That persons in this condition should be able to write poetry, as well as prose, is not sur prising. The notions of accent, quantity and rhythm remain, after all reminiscences of sound are lost; they may attach themselves to the mere movement of the organs of speech, and other characteristics of verse be perceived by the same means. The articulation of persons born deaf is never so perfect as to be adequate to any thing of the kind. In France there have appeared one or two good writers of poetry, deaf from childhood, but educated as deaf mutes. We have, however, in New York, a writer of poetry profoundly deaf from birth-an absolutely solitary instance of the kind, as we believe. We refer to John Carlin, a young artist of genius, and highly successful in his line as a miniature painter-two or. three of whose poetical lucubrations have appeared in the New York Commercial Advertiser. He knows nothing even of articulation, and has no perception whatever of the effect of rhythm or rhyme, yet can construct both correctly. His verse is wholly a mechanical and artificial work, as respects the production of the external form, though informed with the genuine spirit of poetry, and not deficient in smoothness to the ear. He has acquired this talent as the result of some instruction and much study. Some of these stories were happily hit off, in a paragraph in the "Radii"-a highly respectable newspaper, printed and edited by a deaf mute, at Fort Plain, in this State--by alluding to the wonderful cork leg, celebrated in song, made by an artist in Rotterdam, whose powers so far outstripped those of the natural member, that it could never be stopped or overtaken. Nothing could be more exactly parallel. A remark made by Dugald Stewart, who gave a decided preference to the method of Seard, is here not altogether out of place: "To teach the dumb to speak, (although, in fact entitled to rank only a little higher than the art of training starlings and parrots,) will ways appear to the multitude a far more wonderful feat of ingenuity, than to unfold silently he latent capacities of the understanding." men are to pass without inquiry the most essential points in cases submitted for their investigation. A boy was introduced by Mr. Mann, represented as a deaf mute who had been instructed by his father. And, truly, he could articulate well, and had also an uncommon ability to read on the lips. Certainly, there may be something in Mr. Mann's assertions respecting the German schools -was the general conviction. At the afternoon session, however, a gentleman connected with the American Asylum begged leave to call up the lad again; when it was demonstrated that the boy could hear, and understand perfectly, with no aid from the eyes, what was spoken in a full tone of voice, at a short distance. How much better he could once hear, we are not informed, but he had unquestionably obtained his knowledge of speech and of language by the ear. How far and how easily is the language of action available, as a means of communication for deaf mutes? Many persons are sceptical as to the capabilities of such a language for expressing more than what is palpable to sense, or what pertains to the most common uses of life. But the most refined and artificial tongues grow from beginnings like this; the most purely intellectual ideas ever formed by the mind of man, or that have even floated in the dreams of the transcendentalist, find their expression in terms which, in their origin, denoted a purely physical phenomenon. Why then may not a language of action, having the same ground, be inherently capable of a similar develop ment? The lowest stage in which the language of action may be viewed, embraces the pointing out of objects in sight, the natural expression of real emotion, and the indication of wants by means of the most common and familiar actions. In these forms no one can be at a loss how to make use of it. A step higher is taken by personating an individual and describing his actions by imitative signs. In doing this, other persons and things also to which these acts bear a relation, will at the same time be indicated, and may thus, by mere implication, be set before the imagination with as much distinctness as if portrayed with the minutest accuracy. You cannot represent a person as milking a cow, or driving a yoke of oxen, without calling to mind these animals. By the simple action of casting a fishing-line, you present to view the rod, the line and the water; and by other acts, you may picture the bait, the hook, the fish, the bank, or the boat; the more extended and minute the pantomime, the more in number and the more specific will be the objects implied. By skillfully imitating a coachman on his box, as he manages the reins and flourishes the whip, you may not only raise the idea of the reins, the whip, the coach and the horses, but you may show whether he has four or two in hand, and even the rate at which he travels, the kind of road he passes over, and the freaks of the animals. In such imitative action, periods of time may be indicated, by the skillful introduction of actions appropriate to particular times, as night, morning, noon, evening, the Sabbath, winter or summer. By proceeding from a known starting point, the actual time of real occurrences may be communicated. A person returning from an excursion, would commence with his departure, and mark the subsequent intervals of time. Animals may also, to an extent, be personated in pantomime. In this shape the language of action has been cultivated as a fine art, and used for popular amusement, and is universally and readily intelligible.* The deaf mute not only makes abundant use of such pantomimic action, which is pantomime, properly so called, but he imitates the motions of inanimate things, and pictures objects by other means. The sign-language of deaf mutes exhibits, however, a wide departure from pure pantomime or mere pictorial representation. In addition to their direct *The art of pantomime, it is well known, was carried to great perfection by the ancients. We have it on the authority of Lucian, that a king from the borders of the Euxine, seeing a pantomime perform at Rome, begged him of Nero, to be used as an interpreter with the nations in his neighborhood at home. As every schoolboy knows, it was a matter of strife between Roscius and Cicero, which could best express an idea, the one by gestures or the other in words. The language of signs has been much used by many tribes of American Indians. Parties from some of these tribes have found themselves quite at home, when visiting a school of deaf mutes. Not mere pantomime, but even symbolical signs, strikingly similar, and in some instances the same with those employed by deaf mutes, have been found in use among the Indians. this mode of purchasing salvation; wherever there was one of these who felt their gold to be more potent than their faith, churches arose around in numbers and size greatly disproportionate to the population which worshiped in them. The cloisters of a monastery still remain adjoining Westminster Abbey, and most of the cathedrals in England. With respect to the size of these edifices, most persons will form a more correct idea by comparison than by feet and inches. In England, but a very small portion is devoted to Divine service. The choir which is used for this purpose, and is frequently as large as an ordinary church or chapel, is separated from the rest of the floor by an oaken screen, and on each side are three or more rows of oaken stalls, or large arm-chairs, with high straight backs, fantastically carved, furnishing seats for perhaps two or three hundred persons. Here, every day in the week, five or six canons and minor canons, with a choir of ten or twelve boys, chant the whole of the service, before perhaps a dozen persons; except on Sundays, when they have a larger audience. In most of the cathedrals I have mentioned, the choir occupies not more than one-fifth of the building. The rest of the floor is, in England, taken up with monuments to the illustrious dead. One sees here a hundred things, the purposes of which it is difficult to divine, and which excite only curiosity as the relics of a bygone age. But in Catholic countries all parts of the vast edifice are brought into use. There, the choir, which is not screened off, but simply elevated a few feet above the floor, is only occupied by the numerous priesthood, while the remainder is for the people, who stand, kneel, or use small chairs hired from persons in attendance. There, all the niches are filled with statues of saints. The church is surrounded by small chapels, thus numbering twenty or thirty altars. Between all the chapels are confessionals. When the service is going on at the grand high altar, every gaze is bent in that direction, the voices of all the priests are heard in unison, from the choir, to the accompaniment of the organ. In hanging galleries, entered by private staircases from neighboring convents, nuns and monks are seen counting their beads; ceremony does its utmost, and a scene is presented calculated to awe and impress the most careless observer. At other times, masses are being said at a dozen different altars, the confessionals are filled, and devotees are kneeling before some precious relic preserved in marble, silver or gold. As before remarked, the effect of all this is wanting in England, where most of the building is regarded as we would any other piece of antiquity or monument of the Romish Supremacy. How well they have all been used by those who built them, is evidenced by the fact that where, as in St. Mary's at Warwick, the confessionals are of stone, the steps leading thereto are worn almost to the thinness of paper, by a constant treading of the feet of devotees. At the last-named church there is a small opening in stone about a foot thick, through which the confession was whispered, neither priest nor penitent seeing each other; and this is, on one side, worn to quite a cavity by the pressure of the confessor's head, as he inclined his ear to catch the sounds. The towers vary greatly in their relative positions in different countries. In Italy they are generally separate from the church, as at the cathedral at Florence, and the leaning towers at Pisa and Bologna. At Strasburg and Rouen there are two towers in front, and a spire in the centre; though, at the former, one of the towers is much higher than the other, and at the latter, they are very differently shaped, uniformity in this respect being by no means regarded as essential to good looks. Where there is but one tower in front, it is frequently on one corner and not in the centre. The spire at Strasburg is four hundred and seventy-four feet high. That at Rouen, which has been but recently erected, is of cast iron, four hundred and thirty-six feet high; St. Michael's, at Coventry, two hundred and ninety; that of Trinity Church, in New York, two hundred and sixty-four; Bunker Hill Monument two hundred and twenty. When we look at the ornamental work on Gothic edifices, the varied and elaborate carving and tracery-work is absolutely bewildering. The Duomo at Milan, which presents the most imposing exterior of any in Europe, has more than one hundred and fifty towers or pinnacles, each of which is composed, as it were, of a series of oblong white marble cages, one above another and diminishing in size. Through the marble slats of each of these are to be seen one or more imprisoned statues, and on the top of each tower is one of gigantic size and beautiful execution. In niches all over the building, and forming the capitals of the heavy columns which support the interior, are other statues, numbering more than two thousand, all of white marble; among them many of Napoleon, the Emperor of Austria, and others. In front of the cathedrals at Strasburg and Rouen, which are constructed of a darker stone, are numerous statues, (or what once were such, for Time has crumbled many of them,) some of those on the former being equestrians, over all of which a mantle, as it were, of stone-lace appears to have been thrown. Cooper compares that at Rouen to the ivory Chinese work-boxes which were formerly so often imported. The pointed arches forming the doors sometimes recede twenty feet, and the semicircular recesses on the sides, formed by the four or five columnar projections, are filled with statues which are of fulllength size at the joints, and diminish to cherubims with clasped hands at the top. Most of the Gothic cathedrals in Italy have an additional building immediately in front called the baptistery. These are generally of a circular or octagonal form, and in the centre there is a large basin, as if for immersions, surrounded by smaller ones, for infant baptisms. In the modern Roman church the latter only are used, though the larger ones have occasioned much discussion as to the usages of the early church. In many instances the baptistery is more elaborately finished than the cathedral itself, and the exterior cornices present the strangest jumble of saints, angels, and unknown monsters, giving the tout ensemble a wild, and not unpleasing effect. But here, where marbles are so abundant, the most beautiful combinations are formed in the shape of Mosaic work. At Sienna, there is a medallion picture over the entrance to the cathedral, and the whole pavement is in this way made to represent Scripture scenes. The stained glass windows are a feature peculiar to Gothic edifices, being intended by way of relief to the sombre aspect of that kind of architecture. The quantity of glass and devices adopted, vary, of course, in different churches; but there is a certain proportion which generally prevails, regulated by the size and number of the windows, and the color of the stone forming the interior. For instance, where the windows are numerous, it is comparatively seldom that any but the great end windows are com pletely filled with it, the smaller side ones only exhibiting a few upper panes, and perhaps a border. Much artistical skill is exhibited in so combining the colors as to blend them in a soft mellow light, without detracting from the solemnity of the building. Where but a small space, such as the point of a window, is to be ornamented in this way, a very simple and beautiful figure may be formed by differently colored or delicately figured panes; but on a large surface it would be difficult so to arrange them as not to give a chequered, showy, or at least trifling appearance. The figures should be proportionably large, and have some signification befitting the purposes of the edifice; consequently whole scenes from Scripture are represented, figures of saints, mementos mori, coats of arms, and other heraldic symbols. A single window is oftentimes a perfect study, and no words can describe the exquisite finish of the pictures and the never-fading brilliancy of the tints. In Trinity Church a fair proportion, in this respect, has been observed. In the new Grace Church, on Broadway, there is more stained glass, in proportion to size, than in any cathedral in Europe. The numerous windows are almost entirely made up of it, every pane presenting some small device, such as crosses, mitres, vines, &c. ; or being arranged in the shape of fantastic images, like the figures upon calico. The eye is merely arrested by their brilliancy, and confused by the multiplicity of the figures, none of them being sufficiently large or devotional in their design to fix the attention or inspire feelings of awe; and there being no contrast between this glass of colors and the perfectly white wall, the whole building presents a showy, rather than an elegant or religious aspect. As we write, we learn that an attempt is being made to remedy this, by inserting in each window a ground-work