The Knickerbocker, Vol. 22, No. 1, July 1843

by Various

THE POETICAL CHARACTER.

In fiction's devious wilds the heart misled,
To dull reality ungrateful turns;
Substantial earth's fair plains untempting spread,
And day's blest beam with light unlovely burns.

Yet not all Fancy's dreams, most wild and bright,
Are worth one day of Comfort's calm routine;
And simple Truth, attired in vestal white,
Transcends her starry front and garments' sheen.

And constant woman's fond and glowing kiss,
And heaven's own workmanship of mortal charms,
Are worth whole ages of imagined bliss,
Lost in ideal Beauty's airy arms.

The monster brood that cloudy spectre bore
To rash Ixion, deem not half so vain
As the fond progeny of minstrel lore,
Nursed in the womb of a distempered brain.

Why float these visions of delusive birth
Before the wanderers on the wastes of time,
Ordained to tread the firm, unyielding earth,
Nor yet the spires of heaven forbidden climb?

Is it that the soul divine, imprisoned here,
Beyond its dungeon bars essays to roam,
O'erleaps the due progression to its sphere,
Sees forms and shadows of its destined home?

Or, lost to innocence, to truth, to Eden,
Did our dark curse not quench each early ray,
But leave its broken beams, to light unbidden
The checkered mazes of the exile's way?

We have not exhausted the stores which our obliging friend of 'the Confederacy' has placed at our disposal. When we have more space, we shall resume the desultory series which we are compelled to bring abruptly to a present conclusion.

Gossip from an American Lady in Paris.—We derive the subjoined pleasant gossip from a young and gifted American lady, at present resident in the French metropolis. We hope to be similarly favored, whenever our fair correspondent shall find leisure from the demands of society to transcribe her fresh 'jottings-down' for our pages: 'We went to the Hotel des Invalides this morning to see the plans in relief of the fortified towns of France. They are exhibited to the public only during one month in the year. The plans of those cities I have visited interested me particularly. They are so minute that Miss L——, who accompanied us, had no difficulty in finding the country-house near Toulon where she spent some months last year. I was much struck by the plan of Embrun, in Dauphiny, that little town celebrated in both history and romance by the pilgrimages so frequently made to it by devout Catholics. It is strongly fortified and built on a rock of semi-circular form, which rises so perpendicularly on one side from the meadows which lie below, that one would suppose it must have been hewn away by the hand of man. I was much interested, too, by the plan of Mont St. Michel, in Normandy, the celebrated prison, built on a rock, which the tide separates twice a day from the main land, and where the political prisoners condemned after the émeuté, in May, 1839, are confined. We were looking at the plan of a fort, on the pedestal of which the name had not been labelled as on the others, when a soldier standing near informed us it was that of Ham, where the nephew of Napoleon is now a prisoner. It is in Picardy, which I am told is the most arid and unfruitful province in France. It is built around a quadrangular court, or I should rather say there are three buildings and a terrace which form a hollow square. The prince, who is said to be a remarkably good horseman, is allowed to ride on this terrace, which is not shaded by trees; indeed, if this plan be correct, which I suppose it must be, as it has just been made, there is but one tree within the precincts of the fortress.... In the evening, my friend, Madame D—— took me to the house of the Polish Princess Czartoryski. Prince Adam Czartoryski is from his birth, his wealth, and his character, one of the most illustrious of the Polish refugees. His life has been checkered by every extreme of good or ill. In early youth, he served in the army of the republic of Poland. He was at one time the captive of Catherine II., and in 1831 was at the head of the provisional government of Poland. After the total defeat of the Polish army, Prince and Princess Czartoryski with some difficulty made their escape, with their three children, the youngest of whom was not a year old. The Princess had not even a change of linen with her, and no time to collect her jewels, which were brought to her after she had reached the Austrian frontier, by a soldier, whom she had never seen before, and who refused to tell his name. It is impossible to imagine a greater contrast than that offered by the present mode of life of the Prince and Princess, and the splendor by which they were formerly surrounded. Prince Adam was one of the richest proprietors, and possessed not one, but several, of the most magnificent palaces in Poland, and was accustomed from childhood to every comfort and luxury which wealth could devise. The house he now inhabits is as simple as possible; but he remains at home every Monday evening for the purpose of seeing his friends and countrymen; and his salon is always crowded with the most learned men and most fashionable women in Paris. These weekly receptions are attended with but very little expense here, as tea and lemonade are the only refreshments it is the custom to offer. Prince Czartoryski is a most venerable-looking man of about seventy. The expression of his face is habitually melancholy, but at times he is very animated in conversation. Like most Poles, he speaks low and very slowly. I remarked that he was particularly polite and attentive to young people, which in a man, who, from his various misfortunes and trials, can take but little interest in general society, is, I think, very striking. The Princess, who must be almost thirty years younger than the Prince, is very lady-like and prepossessing in her manners. She is much beloved by her compatriotes: her efforts to relieve those who are in distressed circumstances being unceasing. She employs all her leisure hours in embroidering; and her embroidery, which is more beautiful than any thing of the kind I have ever seen, is sold at a bazar, which is opened during the last week of every year; new-year's day being the time when the French make those presents to their friends which in England and in our country are made on Christmas day. All the ladies of the Princess's acquaintance of course contribute to her bazar; and those who are remarkable for their beauty or their talents, are invited by her to keep the stalls. * * * Mrs. B——, whose son, a lad of about sixteen, is now engaged in attending the cours de religion, or religious lectures of M. Coquerel, one of the clergymen of the Reformed Church of Paris, took me this morning to hear one of the lectures. M. Coquerel is the nephew of the celebrated Helen Maria Williams, by whom he was educated. He is the most eloquent, and I believe the most learned, clergyman in Paris. I had been much pleased with his sermons, and was therefore very glad to have an opportunity of hearing one of his lectures. His class was composed of about thirty young men, of different ages, from sixteen to twenty-five. He has written a little book called 'Cours de Religion,' which he makes use of in his lectures. The method he adopts is this: He reads a paragraph from this little volume, and then comments upon it, and explains or developes it, often relating interesting anecdotes suggested to him by the subject, or asking questions which the foregoing lectures enable the scholars to reply to. The young men take notes, write them out at home, and bring these papers to Mr. Coquerel at the next lesson. The lectures for young men take place twice a week, from October to May, and those for young ladies at different hours during the same period. The scholars are admitted to take the sacrament at Pentecost. M. Coquerel is a most active and industrious man. Beside several volumes of sermons, and innumerable papers for different religious journals, he has published a very useful work, called 'Biographie Sacrée,' in which every name mentioned in the Bible is to be found. His manner is very animated; and as each lecture lasts but an hour, it is impossible that the attention of the young hearers should become weary.... 'April 19th. Went to the exhibition of paintings by living artists, which is now open at the Louvre. The most beautiful picture there, is one by M. Cogniet; 'Tintoretto painting his dead Daughter.' The biographers of the great master inform us, that he had a daughter who evinced great talent for painting, to whom he was devotedly attached, but who died when young. M. Cogniet has chosen the moment when Tintoretto, rising from his easel, on which rests the unfinished portrait, stands gazing on his beloved daughter, who is lying on a bed in the fore-ground of the picture. The father is almost de face, but the lower part of his figure is concealed by the bed. A crimson curtain falls behind him, and forms a rich but not gaudy back-ground to the picture and, by throwing a slight reflection on the daughter's face, relieves the whole from that disagreeable effect, which, with less judgment and good taste on the part of the artist, it must have produced, without taking from it the solemnity which the subject required. This is, on the whole, almost the only picture of the modern French school which pleases me entirely; in which there is no exaggeration of expression or gesture, and which deserves to be compared to those of the modern school of painting in Germany. I have no doubt that the circumstance of an exhibition taking place every year is a great disadvantage to young artists, who hurry to finish a picture for that occasion, in order that their names may be mentioned in the journals, and that they may obtain a celebrity which lasts but a few weeks. If the exhibition took place but once in five years, I am convinced we should see more fine pictures at the Louvre. Among the portraits I remarked one of Major Poussin, who resided for so many years in the United States. It is painted by Mademoiselle Godefroid, a pupil of Gerard, and is a very good likeness. I was struck by a portrait of M'lle de Fauveau. This lady is of a noble family of Brittany, and is well known for her devotion to the cause of the Duchess de Berri, and for the talent she has displayed in the art of sculpture. She is neither young nor handsome; she is dressed in the costume of a peasant of Brittany, a sort of blouse or loose frock, with her hair cut short in a strait line across her forehead, as we sometimes see it in the portraits of the early French kings. There is a portrait of the Duke of Orleans at the Louvre. It was painted from memory by Scheffer, a very clever artist. Some of the fruit-pieces and portraits, au pastel, in colored chalks, are very beautiful. Indeed, the French excel in this style of drawing. Among the paintings on porcelain we particularly admired a Holy Family, copied from one of the old masters. It is a perfect bijou. The day after our visit to the Louvre, Mrs. R—— took me to the atelier of Mr. Healy, the young American artist. His portrait of Washington, copied from one by Stuart, gave great satisfaction to Louis Philippe, and has been placed in one of the historical galleries at Versailles. Mr. Healy has now a beautiful picture of two of Colonel Thorne's daughters, which he is retouching, at his room. The attitudes, particularly that of the eldest of the young ladies, are very graceful, and the whole picture in very good taste.'

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The Irish Sketch-Book.—This capital work by 'Mr. M. A. Titmarsh,' otherwise W. M. Thackeray, Esq., author of 'The Yellowplush Correspondence,' has just been published by Mr. Winchester, at the 'New World' office, in a very neat little pamphlet-volume, illustrated with numerous engravings, from the pencil of the author. Our readers have had repeated evidences of the high estimation in which we hold the writings of Mr. Thackeray; and they may trust our judgment in this, that they will find the volume before us to be second to no previous work of the writer. It is, in fact, Ireland on canvass; its various cities and towns; its ludicrous modes of travel, and more ludicrous travellers; its wretched poverty, its generous hospitality; its suffering, and its indomitable good-humor. We were not until now aware that Mr. Titmarsh was 'given to song' as well as to romance and painting; but his 'Peg of Limavaddy,' a handsome kettle-scrubber, who handed him his 'rummer' of ale, and laughed so joyously at an accident which befel it, establishes the 'soft impeachment:'

'Presently a maid
Enters with the liquor
Half a pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker.
Gods! I didn't know
What my beating heart meant,
Hebe's self I thought
Entered the apartment.
As she came she smiled,
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honor,
Lighted all the kitchen!

'With a curtsey neat
Greeting the new-comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg
Offers me the rummer;
But my trembling hand
Up the beaker tilted,
And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it;
Spilt it every drop
(Dames who read my volumes,
Pardon such a word,)
On my what-d'ye-call 'ems!

'Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster,
Out began to laugh
Missis, maid, and master.
Such a merry peal,
'Specially Miss Peg's was
(As the glass of ale
Trickling down my legs was)
That the joyful sound
Of that ringing laughter
Echoed in my ears
Many a long day after.

'Such a silver peal!
In the meadows listening.
You who've heard the bells
Ringing to a christening;
You who ever heard
Caradori pretty,
Smiling like an angel
Singing 'Giovinetti,'
Fancy Peggy's laugh,
Sweet and clear and cheerful,
At my pantaloons
With half-a-pint of beer full!'

We repeat, the 'Irish Sketch-Book' is a capital work, and cannot fail of very general popularity. The author possesses a delicate appreciation of the beautiful, as well as a lively perception of the ridiculous; a felicitous combination of faculties, since the union of fine taste and strong humor seldom takes place in the same individual.

'Miseries of Human Life.'—Some twenty-five years ago, a work in two or three volumes, under this title, was republished in this city from an English edition. One of these volumes lies before us; and if it be a fair representative of its companions, an American publisher would not find it amiss to put forth a new issue of the book; for it abounds in keen satire, playful wit, and pleasant humor. We have segregated from its numerous divisions a few passages for the entertainment of our readers. A good deal of what is termed 'criticism' upon works of art has lately been expended in this meridian upon an undiscerning and unheeding public; yet we propose to add to the amount, by copying the remarks of one Mr. Ned Testy upon an exhibition of paintings and statuary, similar, we may suppose, to the annual collections of our 'National Academy of Design;' similar, certainly, in many of the points touched upon by the critic. After a consideration of the Landscapes, 'with their meagre subjects, lying perspective, and timid handling; their frittered lights, lumpy shadows, indigo skies, and saffron sands; their forward back-grounds, and backward fore-grounds; with trees and meadows carefully colored from an emerald, and water of such an hue and surface, that forgetting for a moment the season represented, one looks narrowly after the skaters!'—after a discussion of these, en masse, we are favored with the subjoined 'hits' at a particular 'Family Piece:'

