no surer sign of a snob than to see a man tacking on a long list of capital letters after his name. When we open a book which gives its author as A.M., L.B., LL. D., M.A.G.S., &c., &c., we always feel inclined to append A.S.S. as a matter of justice, and we are reminded by contrast of the piquant epitaph which Piron desired to have inscribed upon his tomb,

Ci gît Piron, qui ne fut rien
Pas même Académicien----

which somebody, we know not who, has so well paraphrased---

Here lies Piron, who was nothing, or, if that could be, was less,

How nothing? oh yes nothing, not so much as F. R. S.

We recollect that the Rev. J. C. Stiles of the Presbyterian church, when residing in this city several years ago, declined the degree of D.D., which had been conferred upon him by some learned University, as "a bauble unworthy of Christ's Ministry," and although we thought at the time the reverend gentleman had administered a rather sharp rebuke to very many of his excellent brethren in the pulpit, who had bourgeoned into Doctors of Divinity, we are now more than satisfied that he was

right, and that the careless liberality with which such degrees are now-a-days conferred is not merely discreditable to the institutions from which they come, but tends to cast a shade of ridicule over the exalted profession of the clergyman. Indeed, we have heard a wicked story, which may per haps be apocryphal, of a worthy old preacher of the Gospel, who, having received the Doctorate at the hands of a distant college, and being quite innocent of its meaning, somewhat startled the Faculty, in his letter of acceptance, by the use of small characters and a dash to indicate the compliment, in assuring them that he felt highly honoured that they "had selected him to be d-d."

With regard to the American Association for the Advancement of Science, a title indicative of membership is worth absolutely nothing, since no evidence of proficiency in any department of scientific research is necessary for admission into the body. Any gentleman who will pay his initiation fee can be elected, without the slightest inquiry into his acquaintance with the imponderables, and thenceforward he is entitled to all the privileges that belong to M. Louis Agassiz or Professor Rogers. He may sit among the savans, and be reckoned a man of profound learning, though he may not be able to comprehend a sentence of a single essay that is read, or to tell the difference between a hypothenuse and a hippopotamus. Now, it is for the benefit of the feeble members that the Association is asked to provide initials convenient for or dinary usage. Great men, like those we have just mentioned, care but little for the dignity of membership; it is the small Professor, who perhaps has written a treatise on the " Wriggling of Little Eels," that would like to figure on the title-page of that valuable contribution to Natural History as a member of this great and learned society. It has always been the case that the less real learning a man has, the more is he desirous of being thought to have. This is adroitly suggested in the charming allegory of John Bunyan. When Hopeful and Pilgrim encountered the lad

Ignorance, we are told that he was coming out of one of the byways of the country of Conceit.

If the Association should ever gratify the vanity of its ignorant philosophers by furnishing them with a degree, we trust it will at the same time prescribe some qualification for membership. Let a man at least show that he has examined some branch of science with study and care, let him prove that he knows something either of ferns or fossils, that he has mastered an onoiny or an ology, before he shall be permitted to go out to the world vaunting his rights as a member of the Association. Otherwise the body cannot but lose scientific caste, in sending out yearly a host of snobs to show with what small attainments membership can be enjoyed.

We find the following remarks, prefaced to Coleridge's exquisite poem beginning

All thoughts, all passions, all delights
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,----

in a late number of the Leisure Hour, a literary paper published at Oxford, N. C.

.

"The following poem was recently republished in the Home Journal It purports to be, and may be, from the pen of Coleridge. It is not the poem of Genevieve' that is to be found in any edition of Coleridge's works that has come under our eye. We have an edition of his works before us, as we write; but the subjoined poem is altogether different from the one in that copy. However, the reader will find the one published below a very beautiful and exquisite production.----ED."

We confess our surprise that any literary man should be unacquainted with this poem or in doubt as to its authorship. If the Editor will turn to his edition of Coleridge again, he will see that it contains the verses, under the caption of "Love," and that the Home Journal's copy of them is disfigured by several verbal alterations.

We are glad to have the opportunity afforded us by this paragraph of rendering a sincere tribute of praise to the Leisure Hour, a journal that we have already learned to value as the exponent of a high literary culture in North Carolina. There is a grace of expression, combined with freshness and independence of thought, in its

editorials especially which we greatly like. One such paper in every Southern State would much improve the literary taste and stimulate the literary production of our people.

Our friend, Charles G. Leland, Esq., writes to us, touching the article on Whittier and Mrs. Browning, from the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, in our Table last month, that we are doubly in error in supposing him to be the author of it, and in stating that he contributes the literary critiques which appear in that journal. The article in question was prepared by another hand, and though "Meister Karl" does write for the critical columns of the Bulletin, our statement was certainly calculated to mislead in conveying the idea that he was the sole literary member of the Bulletin's staff. We make the correction with the greater pleasure, because we know that no man would be more annoyed than Mr. Leland in having honours imputed to him that are not his own.

The Living Age republishes, with a credit to the London Journal, poor Fenno Hoffman's beautiful poem of "Monterey." We approve the taste which dictated the selection, but wonder that the Editor was not aware of the American origin of the lyric. The author is unhappily bereft of reason and cannot assert his claim to his own verses--we are rejoiced to do this for him in transferring to the pages of the Messenger one of the most stirring battle-pieces in our literature.

MONTEREY.

BY CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

We were not many--we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day,
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years, if he but could

Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot was hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quailed
When wounded comrades round them wail-
ed

Their dying shout at Monterey.