exhibit a protuberant and craggy surface. The bridge crosses the vale obliquely. In the middle it is 65 feet in breadth, but much wider at the ends. The banks which support the bridge extend with the same height, several hundred yards on each side of the stream, but they do not correspond with each other, as if rent asunder. Neither does the "fissure continue straight for a considerable distance above and below the bridge." Its course resembles an ill formed s, spreading wider as it extends either above or below. Neither the Blue Ridge nor the North Mountain, can be seen below the bridge. They are both visible from its top, the former six, the latter eight miles distant. Few persons have the courage to approach the sides of this bridge. Those who do are instantly seized with terror. They involuntarily fall to the ground, cling to a stone or tree, look down on the frightful abyss, gaze with astonishment at the massy walls, the deep winding valley, the rushing stream, and the distant hills. To persons below, a prospect not less awful and grand is presented. They view the towering arch, the frightful precipice, the gloomy forests, the distant sky, and adore that God who spake, and it was done; who commanded, and it stands fast.'

This print is the first of a series of views of remarkable American scenery, executed in similar style, which it is intended shall embellish the numbers of the Analectic Magazine.

ART. XII.-Fanny. Published by C. Wiley and Co. New York. pp. 49. 8vo.

A WORK, under this title, which we shall call

a poem, although

the author with rare modesty has forborne so to do, has just appeared. It is attributed to the pen of one of those gentlemen who have amused the public with the lively jeux d'sprit in the newspapers under the signature of Croaker & Co.

The present production is only a more prolonged effort, or rather a more prolonged indulgence in the same humorous style. The total absence of all appearance of effort, and the graceful ease and vivacity of the versification forms, indeed, one of its most pleasing characteristics.

It is a series of sprightly verses which make harmless sport of many of the public characters of New York, mixed with some general satire preserving the same vein of delicate humour, and jocularity free from coarseness. There is little or no story in it, and the poor heroine is but little attended to the local allusions are frequent and appear (we understand) extremely piquant and diverting to those who comprehend their full force-we must avoid them however, as much as possible, in the selections we are about to make for the entertainment of readers generally. The heroine is thus introduced in the first stanzas

Fanny was younger once than she is now,
And prettier of course: I do not mean
To say, that there are wrinkles on her brow,
Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen-
Perhaps past twenty-but the girl is shy
About her age, and God forbid that I

Should get myself in trouble by revealing
A secret of this sort; I have too long
Lov'd pretty women with a poet's feeling,
And when a boy, in day dream and in song,
Have knelt me down and worshipp'd them: alas!
They never thank'd me for't-but let that pass.

I've felt full many a heart-ach in my day,
At the mere rustling of a muslin gown,
And caught some dreadful colds, I blush to say,
While shivering in the shade of beauty's frown.
They say her smiles are sunbeams-it may be-
But never a sunbeam would she throw on me.

But Fanny's is an eye that you may gaze on

For half an hour, without the slightest harm;
E'en when she wore her smiling summer face on
There was but little danger, and the charm
That youth and wealth once gave, has bade farewell.
Here is a sad, sad tale-'tis mine its woes to tell.

Her father kept, some fifteen years ago,

A retail dry-good shop in Chatham-street,
And nurs'd his little earnings, sure though slow,
Till having muster'd wherewithal to meet
The gaze of the great world, he breath'd the air
Of Pearl-street-and set up in Hanover-square.

The change from obscurity to wealth and importance is then. described-And local subjects are touched upon, some of which it is impossible for any but an inhabitant of New York entirely to understand the following hit at Mr. Bristed, and the comparison between ancient and modern excellence is easily comprehensible at a distance.

Dear to the exile is his native land,

In memory's twilight beauty seen afar:
Dear to the broker is a note of hand,

Collaterally secured-the polar star
Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes,
And dear are Bristed's volumes at " half price;"

But dearer far to me each fairy minute,
Spent in that fond forgetfulness of grief;
There is an airy web of magic in it,
As in Othello's pocket handkerchief,
Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of sorrow,
The gathering gloom to-day-the thunder cloud to-morrow.

