Our ancestors fled hither to avoid religious persecution, and it was many years before they made good their footing in the land. Every one knows what their sufferings were, and yet they came with more advantages than the emigrants will carry to Oregon. They did not come in carts. They brought with them all that was necessary to procure the comforts if not the luxuries of life. They did not cut themselves off from communion with their friends and connections. The Oregon settlers can, for obvious reasons, carry nothing with them. They are about to put a barrier between themselves and their native land, which cannot be passed and repassed in less than two years, even were there no lions in the path. It may be said that the sea is open to them as it was to their fathers; but it should be remembered that there is a vast difference between a voyage round Cape Horn and one across the Atlantic. Our friends, we fear, are about to attempt to put themselves beyond the reach of human sympathy, aid and protection; and for what? We believe that nobody but Mr. Kelly can tell.

For the first season after their arrival in Oregon, the settlers must rely on their guns and fishing tackle; for we are not told that corn grows spontaneously there. No great crop can be expected the second year. They will not have had time to break the soil. If they raise enough to support life they will do well. Thus three years will be absolutely wasted before their affairs can possibly begin to be prosperous. The advertisements before mentioned inform the colonists that they can vend their surplus grain in the Asiatic ports; among others, in Japan. Japan! quotha. Some one ought to send Mr. Kelly (whose name appears in full at the bottom of the programma) a copy of Morse's Abridgement or Guthrie's Grammar. He might there learn that there is but one port in the Japanese Isles open, and that only to the Dutch. He might learn that the lower classes of all India subsist solely on vegetable food, which is so abundant that an individual may live well for about a penny a day. And if grain were not abundant in India, where is there a better soil than that of Hindostan and of the Burman peninsula? and where can manual labor be procured cheaper? It is really astonishing that one, who has spent the best years of his life in teaching others, should be so grossly ignorant of what every merchant's clerk knows. Mr. Kelly's grain might, indeed, find acceptance in Kamschatka, but unluckily, the Kamschatkadales are too poor to pay

for it.

Again, the advertisement tells the settlers that they may carry on a profitable trade in lumber with the Spanish American ports of the Pacific. Now it so happens that Peru and Chili have lumber of their own, and nearer at hand. Three years ago there was a law in Mexico, and we believe it is still in force, absolutely prohibiting the importation of lumber. It is notorious that several vessels were run ashore in dis-' tress, to evade this law.

If any one is disposed to take lumber to Spanish America, or grain to Japan, cannot he get a ship built here, and purchase beams, boards and spars in the state of Maine? He could do it cheaper here, and more easily, than by taking his tools, &c. to Oregon to build there. Or, if he has a partiality for Oregon timber, what is to hinder him from doubling Cape Horn and cutting his trees, without thanking Mr. Kelly, or any one? He may get trees in Oregon without crossing the

continent; but if he goes thither any time within a dozen years to come, in the expectation of loading with grain, we fear that his supply will be as uncertain as his market-in Japan. If any such trade as Mr. Kelly promises can be carried on, how comes it that none of the masters of Northwest Coast vessels have ever made the discovery? And, supposing the possibility of such a trade, how long will it be before the people of Oregon will commence shipbuilding? Not in this generation, we fear. The art belongs to an advanced state of society.

We can see no advantage in Oregon which the emigrant may not secure in the state of Maine. The sea washes the shores of both. The soil is good in both. There are fisheries pertaining to both. If the climate of Oregon is milder, it is not proved that it is better. There is waste land in both. There is plenty of timber in both. Maine has these advantages. Her inhabitants are under the protection of the laws. They are numerous enough to protect each other. They have free communication with every part of the world. There is no art or science of which she does not possess at least the rudiments. All that can be done in Oregon, within a hundred years, is already done in Maine. Above all, she has no Indians to root out with fire and sword, fraudulent treaties, or oppressive enactments.

That a party of young, brave, hardy men may cross the continent to the mouth of the Columbia, we know; but that a large body of the inhabitants of New-England, wholly unacquainted with Indian life, and encumbered with baggage and their families, can do so, we hold impossible. We think we have proved that it is so. Our facts cannot be disputed, and the inference is as clear as a geometrical demonstration. We do not know that the prime mover of the folly we have exposed is actuated by any evil motive; we do not believe it. We look upon him as an unfortunate man, who, deluded himself, is deluding others, and conceive it our duty to warn those who are about to follow him on the road to ruin. To conclude, we advise those who have been so unfortunate as to embark in this enterprise to erase their names from the list as soon as possible. If they cannot retrieve the money they may have advanced, let them consider it better lost, than followed to Oregon, and be thankful that they have so escaped. W. J. S.

EAST ROCK.

LET not the mountain scorn thy humble height,
Our good old Rock!

The mountain's peak stands lone,
Encased in virgin snow, 'twixt earth and heaven,
And hears the thunder rumbling far beneath,
And, belted with the storm-cloud, sees unmoved
The quivering lightning threading its thick folds,—
Changeless itself, saving as Night and Day,
Coming and going on their sleepless march,
Veil it with shade, or gild it with a crown
Of cloudless sunbeams. By its side, thou art
But as the rock, its fires have downward hurled,
To nestle at its foot. And yet that peak-

Swept by the reckless winds, without one flower,
Or shrub, or living thing, to lure our hearts--
Is neither of the Earth nor yet of Heaven.
Its wastes are not for us,-they are away
From our affections, and we may not roam
Its trackless crust of snow, driving in fright
The hungry vulture from his bootless search-
Breasting the daring eye and sounding wing
Of the old Thunderer's bird.

We love thee more,
We more revere thee, Rock, that long hast stood
A giant fortress near us; there is more

Of earth about thee,-for the fresh-cheeked Spring
Walks up thy side, and strews, from her gay urn,
Where she hath husbanded the last year's flowers,
Unopened buds, that in the Summer's beam
Hang their bright petals o'er thy dizzy edge.
On thy tall woods our gorgeous Autumn flings
Her vesture, woven of the sun-set hues.
Nor shall the rudest blast of Winter blight
Thy sturdy evergreens, o'erlaid with snow.
Thy turf is freshened by the rain and dew

Of kindly heaven, and, in the noon-day parched,-
But for the gales that fan thy naked brow-
By the broad sunshine, like this lower earth.
There is no nook upon thy thorny side,
Or wooded top, or on thy steep, bald front,
That human foot hath not sought out and found,
Linking the spot with human sympathies.
Upon thy topmost ledge old Time, perchance,
The slow and crafty workman, hath hewn out
A homely resting place, and hence the eye,
That loveth Nature, looks beyond the stream
Lazily creeping through the meadow land
In curve fantastic,-and beyond the hill
Where a bard's dwelling dots the wood,-beyond
The distant temple-spires that lift their tops,
In harmony, above the leaf-clad town,-

Beyond the calm bay and the restless sound,
To the blue island, stretching like a cloud

Where the sky stoops to earth. The rock is smooth,
And here, upon the table-stone, sad youths
Have carved unheeded names, to win for them

That insect immortality that lies

In store for ages on a showman's shelf.

Thy peak in moonlight! All the lowland, lighted,
Is like a sea about us. Glory rests,

Like a saint's dream of beauty, over all!
'Tis a strange hour to haunt thee, quiet Rock,
And yet, glad voices make thy woods and glades
Jocund with echoed call and unchecked laugh,
And bright forms flit across thy light and shade-
Shapes that might win the hasty angel's lip
From his high vows of purity on earth-
Threading thy tangled cedars deftly, like
The nimblest of Titania's nimble train.
I see them clustered in a magic group,
And the flute's melody, with woman's song,
Goes up to heaven. It is thy sweetest dirge,
"Daughter of Araby!" Let it float in air-
Hushed be my song!

NEW-HAVEN, Oст. 1831.

L. M. N..

THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.

NO. 11.

If any man, wilfully or ignorantly, in any manner which can come to my knowledge, shall confound the Autocrat and the individual, the doors of the domestic oracle shall be closed forever. The former exists only in his official capacity. In his place, he is the pivot of a circle; out of it, a peg in a machine. No man can tell how important his neighbor may be in his own secluded sphere. The fair companion of the organ-grinder may have been Prima Donna, for aught we know, in some bare-walled amphitheatre. The individual has his tastes and opinions; the Autocrat his will and pleasure. Professing only to repeat his assertions, once received with reverence, he holds himself no longer responsible for them. All that is dull, all that is untenable, all that is paradoxical, all that is abominable, he utterly deserts and leaves to its fortune.

The present, as it stands in the light of existence, traces its outlines in shadow. In youth, when our sun is rising, the shadows stretch forward toward the horizon of the future; this is the path of Hope. In age, when our sun is setting, they fall back upon the morning of the past; this is the path of Memory.

