had woven its waters of the skeins of brooks. He had wedded the twain. He had conceived and uttered a thought. And there it was, in one great, glorious line, of a poem yet to be completed, when some Milton, gifted with the eloquence of the hand, shall spurn the cradle of some coming Age.

Is it any less a line, that it was traced upon the green and golden scroll of the globe? Any less a sentiment, that it was uttered with a shovel? And he, CLINTON! is he not as much an author, as if, occupying an apartment walled in with learned nonsense, he had written upon "superfine satin post?"

Ah! if the Babel-cleft world ever claim a common tongue, and own a common kindred, it will be when the SAXON HAND shall forge a great dialect, needing neither lexicographer nor lexicon, "known and read of all men." A language that has ringing hammers and jarring wheels, rustling fields and harvest songs, for accents. When the sweet Ionic of the Golden Age shall no longer stand unrivalled, and man shall hail "my brother!" around the globe, uttered in the real, living eloquence of the Educated Hand.

Digging a line of poetry, indeed! They shall shovel out whole cantos from rich loam; they-every body

shall carve out beauty from rock; forge beatitudes' in furnaces; sow hopes in fallow fields, and reap joys in harvest.

Railway Magic.

EVERY day the whistle, ring and jar, that grand trio of the Age, before which old Minstrelsy is dumb, come to us over Clear Lake and through the woods, from the M. S. and N. I. R. R.—as many initials as Garrick made faces-a whole Alphabet-TRAIN. It's a luxury that costs nothing-the chime of a mighty chronometer we hear the beat of great pendulums swinging through their iron arcs, East and West, Toledo and Chicago, here and there; ticking hours by the triplet all the day long. We set the clock by the shrill whistle of the iron boatswain, as he pipes "all aboard" at La Porte, and catch ourselves looking in the clear sky for a cloud, when the iron-bound thunder rolls along the rails.

There are a thousand things that every body sees, and no body thinks of; witchery, if you will have it so; wonders, whether you will or not. No more potent Charmer ever dwelt in "the drowsy East," than

DISTANCE, and especially if it has MOTION for a handmaid. Its enchantments are not merely those of a Costumer, draping mountains in azure, and "such like."

A wave of its wand, and presto, magical changes are wrought, that would have kept that incorrigible Sultan-if he was a Sultan-a "thousand and one nights" longer, with the hearing.

Did you ever crcep gingerly-should there be another "ly" to the gingerly?-up to the deck of a Railway Car, when the train was moving, say twenty-five or thirty miles an hour? And did you look away on, beyond the Train, where the two iron bars— that noblest couplet in the great epic of the time— were welded lovingly together, without hammer, or furnace, or fire, but just beneath the wonderful, invisible fingers of Distance, till they lay there, a huge V upon the bosom of the Prairie? And how marvellously, as the Train moved on, those stubborn bars swayed round to a parallel; as lightly and noiselessly as a brace of sunbeams, flung from a mirror swinging in the wanton wind, sweep round in the blue air? And did you "mind "—not a spike wrenched from its good hold, not a tie un-tied, not a timber splintered? There must be a charm in those fingers indeed.

There now, a brood of little haycocks, escaped from their native meadow, have clustered down on the track, right before the Engine. Heedless little things! But age will bring wisdom, and one of these days, they'll be discreet haystacks, and not go gossiping upon Railroad tracks. Will be! Why, they are getting to be stacks already. From Lilliput to the other place what a name it is to write!—is but a minute, or a minute and a half. How they expand and "get up in the world" as we near them. And they hear the Train, for see, they are wheeling in a sort of Knickerbocker waltz to the right and left, over the fence and back of the barn and beyond the orchard, and there they are, dignified and imperturbable as Haystacks ought to be.

And those little Bushes-a capital B, if they are bushes-exactly in the way, whispering and all of a flutter, dodging up here, and nestling down there, like truants in the "Entry," during school hours. On thunders the Train, and up jump the Bushes.

Bushes indeed; TREES, forest trees, trees of a century; columns in "God's first temples." The trees are on the track; growing on the track! On the track indeed. By the holy rood, they are rods

away, just where they were before Railways were dreamed of.

And the worker of all this diablerie! You can see the fluttering of her blue robe just there in the horizon. She has gone on to conjure again. It is DISTANCE !

The Church moves

"Stop the Train! Let us off! Conductor, Captain, Some body, Any body!" There's a village on the Track; born, christened, and grown since last night. There's a Meeting House and a Grave Yard and a Block of Stores in the way! On we plunge-dispelled at the first whistle! gravely away, as churches should. The Grave Yard, with its sleeping tenantry, is whisked out of sight like a trundle-bed; a martin-box of a cottage scuds round the corner of the Meeting House; the row of brick stores, very much flushed, steps six paces to the rear; the cars jar on, and Distance and Motion are in the secret.

Look behind you, and they are adjusting the machinery for the next Train. Back goes the village that had been frightened away by the whistle, and the stacks and the trees grow "beautifully less," and so it is every day, and all day and every where, when Distance and Motion are partners. There's a some