The last words were beyond his comprehension,

For he had left off schooling, ere the Greek
Or Latin classics claimed his mind's attention:
Besides, he often had been heard to speak
Contemptuously of all that sort of knowledge,
Taught so profoundly in Columbia College.

We owe the ancients something. You have read
Their works, no doubt at least in a translation;
Yet there was argument in what he said.

I scorn equivocation or evasion,
And own, it must, in candour, be confest,
They were an ignorant set of men at best.

'Twas their misfortune to be born too soon
By centuries, and in the wrong place too;
They never saw a steam-boat, or balloon,
Velocipede, or Quarterly Review;
Or wore a pair of Baehr's black satin breeches,
Or read an Almanac, or C*****n's Speeches.

In short, in every thing we far outshine 'em.-
Art, science, taste, and talent; and a stroll
Through this enlightened city would refine 'em
More than ten years hard study of the whole
Their genius has produced of rich and rare-
God bless the Corporation and the Mayor!

In sculpture, we've a grace the Grecian master,
Blushing, had own'd his purest model lacks;
We've Mr. B****t in the best of plaster,

The witch of Endor in the best of wax,
Besides the head of Franklin on the roof
Of Mr. L**g, both jest and weather proof.

1

And on our City Hall a Justice stands;

A' neater form was never made of board, Holding majestically in her hands

A pair of steelyards and a wooden sword; And looking down with complaisant civilityEmblem of dignity and durability.

For purity and chastity of style,

There's Pell's preface, and puffs by Horne and Waite. For penetration deep, and learned toil,

And all that stamps an author truly great,
Have we not Bristed's ponderous tomes? a treasure
For any man of patience and of leisure.

Oxonian Bristed! many a foolscap page
He, in his time, hath written, and moreover
(What few will do in this degenerate age)
Hath read his own works, as you may discover
By counting his quotations from himself-
You'll find the books on any auction shelf.

I beg Great Britain's pardon; 'tis not meant
To claim this Oxford scholar as our own:
That he was shipp'd off here to represent

Her literature among us, is well known;
And none could better fill the lofty station
Of learning's envoy from the British nation.

We fondly hope, that he will be respected
At home, and soon obtain a place or pension.
We should regret to see him live neglected,

Like Ashe, and Moore, and others we could mention;
Who paid us friendly visits to abuse
Our country, and find food for the Reviews.

But to return. - The Heliconian waters

Are sparkling in their native fount no more,
And after years of wandering, the nine daughters
Of poetry, have found upon our shore
A happier home, and on their sacred shrines
Glow in immortal ink, the polished lines

Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott-
Names hallow'd by their readers' sweetest smile;
And who that reads at all, has read them not.

"That blind old man of Scid's rocky isle,"
Homer, was well enough; but would he ever
Have written, think ye, the Backwoodsman? never.

Alas! for Paulding-I regret to see

In such a stanza one whose giant powers,
Seen in their native element, would be
Known to a future age, the pride of ours.
There is none breathing who can better wield
The battle-axe of satire. On its field

The wreath he fought for he has bravely won.
Long be its laurel green around his brow!-
It is too true, I'm somewhat fond of fun

And jesting; but for once I'm serious now.
Why is he sipping weak Castalian dews?
The muse has damn'd him-let him damn the muse.

The author forgets himself sometimes and betrays the true poet in spite of his levity-the next excerpta show that when serious he can appear to as much advantage as in his merrier moments.

Weehawken! In thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of nature in her wild

And frolic hour of infancy, is met;

And never has a summer's morning smil'd
Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on-when high,

Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs

O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep,
And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes
The breathless moment when his daring step
Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear
The low dash of the wave with startled ear,

Like the death-music of his coming doom,
And clings to the green turf with desperate force,
As the heart clings to life; and when resume
The currents in his veins their wonted course,
There lingers a deep feeling-like the moan
Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone.

In such an hour he turns, and on his view,
Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him.
Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue