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no reference to that is unimportant and indifferent to him. He discards every thing mental and intellectual. If you speak of the stars and planets in his presence, he plays with his watch-key; speak to him of art or artists, and he will begin to rattle the small change in his pocket. He likes to speak of the weather, the markets, of family affairs, of city news, of business matters, and also affects old 'Joe Millers,' of which he always has two or three on hand for every auditor he can get. As long as his business flourishes he cares little or nothing for politics.

The every-day man is frequently a good and sometimes a passionate whist-player. Drinking also will sometimes become a habit with him. Nothing else can excite his passion. He never gets inspired, except for gain. To make money is his greatest aim. He indulges in music and the play, if he can get them cheap, or for nothing. Poets, painters, musicians, sculptors and actors, he ranks with jugglers, rope dancers, showmen and organ-grinders. He shows no taste for mental pleasures; the more coarse, sensual, and cheap they are, the more to be preferred. He is a great stickler for caste. The superiority of genius, the preference given to talent, is to him an abuse, a revolt against Providence. If he himself belongs to an aristocratic circle, (for those circles are great hot-beds for this species) he is unbearable to all but his equals. He firmly believes that every class of men is made of a separate material; a so-called mes-alliance, is to him incomprehensible. He can be very condescending, but always impresses the fact of his condescension and patronage upon those who chance to stand a step below him. Although he is always vulgar, he loves to be considered refined; although ignorant, he loves to be believed intelligent; since these words he thinks are synonymous with aristocratic, and to appear refined he often does more than agrees with his inclination, such as patronizing the opera and concerts, purchasing valuable works of art, and inviting men of letters and artists.

In his youth the every-day man shows no especial predilection for any particular branch of knowledge or business; yet he is moderately industrious. His parents designate his future calling. As a youth, he is useful, and sometimes dissipated, according to circumstances. As a man, he gains a fair income, is a punctual business man, and frequently a good reckoner. In age he is talkative, and loves to tell incidents of his past every-day' life. Even if he possessed inclinations and passions in his youth, he has never undergone a struggle with them. He never dies without making a will. He often goes to church and judges of preachers without understanding their sermons. Religion, on the whole, is very indifferent to him, although he does not admit this, but has learned his prayers and responses by heart. He thinks but little; never 'bothers his brains;' never loses his senses, if he has any; sleeps well, dreams but little, and is not absent-minded. He always has a number of cant phrases which he constantly repeats. He smiles more than he laughs, as it appears more wise. He never weeps, except in company, and under circumstances when he thinks it is

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expected from him. He is an innate egotist. His favorite proverbs are Every one for himself;'Charity begins at home;' and others of the like sort. He only gives presents when he expects presents in return. Upon the whole, his own advantage decides all his deeds and actions. He abominates such words as 'common good,' 'neighborly love,'' community,' 'self-sacrifice,''generosity,' 'liberality,' etc. He scarcely admits of them in novels; in practical life they appear absurd and ridiculous to him.

Of course we do not mean to say that the qualities we have described are always found together in an every-day man. We had the entire race before us, as we also have in the following species.

The very opposite of the every-day man is the eccentric genius. The every-day man is in the centre, where he circulates, and which he cannot leave; the eccentric genius is outside the circlepasses around it, but cannot enter. The every-day man is the sediment, the eccentric genius, the froth of the human race. The every-day man does not even interest himself in that upon which others are enthusiastic; the eccentrist is enthusiastic upon every thing, even if it does not interest others. The first is a materialist, the other a visionary, an enthusiast. The eccentric genius looks outward, the other examines the outside. The eccentrist exaggerates, the other is hard to convince. What the eccentric genius designates as 'divine,'' glorious,' magnificent,' the other simply alludes to as 'stuff!' The eccentrist gesticulates much, and often raises his hands above his head; the other keeps them in his pockets. The eccentrist is an extravagant flatterer; the every-day man a cool slanderer. The eccentric genius never awakes from his inspiration; the other never emerges from his sobriety. The eccentrist resembles counterfeit champaigne; the every-day man still beer. The one is all flame; the other all ashes. The eccentrist walks upon the points of his toes; the other upon his heels. The eccentric genius wears his hat upon one side of his head; the every-day man covers the back of his neck with it. The eccentric genius is a point of exclamation; the other a semi-colon. The eccentrist can become an every-day man, but the latter can never be an eccentrist. If an eccentric genius should chance to read this article, he will probably toss his head back at the end of every paragraph, and laugh aloud. But should an every-day man accidentally take it up, he will probably read a few lines, throw the paper down, and ask the knowing question: Ridiculous! can the writer of this be in his senses?'

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'BONEY was a gentleman! a soldier brave and true;
But WELLINGTON did wop him at the field of Waterloo !

BRITISHER.

