A phrenologist would pronounce his head worth a 'king's ransom.' He abides by his friends through evil as well as good report. Attractive as this portrait may be, it is not so beautiful as his character.

By chance, it is mentioned to this gentleman, to whom we have alluded, that there is a poor boy on board, homeward bound to die. Consumption has marked him out as a victim, and the seal of death is stamped on his white forehead. When our friend first saw him, he was walking slowly through the saloon toward the deck. The sufferer was very pale, emaciated, and rather shabby in dress; yet bore a respectable appearance. Our friend inquired his history, and learned that his name was Francis from San-Francisco; that his brother had come down with him from the mines, given him all he had to give money to purchase a ticket home in the steerage, and ten dollars in gold. His means did not permit him to accompany the sick brother, and thus they parted; poor Francis hoping to reach his boyhood-home before he should grow worse. Gradually his strength forsook him. Manfully he battled with the 'fell destroyer.' Sad, very sad, grew the poor sufferer's heart, and he began to fear he would die alone, uncared for, in this crowd of human beings. Is there no one to pour consolation in that distressed heart?

Mr. A- (by this name we must designate our friend) saw how fatigued the poor boy seemed, and kindly addressed him ; proposed that he should go with him to his state-room and lie down to rest, where he could enjoy the cool, refreshing breeze. The sufferer looked up in perfect amazement, doubting if he heard aright. As soon, however, as he was conscious that he had found a real friend, he sank like a helpless child, and Mr. A obtained the services of a young man to watch by the couch at night, and carry him in his arms up-stairs in the morning.

We reach Acapulco at ten o'clock on a beautiful evening, enter the harbor, and anchor to await passengers from the city of Mexico, six hundred miles distant. The harbor is one of the best in the world, protected on all sides by mountains rising almost from the water's edge. We gaze with admiration and wonder on the beautiful landscape before us. The moon shines in this tropical climate as it shines no where else, tinging all with an indescribable golden hue indescribable, not that silvery brightness seen at home.

Yonder lies the city: we hear the distant shouts of the natives, see the glimmer of lights, and soon perceive the small canoes push from the shore. Hurried preparations are made by those who will avail themselves of the opportunity to leave the vessel, and once more step on terra firma. The river is soon dotted with a multitude of small boats. Strange, discordant sounds salute our ears, like the chattering of monkeys and parrots. We are greeted with the salutation of Hombre ! hombre, boat!''How much? ' we ask. 'Hombre, two dime, four dime,' is the reply - two dimes

for each passenger, being the usual rate. We must of course go with the crowd. We descend the ladder, and step into the little

boat.

A few minutes bring us to the low sand-beach, and several young natives plunge in to push up our frail bark. We permit the civil boatman to take us up like dainty dolls, and place us on the dry ground.

A novel sight here meets our view. The long ranges of low adobe houses, tile-roofed and weather-stained, with latticed verandahs in front; the long line of booths, exposing for sale fruits of every description-cakes, coffee, and specimens of their handiwork, in shape of cups, curiously carved; the motley group of natives, many-hued and fantastically-attired; all these interest and delight us.

The fair and dark Senoritas have their hair braided in two long locks, that hang down behind, very fancifully decorated with flowers or beads; the fashionable lady wears satin-slippers without stockings. Some of them have the gaudy rebosa' thrown carelessly over the head. Saah Senorita, buy?' exclaims a little dark-eyed damsel of seven summers, holding up a tiny white muslin bag. We inquire what it is. She unties the thread, and carefully empties in her dark little palm the most beautiful shells imaginable.

The doors of the queer little houses are all open, as it is a sort of holiday to the inhabitants when a steamer arrives. In all of them you will see the hammock suspended between the front and back entrance, to catch the cool evening-breeze.

THE BRIDAL.

ONCE in a quiet country town,

All in the month of May,

Two lovers dreamt the sweet old dream
That haunts the world for aye.

But oft did the lilac droop its plumes,
And the sumach leaf turn red,
Oft was New-England wrapt in snow
Ere the patient pair were wed.

Time came, and the bridal roses blew,
And the robins sang like mad,

And the little brown rabbits leapt in the field,
And the summer-time was glad!

LITERARY NOTICE S.

TWO MILLIONS. BY WILLIAM ALLAN BUTLER. New-York: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 346 and 348 Broadway.

THE popular author of 'Nothing to Wear' has presented the public an epic of ninety pages in heroic verse, full of trenchant satire upon the follies of the day, and especially those characteristic of New-York society. The metre is more appropriate to the subject than the tripping dactyls of 'Nothing to Wear,' enabling the author to accommodate himself to the grave and the gay, the pathetic and the ludicrous. A genial play of humor and polished invective are alike indispensable to the satirist; and in these qualities no American poet excels Mr. BUTLER, if indeed any one equals him. The hero of the story is a certain magnificent FIRKIN, who rejoiced in the possession of Two Millions, a merchant of renown, whose name was a luminous act of credit, and whose praise was in all the banks. His portrait is drawn in a few burning couplets:

'IN his principality,

Worse than high treason was all liberality;

No ray of bounty, with unselfish cheer,

Threw its bright beam across that dark frontier,

Where every friendly grace of heart or hand

Was seized and forfeited as contraband.

You read it in his eye, dull, dark, and stern,

Which clutched the light, but grudged a kind return,

In genial glances, through the open day,

And with a shrewd suspicion turned away.

His hard, square features, like an iron safe,

Locked in his thoughts; no chance, unnoted waif

Of fugitive feeling, unawares betrayed

The inner man, or mental stock in trade.
The portly figure, with its solvent air,
Proclaimed to all the world the Millionaire,
His purse and person both at fullest length,
And even the higher law which he obeyed,

With all his heart and soul and mind and strength,
To love his maker, for he was SELF-MADE!
Self-made, self-trained, self-willed, self-satisfied,

He was, himself, his daily boast and pride:

His wealth was all his own; had he not won it

With his own cunning skill? There shone upon it

No grateful memories of another's toil,
No flowers of friendship graced its sandy soil,

No ties ancestral linked it with the past,
As in his hard, close hands he held it fast.

'He had a coat of arms, a very grand one,
Bran-new besides, and not a second-hand one;
A coat of many colors and devices,

One of the kind which bring the highest prices,
Bought at a Heraldry slop-shop, where they take
One's measure for such coats of every make,
And give the pick of all the crests and quarterings
Of ancient Barons, famous for their slaughterings,
And modern Dukes, famous-for nothing at all,
With points and bars and bearings, great and small,
Lions and unicorns, and beasts with wings,
And all the sinister bends of all the kings.

To pay his way, he thought he scarce could miss,
Into the best society, with this

Depreciated scrip of sham gentility;

And, really, the artist showed a great facility
In cleverly managing to put as much on,
As could be crowded upon one escutcheon:
Instead of flaming shield, with fancy pattern,
And golden gules, bright as the rings of Saturn,
He chose a Silver Dollar, freshly minted,
And with bold touches and designs unstinted,
Traced with all manner of mystical free-masonry,
Made it a rampant, stylish hit of blazonry.

'His creed was simple as a creed could be,
FIRKIN believed in things that he could see;
Things that were palpable to sight and touch,
That he could measure by the test 'how much,'
And grasp securely in his mental clutch.
He had a lively faith in the Five Senses,
They never cheated him with false pretences,
Nor put him off to doubtful evidences;
These and his mother wit were all his light-
What could be safer than to walk by sight?
'He had been young, and now was old,' he said,
'But never had he seen the self-made man
Forsaken, nor his children begging bread,
Provided they pursued their father's plan,
All through their lives, as he himself had done,
And kept a sharp look-out for Number One!'
A golden rule, FIRKIN had early learned,
And every hour to good advantage turned;
This, and such precious maxims as abounded
In that pure word of riches, wisdom, health,
According to poor RICHARD, as expounded
By Doctor FRANKLIN, in his Way to Wealth,
Served him for law and gospel and tradition,
And he himself their luminous exposition.
These were the fiscal lights, in whose clear ray
He could divide the Universe, straightway,
Into the things that would and would n't pay.

By these he steered through all the straits of trade,
Where something must be risked, or nothing made;
These oft through Wall-street, with its reefs and rocks,
And phantom ventures, launched from fancy stocks,
Had brought him safe from many a hazard rash,
His compass-caution, and his pole-star-cash.

'It was his boast, he never lost a penny, And the old boy, the brokers would repeat, Was quite the keenest shaver in the street.

Thus active practice kept his faith alive,
Faith in himself and in the senses five,
The almighty Dollar, and its powers incessant,
In ready money and a paying Present;
However fair, he trusted no futurity

Which could not give collateral security;
Some men, he knew, believed, at least professed,
Faith in hereafters, which they dimly guessed:
The substance, he preferred, of things possessed!

'And yet, he seemed devout: without much search,
You might have found, on any Sunday morning,
His visible coach outside the visible church,
With green and gold its sacred front adorning.
A gorgeous coachman, somewhat flushed with sherry,
A footman, portly with perpetual dinners,
Waited, while FIRKIN in the sanctuary,
With many other miserable sinners,"
Cushioned the carnal man in drowsy pews,
Dozed over gilt-edged rubric, prayer and psalter,
Rose with the music, looked with liberal views
On prima donnas, never known to falter
In chant or solo, hymn, or anthem splendid,
And still enchanting when the chant was ended;
Then sat or knelt, grave as the altar bronzes,
And went through all the usual responses.

'His politics took on the Neutral tints,
A safe complexion for a Merchant Prince,
Who valued Government for its protection
To wealth and capital against insurrection.
He thought that legislation should be planned,
And the great Ship of State equipped and manned,
Solely with reference to the property owners,
Those cabin-passengers, our American Peerage;
While you and I, and other luckless JONAHS,
Who work the ship, or suffer in the steerage,

He reckoned dangerous chaps, who raised the gales
Which roared and rattled through the spars and sails.
As for the rest, his hate was warm and hearty,

Against all politicians and each party.

No club or council held him in communion;

No doubtful canvass lured him into bets;

He never even helped to save the Union,

Or to pay off our greatest Statesman's debts;

Those fields of Golden Cloth, on which, 't is said,

The Wall-street heroes very often bled!'

FIRKIN was childless. His wife drooped and died; but before her death, had adopted an orphan child, whom the Millionaire determined in good time to marry to some Bank-Director:

'SHE was a fair New-England maiden, born,

Not where broad fields of yellow wheat and corn
Through sun-lit valleys wave, and gavly tinge
The quiet homesteads with their golden fringe,
While Nature blends their warm and genial flush
In girlhood's budding glow and virgin blush;
Nor on the hill-sides of the distant North,
Where, from the unfenced forests gushing forth,
O'er rocky beds, sweep the swift mountain-streams,
Whose sparkling torrent, as it leaps and gleams,
Is kindred to the keener flash that beams
From laughing eyes on pure unsullied faces,
While, like the Naiads, crowned with fabled graces,
They haunt and gladden those dark maple shades,
Our fairer wood-nymphs, the Green-Mountain maids!