If you are dealing with a fool, dictate, but never argue, for you will lose your labor and perhaps your temper; if with a bigot, say nothing, or you will certainly lose both. Never dispute with the man who asserts a paradox; if he does not believe it, he is amusing himself with you; if he does, the same distortion of mind will make him incapable of appreciating his own sophistries or your arguments.

If a maxim be the fair result of intelligent experience, it will do well enough, although it may often have an air of pert sagacity; but if it involve opinions instead of facts, it is downright impertinence to give us the aphorism without the reasons.

There is a dilute atmosphere of learning, which extends to some distance around a literary institution, almost as bad as the vacuum of ignorance. Within such precincts I would look for the Flat in his most spiritless inanity, and the Bore at the acme of intensity.

It is strange, very strange to me, that many men should devote themselves so exclusively to the study of their own particular callings. It seems as if they thought a mind must grow narrow before it can come to a focus. We send our young men abroad to enlarge and modify their notions; but those who stay at home shut themselves up with the primers and catechisms of their professions, until they are stiffened into machines for specific purposes. The knowledge of a man, who confines himself to one object, bears the same relation to that of the liberal scholar, that the red or violet ray of a prism does to the blended light of a sunbeam.

I made you a fable the other day; I will try to tell you a story. It was in the course of the last year that a post chaise drove up furiously to the door of an inn in a little Russian village. A melancholy looking gentleman got out, went into the house, and called for the landlord. "Has the cholera left this place?" said the stranger. 66 'The

The question "In what di

Lord forbid," said the landlord,-for he only understood one dreadful word in the sentence, which was spoken in French. was made intelligible. "It has been gone a fortnight." rection?" "Toward the north." The host left the room, and the stranger soliloquized. "Cruel, cruel, cruel Heloise! Will thy voice be sadder or thy step less buoyant when I am sleeping beneath the frozen clods of this desolate soil? Will the winds from the ice-girt mountains whisper in thine ear one broken vow, or the black waters of the Volga roll to thy feet one faithless token?" He said a good deal more in this strain, but French sentiment makes English fustian. He then sat down, and, taking a portfolio from his trunk, wrote the following letter:

MY DEAR JACQUES,

Knowing as you do my fixed determination not to survive the blight of my ill starred affection, you will receive pleasure (grand plaisir, in the French) in learning that I am within sight of my destiny. I am in daily hope of coming up with the cholera, which I have been endeavoring to overtake for some weeks. If I should meet with the fate for which I am languishing, tell my destroyer that I was the victim of her disdain. The stone which is to mark the place of my repose, I had executed some time since, and have carried with me in the bottom of the chaise. The device is Love taking the scythe from Time to cut down a passion-flower. The inscription is simple, but I hope not less elegant than one which would have been disagreeably expensive.

Amant.
Etranger.

Cruel, cruel, cruel Heloise! Will thy voice, &c.

There is no need of repeating this sentence, although it seemed to be a favorite with its author. A few directions concerning his effects were added, but nobody cares for such things unless their names are in the codicil. The poor gentleman dropped his letter, and the landlord showed it to me when I was in Russia. About ten days from this time he came up with the cholera, and a month afterwards, by a strange coincidence, I found myself cracking a filbert on his gravestone. I remember I hit my thumb, which was unpleasant, and broke a little bit out of the Cupid, which was unfeeling.

Now, suppose, instead of telling this singular tale while you were finishing your first cups of coffee, I had felt the inclination to make a long story of it, and send it to a periodical. I think I have a practicable plan to stretch this or any thing like it into a tolerable length. Write down your facts, leaving after each an interval of two, four, or six times its own space. Shuffle in descriptions, reflections and discursions, as may be appropriate and convenient. There is nothing like system for a hack writer. Liberal stuffing will bolster out any thing; you may cram a starveling until he would split the jacket of Hercules. I will relate to you an incident or two that I witnessed at the last execution. The hideous mummery of the Galvanic experiments had been going on some time, and, as I went from the building into the prison yard, an old black domestic of the institution came in the same direction. He was talking to himself, and I heard exactly these words. "Ah! They may kill, but they cannot make alive! Just like the cel in the hot fat!" A divine might make a more awkward reflection, and a physiologist a less accurate comparison. Some of my acquaintances were standing in a little knot under the wall of one of the granite buildings. The face at the loop-hole above them was that of Trask, the