'But braver still, and better far, and tougher than shoe-leather,
Was WASHINGTON! a cove wot could have wopp'd 'em both together!'

YANKEE.

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WASHINGTON

IN

SWEDEN.

Ar a dinner given by Mr. HUGHES, the former minister to the Court of Sweden, in Stockholm, on GEORGE WASHINGTON's birth-day, a toast was proposed for the Father of his Country, accompanied by the following verses, composed by Bishop WALLIN, one of Sweden's greatest divines and poets, and who was one of the guests at this entertainment. They are distinguished in the original for their beautiful and manly spirit, so different from the empty flatteries with which the poetry of the present day, on such occasions, abounds. I say 'in the original, for if the meaning be sometimes obscure, and the rhyme imperfect, all faults must be attributed to the translator, not to the writer. The translator would not have attempted to clothe these lines, so beautiful in the Swedish, in an English garb, had they not shown that the Swedes are acquainted with and appreciate our beloved WASHINGTON's character; and such a testimony is too pleasing to an American in a far country, to allow them to remain untranslated.

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THE poetry of the last century naturally resolves itself into three grand divisions, each occupying a particular epoch: namely, the Classical, the Pastoral, and the Natural.

The Classical does not properly belong to the eighteenth century, but was continued, or, so to speak, carried over, from the ages preceding. Those were the times when the tongues of Greece and of Rome were the vernacular languages of the schools; when men of learning wrote familiar letters to each other, and even conversed, in Greek and Latin; when no work on science or literature was considered worthy of notice unless it appeared in a Roman dress; and when no poet could lay claim to public favor until he had first written a quantity of Latin verse, or translated Homer, or Virgil, or Horace, or Juvenal, or Ovid.

Although this fondness for the classics was certainly carried to a ridiculous excess, it was not wholly without its advantages. It linked the learned men of different countries more closely together, and enabled them to hold agreeable intercourse, although they might be ignorant of each others' language. It likewise empowered the man of learning, whatever might be his nation, to hold professorships in any college, whether in Germany, Italy, France,

* Clavers: idle nonsense.

or England. In the year 1570, Edmund Hay, a Scottish Jesuit, was a professor of theology in the university of Paris; not to mention any other instance.

By degrees, however, the classical fever died away. Learning, as it was diffused over a wider surface, gradually became less profound. The vernacular languages of the different nations began to be more extensively cultivated, and, as a natural consequence, greatly improved. Translations from the ancients went out of fashion, and original composition resumed its legitimate station.

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And then it was that the age of pastoral poetry began in England. It is true, many poets, since the days of Spenser and Sir Philip Sydney, had occasionally employed their powers on this kind of composition. We see some glimpses of it in Shakspeare's Winter's Tale' and As You Like It,' but with a world of more naturalness than properly belongs to the pastoral style. Fletcher wrote a pastoral drama, called the Faithful Shepherdess;' Milton's Lycidas' is a pastoral;* and many other poets of less note amused themselves by portraying scenes of pastoral simplicity and perfect innocence, in which the sole business of life was keeping sheep and making love. But it was not until the period of which we speak, that is, in the early part of the eighteenth century, that the reign of pastoral poetry began in good earnest.

Whether it was owing to the fine translations of Virgil's Eclogues and Theocritus' Idylls, which had lately been made into the Eng lish language, or whether it proceeded from some other cause, I know not; but on a sudden, the whole literary world, in England, (as well as in some other countries,) became infected with a strange desire to write pastoral poetry. For more than the third part of a century, nothing was to be heard but the sound of purling brooks and rustic pipes: nothing to be seen but shepherds and shepherdesses, lying upon banks of flowers and dying of love in all directions; while such vast numbers of flocks of sheep sprung up on every side, as must have increased the growth of British wools to a prodigious extent. Every wit became a Theocritus; every lady a Pastorella. The exquisite 'young man upon town,' who would have turned up his delicate nose at sight of a real shepherd, and saluted him with the euphonious epithets of clod-pool,' or 'country bumpkin,' yet scrupled not to call himself a rustic swain, and 'babbled of green fields,' and of flowers, and crooks, and little dogs, and lovely shepherdesses. The elegant lady of fashion, in her stiff hoop-petticoat and yard-high head-dress, sat in her bourdoir, surrounded with every luxury, singing of the joys of rustic life, weaving imaginary garlands to deck ideal crooks, and prattling soft nonsense to the little lambs' that were feeding around her, probably on the huge boquets of nondescript flowers that adorned the rich carpet of her apartment.

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*LYCIDAS,' as is well known, is a monody on the death of Milton's friend and college-companion, Edward King; and it is not a little ludicrous, amid the sadness of the subject, and the pathetic beauty of the poetry, to hear the grave and studious scholar telling how he and his friend drove their flocks afield,' and tended them in company, battening them with the fresh dews of night,' when they were students together at Cambridge!

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