of dark glass; but we doubt if this will remedy the difficulty. As a writer in one of the public prints has remarked, the building appears to have been made for the glass, rather than the glass for the building. Another species of interior ornament which commands attention, is the profusion of carving in wood which the choir of almost every Gothic church presents to a greater or less degree. At Anwerp and Brussels it is seen to great perfection. In the church of St. Gudule, at the latter place, the pulpit is a principal object of attraction, being supported by the tree of knowledge, on either side of which are the figures of Adam and Eve. The serpent is coiled around the trunk, and Eve is reaching her hand to take the fruit, while every possible nook and space in and around the tree is occupied by some of the mute inhabitants of Paradise, conspicuous among which is a monkey, whose comical grin gives a ludicrous effect to the whole. On the old choir of York Cathedral, it is said there was a representation of a blacksmith shoeing a goose. The artists seem in some instances to have tasked their minds to comprehend every object of nature or of fiction, however fantastic. The seats in the stalls are all made with hinges, so as to raise them when their occupants are standing, and when thus raised, on the bottom of each is discovered a different and delicate piece of carving. But what most astonishes an American, when looking at these buildings, is the beautiful and substantial masonry by which all the parts are knit together. Crypts and cloisters everywhere abound, in which are to be seen every description of arch, from the delicate Gothic groin to the majestic vaulting. In King's College Chapel, at Cambridge, which is nearly as large as Trinity, and in Henry the Seventh's Chapel, at Westminster Abbey, the ceiling is constructed entirely of blocks of stone, covered with embossed carving, most exquisitely fitted to each other; the whole entirely unsupported by columns, and yet presenting from below scarcely any perceptible arch. In Trinity, New York, the ceiling is an imitation of stone. One word with regard to the monuments which meet the eye in every direction, as we wander through these ancient piles. The most general form of those commemorating persons of distinction, is that of an oblong block, upon which reposes a recumbent statue of the deceased, as large as life, representing him in the costume he wore when alive--as a bishop in his mitre and flowing robes, or a knight in his coat of mail-but occasionally in a simple robe or winding-sheet; in all cases presenting, as you approach, the appearance of a corpse laid out for the grave. Frequently the husband and wife are thus represented, side by side. Occasionally old coffins come to light, as at Chester, where is shown one of stone, in which the body of Hugh Lupus was found, wrapped in an ox hide, more than a hundred years ago. In many instances, as on the tomb of Henry VII., in the Abbey and in Beauchamp Chapel, at Warwick, the figures are of brass, clothed in plate and chain armor. At Milan, the visitor is conducted down a flight of stairs, beneath the pavement, into the Chapel of St. Carlo Borromeo, a room some ten feet square, encased on every side with silver, on which the principal events in the life of the saint are represented in basso-relievo. An altar richly decorated with gold and precious stones, glitters in the reflection of the torches, and from the back, by turning a crank, is raised to view a sarcophagus of rockcrystal, within which are to be seen the withered and ghastly remains of St. Carlo himself, so embalmed for the veneration of the devout. Who has not heard of the church at Cologne, where the walls on all sides, from floor to ceiling, are lined with human bones? But we are trenching upon the subject of relics, rather than of architecture. In the remarks heretofore made, illustrations have been drawn chiefly from more celebrated fanes; but they by no means include all such features of size and beauty that are to be found. In England, to say nothing of the Continent, many a town of now inconsiderable importance, possesses, in its parish church, an edifice which, but for the changes effected by the winds and rains of centuries, would far surpass anything in the United States. There is one of these places, from the spires of which that of Trinity would seem to have been borrowed, and the memory of which lingers with a peculiarly pleasant impress upon our mind. Fain would we revisit it again in fancy; and with those two companions with whom but two years ago we looked with feelings of awe and admiration on scenes of antiquity-scenes rendered doubly interesting to us by the freshness and novelty of early travel. One of them, alas, is gone! Even there his step was feeble, and his body worn by disease. He had devoted the best part of a life of nearly threescore years to the laborious exercise of a profession in which all his thoughts and energies were absorbed, and had now taken a respite from the task of healing others, to seek in foreign lands his own restoration. And how wondrously did he revive, for the time being, under the influence of spirit-stirring asso-ciations! Youth seemed to have returned again, bringing back the long-forgotten |