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during all the "ups and downs slave republic, including its closing days, and finally, in the occupancy of his cell during the days of his captivity; and the nation waits to know how that dream shall end.

of the brief existence of the great

THE DEATH OF ELTON.

ABOUT twenty-three or twenty-four years since, an actor of some repute, by the name of Elton-a great favorite of the English playgoing public-after fulfilling an engagement in Scotland, was lost on his return to England on board a steamer. Public sympathy was aroused in behalf of his family. The proceeds of one night's performance of nearly all the theaters and concert rooms in London were devoted to their benefit. At the conclusion of the first piece at the Haymarket Theatre, Mrs. Warner, an actress, presented herself upon the stage, and delivered, with much earnestness and feeling, an address written for the occasion by Thos. Hood. How eloquently he "sung the Song of the Shirt" we all remember, and we think our readers will perceive that but few could plead for the widow and orphans with such earnestness and pathos as did Hood in the following lines.

We have searched for them in all the late editions of his works, and failed to find them; therefore present them, for the first time, to the readers of the NORTHERN Monthly and NEW JERSEY MAGAZINE:

"Hush! not a sound! no whisper! no demur!

No restless motion no intrusive stir!

But with a staid presence, and a quiet breath,
One solemn moment dedicate to death.

For now no fancied miseries bespeak
The panting bosom and the wetted cheek;

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No fabled tempest, or dramatic wreck,
Nor royal sire washed from the mimic deck,
And dirged by sea-nymphs in his briny grave :-
Alas! deep, deep beneath the sullen wave-
His heart, once warm and throbbing as your own,
Now cold and senseless as the shingle stone:
His lips so eloquent!--choked up with sand!

The bright eye glazed, and the impressive hand
Idly entangled in the ocean weed-

Full fathom five A FATHER lies, indeed!

Yes, where the foaming billows roam the while,
Around the rocky ferns and Holy Isle,

Deaf to their roar, as to the dear applause
That greets deserving in the drama's cause--
Blind to the horrors that appall the bold,—
To all he hoped or fear'd, or priz'd of old,—

To love and love's deep agony--a-cold!

He who could move the passions, moved by none,

Drifts an unconscious corse!-poor Elton's race is run.
Sigh for the dead! Yet not alone for him
O'er whom the cormorant and gannet swim!
Weep for the dead! Yet do not merely weep
For him who slumbers in the oozy deep!
But like Grace Darling, in her little boat,
Stretch forth a saving hand to those that float,-
The orphan seven! so prematurely hurl'd
Amidst the surges of the stormy world,

And struggling-save your pity, take their part-
With breakers huge enough to break their heart!"

THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH, JUNE 28, 1778.

FOUR-AND-EIGHTY years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;
These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;
Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,
Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne-
Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,
Though a stripling at that fight for the right.

All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,
Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down ;
Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping,
Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown,

With their resting horses neighing, and their evening bugles playing,

And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.

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Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted,
And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes;
Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories-
They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those-
While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming after,
Rang around each creaking wain of the train.

'Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warning
Of the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton's might;
Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,
Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapt the fight;
Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,

And the corses gory red of the dead.

Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the Hessians
Heard the baying of the bugles that were hanging on their track-
Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens-
And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back,
Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us,
With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.

For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer,

As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire; For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her, That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire: Never panther from his fastness, through the forest's gloomy vastness, Coursed more grimly night or day for his prey.

I was in the main force posted--Lee, of whom his minions boasted,

Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne; What they did I knew not, cared not-in their march of shame I shared notBut it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again,

At the black morass's border, all in headlong, fierce disorder,
With the Briton plying steel at their heel

Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging,
Never Washington showed feeling when his forces fled the foe;
But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward,
As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low:-
"Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion?
Is it treachery or fear brings you here ?"

Lee grew crimson in his anger-rung his curses o'er the clangor,
O'er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied;
But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded,

Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide; Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning"Will you now strike a blow at the foe?"

At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly:
"Aye!" his voice rang out, "and will not be the first to leave the field;"
And, his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely,
Struck the Briton with such ardor, that the scarlet column reeled;
Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass's border,
Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.

As we turned on flanks and center, in the path of death to enter,

One of Knox's brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer;

And his wife who, 'mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of water

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For the gun and for the gunner, o'er his body shed no tear

Move the piece!"—but there they found her loading, firing that six-pounder, And she gayly till we won worked the gun.

Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer-then a volley
Pouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back;
Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought us,
That, though struck with heat and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack :-
There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer,

While we swept with wrath condign on their line.

From our center backward driven, with his forces rent and riven,
Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks;
In a column firm advancing; from his bayonets hot rays glancing,
Showed in waving lines of brilliance as he tell upon our flanks,
Charging bravely for his master-thus he met renewed disaster
From the stronghold that we held back repelled.

Monckton, gallant, cool and fearless, 'mid his bravest comrades peerless,
Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain;
Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around them
From the mouth of Procter's cannon, from the musketry of Wayne;
While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals,

Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.

Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid, o'er the battle raging horrid,
Till in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon;
Heat, and not a drop of water-heat, that won the race of slaughter-
Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June-
Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring,
As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.

On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping,
Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show;
Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number,
Secking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe-
For we felt his power was broken; but what rage was ours outspoken,
When on waking at the dawn, he had gone.

In the midnight still and somber, while our force was wrapt in slumber,
Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook;
Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories—
Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook;
Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing:-
So we found the field our own, and alone.

EDITOR'S SADDLE-BAGS.

We regret the necessity of omitting | in this number the usual article on the History of the English Language. Our readers who have appreciated these admirable papers by Mr. Whitehead will miss them; they will appear in August and thereafter.

THE following definition of wit and humor, from the pen of the eminent essayist E. P. Whipple, will be found instructive. It may not be out of place in a department where, from the mysterious corners of our "Saddle-Bags," we may occasionally draw a trifle of either

"Wit was originally a general name for all the intellectual powers, meaning the faculty which kens, perceives, knows, understands; it was gradually narrowed in its signification to express merely the resemblance between ideas; and, lastly, to note that resemblance when it occasioned ludicrous surprise. It marries ideas lying wide apart, by a sudden jerk of the understanding. Humor originally meant moisture, a signification it metaphorically retains, for it is the very juice of the mind oozing from the brain, and enriching and fertilizing wherever it falls. Wit exists by antipathy, Humor by sympathy.

Wit laughs at things; Humor laughs with them. Wit lashes external appearances, or cunningly exaggerates single foibles into character; Humor glides into the heart of its object, looks lovingly on the infirmities it detects, and represents the whole man.

rapid, and blasting as the lightning, strikes, and vanishes in an instant; Humor, warm and all embracing as the sunshine, bathes its objects in a genial and abiding light.

"Wit implies hatred or contempt of folly and crime, produces its effects by brisk shocks of surprise, uses the whip of scorpions and the branding-iron, stabs, stings, pinches, tortures, goads, teases, corrodes, undermines; Humor implies a sure conception of the beautiful, the majestic, and the true, by whose light it surveys and shapes their opposites. It is a humane influence softening with mirth the rugged inequalities of existence, promoting tolerant views of life, bridging over the spaces which separate the lofty from the lowly, the great from the humble. Old Dr. Fuller's remark, that a negro is the image of God cut in ebony,' is humorous; Horace Smith's, that the task-master is the image of the devil cut in ivory,' is witty."

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THE newspaper critics appear to have recognized the merits and attractiveness of our "Saddle-Bags," by opening upon it a heavy fire of criticism. While blaming it for not surpassing Sidney Smith in wit, they acknowledge its interest by the space they devote to its censure. Some seem to have taken the contents of the Saddle-Bags" under their special care. Once in a while, they get off a pleasant story themselves, and it is but natural they should feel a little envious of one which relates "Wit is abrupt, darting, scornful, and a great many of such lively tales, in tosses its analogies in your faces; Hu- its every issue. Others, however, mor is slow and shy, insinuating its fun show their appreciation by transinto your heart. Wit is negative, ana-ferring copious extracts from this lytical, destructive; Humor is creative. department to their columns, thus The couplets of Pope are witty: but evincing their good taste and gratiSancho Panza is a humorous creation. fying their readers simultaneously. Wit, when earnest, has the earnestness : Perhaps some will borrow the folof passion, seeking to destroy; Humor lowing. The incident occurred a few has the earnestness of affection, and days ago in Jersey City. A prominent would lift up what is seemingly low lawyer of that flourishing place was into our charity and love. Wit, bright, called upon at his house, after business

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