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Why is all this? We need not go far for an answer: the interests of Mr. Seward demand it!

It is deemed necessary to raise false issues, create some new excitement, and arouse the slumbering passions of the people, to secure the elevation of Mr. Seward to the chief magistracy of the Union. And are the American people willing to submit to this? Are American freemen, who revere the memories of Webster and Clay, willing to renounce their principles, and allow themselves to be used as mere things for Mr. Seward's advancement? We do not believe it. This movement is insulting alike to their wisdom, patriotism, and intelligence, and will fail. Just as sure as the sun will rise and set on the morrow will Mr. Seward fail to reach the goal of his ambition. The American people are not mere things; they are national, high-minded, MEN; nor will they so far forget the respect due to themselves, and the duty they owe to their country, as to raise a finger to promote the interests of Mr. Seward's "Republican" party. We can scarcely imagine a more humiliating spectacle than the election of Mr. Seward would present; nor could any thing happen which would endanger the permanency of the Union to a greater degree than the ascendency of this one man party to power.

Thus have the two parties risen, and now claim to the dig nity of opponents of Democracy-with what degree of plausi bility let the future attest.

The Democratic party alone has preserved its political integrity; and it is as eager as ever to do battle for its timehonored principles. Appealing to no one section of the Union for success, the Democratic party rests its future hope upon the intelligence, the wisdom, and the patriotism of the American People. Relying on no one-ideaism-cherishing fondly those principles which have ever been inherent in it, and by which our country has ever prospered the Democratic party seeks only the continued prosperity of the

"Glorious WHOLE of glorious parts,"

and presents a proud contrast to its opponents which depend upon sectional feelings and men for success.

The triumph of either of the opponents of Democracy in 1856 would be a national calamity. It would be the success of sectionalism over nationalism; of radicalism over conservatism; and would endanger the stability of the Union, by which alone our Republic can stand, and the feeling for whose

safety is paramount in the breasts of all true Americans. In view, therefore, of the possibility of any other than a result favorable to the interests of the country, it behooves us, not only as Democrats, but as national men-as Union men-to unite, and, rising as one man, roll back the tide of fanaticism which threatens the country, and consign the instigators and abettors of the One Man and Know-Nothing parties to obloquy and oblivion.

EXTRACT

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, "STRIFE OF THE POETS."

NEXT Dana, eldest of the band, arose

Three-score his years. His theme, Time's close.
This was his song:

The angel paused. He stood upon a cliff
Of fearful height and form, extending from
The battlements of heaven to the centre
Of the encircling sea.

And heavy at its base.

The waves rolled hoarse

The breeze was hushed.

His light robes gathered round his noble form.
His duty was to count the seconds of

Eternity and sound the knell of worlds.

He stretchéd far his keen and piercing eye

Into the wilderness of worlds, to seek

The one called Earth. And as 'tween forest-trees

We mortals see the setting sun, as now

And then a ray finds passage through, so he

Beheld the object of his search. Thrice he

Called its name, thrice the Earth replied. He bade

The universe be still; then kneeling on

The naked rock, waving his palm on high,

With trembling voice he spake: "Time was!" he cried, "Time was!" echoed from world to world and fell

Upon the ear of Earth. The angel paused
Again. He turned his tearful eye to the
Towers of heaven. Angels, archangels, and
The saints redeemed were kneeling on its walls,

Its terraces, and towers. Their harps were hushed.
Mindless of the earth, once more the angel

Spake: "Time is!" he cried. "Time is!" echoed from
The grottoes of his native realm, from star

To star, but died away long ere it reached

The ear of Earth. Once more the angel paused

He turned his eye to the great pendulum

Which marks the seconds of eternity

And sounds the knell of worlds, then gazed upon
The aged Earth. His brow is pale, his lips
Quiver, his heart beats high. The mandate of
His God trembles on his tongue; he turns his eye
Once more back to his native seat and prays

For strength. Then rises from his knees, waves his
Palm on high, brushes the tear away, and
With the majesty of his God proclaims:

"Time shall be no more!"-"Time shall be no more!" Falls heavy on the car of Earth.

The hour has come. The wings of Time are furled
Upon her weary breast. The trembling world,

Like weary wounded bird, by toil oppressed,

Seeks Lethe's wave, where exiled worlds may rest;
Heaves its last breath upon the rugged lea,

Where roll the billows of eternity.

Its race is run, its weary flight is o'er;

Groans bid adieu, and sighs return no more.

Then Gravitation yields her sacred trust,

And Earth's hard rocks and yielding waves are dust.

The poet paused. His white locks floated in

The rising breeze. "Ah me!" he said, "a dreamA wretched dream!" "But, ah! three-score and six!" ""Tis all the same!" "Time's close is near to me!" He rested on his mossy seat, like one

Wearied by troubled dream.

BOOK NOTICES.

A Voice to America; or, the Model Republic, its Glory, or its Fall: with a review of the causes of the decline and failure of the Republics of South-America, Mexico, and of the Old World, applied to the present crisis in the United States. NewYork: Edward Walker. 1855. 400 pp.

Ir has been well said, that "the success of certain works may be traced to sympathy between the author's mediocrity of ideas and mediocrity of ideas on the part of the public." We fear for the success of this work, at least in this country, for the reason that we doubt whether there exists on the part of the American people the essential mediocrity of ideas. We have, with some labor and at a considerable expense of patience, read "A Voice to America," and have found it vox et præterea nihil.

Poems. By Franklin W. Fish. New-Haven: Thomas H. Pease. 1855.

124 pp.

MR. FISH, in his preface, announces himself as "a plain fellow, with but little pretensions to what is commonly styled genius;" his Poems, he says, are "fugitives thrown off during the stray hours of a student's life." With the author's modest account of himself, we feel not the slightest inclination to find fault; of his Poems, however, we have a few words to say. We are glad to see this work of Mr. Fish's: first, because it is, in many respects, well executed; and secondly, because, in the universal corruption and rigmarole amid which we gasp for breath, it is really refreshing to get even one accidental whiff of the unadulterated air of truth. We allude more particularly to the first in the book, a satirical poem, entitled The Present Age, which has many defects, but has also very many remarkable meritsmerits which it will be useless for those aggrieved by the satire-quite useless for any clique or set of cliques to frown down, or to affect not to see, or to feel, or to understand. Again we welcome Mr. Fish's poems, as coming from

"The honest hand that guides an honest pen."

A Visit to the Camp before Sebastopol. By Richard C. McCormick, Jr. New-York: D. Appleton & Co.

MR. MCCORMICK visited the Crimea, and appears to have had an excellent opportunity to see the "Lions." His descriptions are clear and well connected. The volume contains maps and illustrations, and altogether presents a clearer view of affairs at the "beleagured city" than we have found elsewhere.

Cone Cut Corners; the Experience of a Conservative Family in Fanatical Times. By Benauly. New-York: Mason Brothers.

NEW-ENGLAND is full of "Cone Cut Corners," and this work mirrors them most accurately. We like writings of this kind, that come down to the little things of life-that can make so many "citizens of the world," see and feel their childhood and youth over again. We need more such books. They instruct and soothe while they amuse and charm.

The book before us may have some faults for the critic who sees no good where there is not a perfect plot and the most excelling art. But we like to read of "Elder Grains" and "The Donation Party," and we like the skillful manner in which good morals are inculcated in "Cone Cut Corners."

ENTERTAINMENT.

RACHEL AT THE METROPOLITAN.

WE have seen the great French tragedian, and are obliged to register our opinion, that she is the greatest artist in her line who has ever trodden on the boards in New-York. She brought us a new style, and made us acquainted with a purely new school of acting. In the mere matter of lungs we could cite several artists who excel her, and also in the violence of dramatic gesticulation, but for quiet and reserved intensity of feeling we must most candidly say that we have never seen one who is worthy to be named with her.

Indeed, we may doubt whether, in three of her characters, she could ever have been equalled upon the French stage. Most certainly nothing which we have seen upon the American, by either male or female artist, can for one moment be placed in comparison with her acting. These are her acting in Camille in "Les Horaces," (we prefer the original name of the tragedy,) by Corneille; her Tisbe in Victor Hugo's "Angelo;" and her Adrienne Lecouvreur. Nothing could have been finer than her scene with the erring wife of the Podesta in the second of these dramas. All was so quiet, yet so full of passion and power, that we felt as we saw it that a new leaf of experience had been turned for us, and were compelled to admit that we had scarcely before known what tragic acting was. Since we have seen her we confess that we begin to see that our own tragedy is closely verging upon melodrama, and that it can scarcely be considered legitimate art in the way that the French must view it. But in addition to the depth and power with which she interprets every thing, we must also do justice to her action. This, statuesquely studied as it is, she could evidently never have reached in its perfection had she not been strikingly prompted by nature to obtain it. Every pose is a picture. Not a gesture does she make which does not place her in an attitude fit for the study

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