A Young man who 'wants encouragement,' had immortalized family affection, by representing papa standing up at one end of the picture, ('his lips glued to each other, and his bullet eyes wide open, though evidently seeing nothing,) and mamma at the other; the peace being kept between them without the loss of an inch of space, by their endless progeny, whose heights and ages the artist has most accurately registered, by stringing them strait out, closely linked together in a descending series, like the reeds of Pan's pipe, which they farther resemble in the lank uprightness of their figures, and the billious deadness of their complexions. The next of these Domestic Scenes reproaches the idleness so remarkable in the foregoing, by the great variety of employment which it exhibits, with the additional advantage of allowing more elbow-room to the fancy of the painter; who in the first place has contrived to record, in the mother of the family, a truly exemplary instance of notability, combined with maternal tenderness; for she is seen, at the same point of time, engaged in nursing one child in her lap, rocking with her foot the cradle of another, hearing the task of a third, and eyeing the frolics of a fourth; and all this without seeming at all distracted from her needle, which she has just drawn out at the utmost stretch of her arm. The remaining children are all liberally supplied with such occupations or amusements as, when followed at proper times and places, must be allowed to become their sexes and ages, but which we are not exactly prepared to see going on as here, all at once in the same parlor. The young ladies of this extraordinary family can study their maps and globes, pore over their books, and even practice their music-lessons, without appearing once to know that those boisterous and unruly little dogs, their brothers, are cracking their whips, beating their drums, scampering about the room with their wagons, etc.; the very baby in the cradle, instead of being frightened out of its wits, as might reasonably be expected, only appearing to be lulled into a still sounder sleep, by the riotous gambols going on.'

Outraging nature is as common in art now as it was in the era of Ned Testy. Here you may see the picture of 'a lady in full length, gayly and archly tripping out in a hurricane by herself, in thin fluttering muslin, without cap, hat, or bonnet, by the side of a raging sea; where, if one may judge by the disposition of her limbs, and the archness of her countenance, she is practising an allemande to the music of the thunder-claps which seem bursting over her in all directions; yet without the slightest mark of concern in her looks, or apparent apprehension of taking cold, after dancing under such discouraging circumstances of dress and weather; there stares a young miss strait out of the picture, with one hand grown to her side, and the other to the monstrous head of a Newfoundland dog, sitting up exactly as high as she stands; and near by, in another frame, a parcel of Months or Hours, in petticoats, are smiling and dancing jigs round an emblem, in the shape of a good-looking woman in green, who is supposed to be Spring.' The critic wonders 'why they haven't got to changing the Minutes, Seconds, and other inferior parts of clock-work into little fluttering urchins.' But pause for a moment, reader, with hushed respiration, while we set before you a specimen of the Awful! There is an appropriate 'power of words' in the description of the 'grouping,' and doubtless the coloring was 'in keeping;' as much so, perhaps, as in Dickens's picture of the Wise Men of the East worshipping in a pink manger, or the Prodigal Son coming home in red rags to a purple father and a sea-green calf, waiting to be roasted:

'Here is a piece equally stupendous in size and subject, bearing the semblance of having been furiously thrown upon the canvass in the dark, from the disordered pallets of all the painters in the Universe; a sort of maniac's vision, embodied into a rolling chaos, turbulently brewed up out of the warring rudiments of smoke! blood! fire! night! whirlwind! earth! and water; a ruinous huddle of every thing spiritual and material, real and conjectural, within and without the precincts of possible Nature; and of every mingling shape, shade, color, quality, and consistence; the whole congregated mass of discordances tumultuously wheeling, dashing, boiling, and thundering together, in one giddy storm of—Nothing!' The figures of this landscape are entirely in keeping with it; 'ambiguous and reserved innuendos of beings, fluctuating somewhere among the shadowy and unsettled nomenclatures of incantation; demon, wizzard, griffin, goblin, demi-gorgon,' etc.

After a few more examples of 'single criticism' in this kind, we are favored with a 'running commentary' upon the ostracised paintings which adorn the upper tiers, and spaces over the doors: 'An upward glance of your eye introduces you to those poor creatures in reduced sizes, who are sent to Coventry at the top of the room, and strung along, by way of cornice, close under the ceiling; figures! but what language can adequately report them!—their wooden features, their mortified complexions; their sneaking, disconsolate, condemned looks; their quizzical head-dresses, and paste-board draperies; their brick-dust curtains, increasing by contrast the chalkiness of their cheeks; and that general and inveterate hardness of manner which instantly chases away all idea of the elasticity of the flesh, and the flexibility of cloth or linen. Hard!—adamant is pap to it!' The Crayons 'afforded striking examples of worse styles, by the help of worse materials;' there were still-born efforts in black-lead pencil, from the hands of academical tyros; wan historical sketches in water-color, by young ladies; imaginary elevations of bridges that will never be built; naked fronts of huge white houses, that sicken all eyes but those of the architect and the owner; and chuckle-headed busts in plaster, of obscure, pudding-faced moderns; likenesses in India-ink, 'done in this manner' for almost nothing; etc., etc. An exhibition of this sort is certainly proved to be one of the miseries of human life, 'by good witness.' But other miseries are enumerated; and chief among them, the humbugeousness of quack advertisers, and the gullibility of the public; and a medical sample is cited, which would do honor to any 'pill' or 'sarsaparilla' puff, of the present day:

'I should be the most ungrateful of mankind, were I to delay for a moment to return my heart-felt acknowledgments for the blessings I have derived from your inestimable pill. Before I was so happy as to hear of its miraculous effects, life had long been a burden to me. I was an object no less horrible than piteous to behold, being so entirely covered, or rather crusted, from head to foot, with the most virulent blotches and humors, that I ought rather to have been called an Ulcer than a man. I was at the same time so miserably emaciated, that my bones rattled audibly as I moved, and my head itself seemed to hang to my shoulders by a thread. In short, to such a condition was I reduced, that, on being carried to my own door upon a litter, on my return home after a short absence in the vain search after ease, my wife, who chanced to meet me in the passage, insisted that they had brought me to the wrong house, for that she had never seen me before! The sound of my voice, however, but too cruelly undeceived her; and I was then conveyed to the bed on which I continued to lie, without stirring hand or foot, for more than thirty years. During this awful period matters were constantly and rapidly going on with me from bad to worse; scarcely an hour passed but some new and still more deplorable disease was added to the complicated list of maladies which were devouring me up piece-meal, in a manner; and it was a lucky day when I could say that one or more of my bones had not dropped clean out of the socket! Sleep at one time, I had none, for sixty-nine successive nights, unless I may call by that name a series of swoons, brought on by my agonies, and the weakness consequent upon my reduced condition. About this period, the flesh began to drop in large collops from my back and shoulders; and from one hollow which formed exactly beneath my left pap, my heart was absolutely naked and visible, by which my inquisitive surgeon was gratified, at my expense, with a living display of the whole process of systole and diastole, as I think he called it. In this state of things, my case having been pronounced absolutely hopeless by every physician in the land, my friends began to think it was high time to call your invaluable remedy to my aid: and invaluable indeed it proved to me! No sooner had I begun to use it, than the most surprising alteration came on: while I was swallowing the first pill, I could plainly feel, to my inexpressible astonishment and delight, that a new and perfect growth of healthy flesh was rapidly forming in every part of the skeleton to which I was now wasted down; and before I had taken the third, I had reason to suspect, from certain strange and indescribable sensations, as if of some hard substance pushing or shooting forth in different places, that the numerous cavities left by the bones I had lost, were about to be filled up by a new process of ossification; which, sure enough, was presently found to be vigorously and prosperously going on. My appetite, too, very shortly became so dangerously keen, that it was reckoned prudent to refuse me a third fowl at my dinner. But not to trouble you with too many particulars, (which to you, indeed, must be mere shadows of a thousand still more extraordinary cases,) I will simply say, that by persevering in the course for one week more, I felt not only that every symptom of disease had absolutely vanished as if by magic, but that I was suddenly able, (which I had never been in the best days of my youth and strength,) to perform the most athletic feats in leaping, wrestling, boxing, etc., without the slightest sensation of fatigue. To express the full extent of my gratitude to you, my dear Sir, for this almost incredible restoration, is a task which I must give up in despair; suffice it to say, that to Providence (under your pill) I shall ever acknowledge myself indebted for the felicity I now enjoy.' 'P. S. Please send me without delay, by the next coach, six dozen of the largest boxes of your Scorbutic Pills; though, indeed, I have not the smallest apprehension of ever having occasion to use them again.'

It would puzzle few of our readers, in town or country, to make a familiar application of this satire upon the prevailing style of quack advertisements.

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Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—In an admirable paper upon 'The Poetry of the Bible,' written for the Knickerbocker some years since by Rev. William T. Brantley, President of the 'College of South Carolina,' there was an incidental allusion to the proofs of the authenticity of the Sacred Word, as contained in the fulfilment of the 'prophecies concerning the nations.' A dilapidated book-stall volume before us, with the title-page gone, and the author's name nowhere to be met with, (facts in themselves noteworthy in this connection,) thus illustrates the position of our valued correspondent: 'The primitive Christians regarded the Scriptures as their chief and dearest treasure; and often laid down their lives rather than deliver the sacred records to their enemies, who used every art of terror to seize and destroy them. Then, as now, different parties and sects existed, who all appealed to the Scriptures for proof of their several opinions; and these must have been so many checks upon each other, to the general exclusion of mistake and fraud. But aside from this, look at their predictions, in the case of the 'chosen and peculiar people.' The separation of the Israelites from the rest of mankind, not for their own sakes but for the sake of all, and their preservation amidst their enemies, what a display is it of the divine power! This great scheme of wisdom and goodness was carried on by its omnipotent Author 'with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.' 'He sent a man before his people, even Joseph, who was sold to be a bond-servant. He increased his people exceedingly, and made them stronger than their enemies. He sent Moses his servant, and Aaron; and these showed his tokens among them, and wonders in the land of Ham. He sent darkness, and it was dark, and turned their waters into blood. Their land brought forth frogs, yea, even in their king's chambers. He gave them hail-stones for rain, and flames of fire in their land. He spake the word, and locusts came innumerable, and devoured the fruit of their ground. He smote all the first-born in their land, even the chief of all their strength. He brought forth his people from among them. He spread out a cloud to be a covering, and fire to give them light in the night season. He rebuked the Red Sea also, and it was dried up: so he led them through the deep as through a wilderness. At their desire he brought quails, and filled them with the bread of heaven. He opened the rock of stone, so that rivers ran in dry places. Yet within a while they forgot his works, and tempted God in the desert. Then the earth opened and swallowed up Dathan, and covered the congregation of Abiram. The plague also was great among them. Then, being chastised, they turned to their God. He led them over Jordan: the waters divided to let them pass. He discomfited their enemies. At His word the sun abode in the midst of Heaven; and the moon stood still, and hasted not to go down for a whole day; so He gave the kingdoms of Canaan to be an heritage unto his people; that all the nations of the world might know that the hand of the Lord is mighty, and that they might fear the Lord continually.' Such was the result of a scheme determined by divine goodness, planned by divine wisdom, foretold by divine knowledge, accomplished by divine power. 'The things of the earth were changed into things of the water, and the thing that did swim went upon the ground. The fire had power in the water contrary to his own virtue, and the water forgat his own kind to quench. Thus the elements were changed among themselves by a kind of harmony, as when one tune is changed upon an instrument of music, and the melody still remaineth.' How graphic also is the description of the 'gift of tongues,' conferred upon the Apostles! 'And they were all amazed, and marvelled, saying one to another: 'Behold, are not all these which speak, Galileans? And how hear we every man in our own tongue, wherein we were born? Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea, and Cappadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia in Egypt, and in the parts of Lybia about Cyrene. And strangers of Rome; Jews and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians; we do hear them speak in our tongues the wonderful works of God!' * * * Most likely many of our readers will remember this 'vexed question' in logic: 'It either rains or it does not rain: but it does not rain; therefore it rains.' This used to puzzle us hugely; as did also the mathematical problem, in simple equations, which ensues: 'A cat has one more tail than no cat; no cat has two tails; ergo, a cat has three tails!' The conclusion is irresistible. Here is something, however, which is of deeper import: 'Johnson studied law with Dobson, under the agreement that he should pay Dobson, when he (Johnson) gained his first cause. After a time Dobson got tired of waiting for the conditions of the contract, and sued Johnson for his pay. He reasoned thus: 'If I sue him I shall get paid at any rate, because if I gain the cause, I shall be paid by the decision of the court; if I lose it, I shall be paid by the conditions of the contract, for then Johnson will have gained his first cause; therefore I am safe.' Johnson, on the other hand, being prodigiously frightened, sought counsel, and was told to reason thus: 'Dobson reasons well, but there must be a flaw in his argument; because I and not he will gain the victory. If the suit goes in my favor, I shall gain it by the decision of the court; if it goes against me, I shall gain it by the terms of the contract, not having yet won my first cause. Of course I shall not have to pay him!' Vive la Logique! * * * This fine picture of the Arabian Desert is from the pen of the late lamented N. H. Carter, Esq., formerly editor of the New-York Statesman, a daily journal long since discontinued. We thank 'C. P. D.' for his offer, which is gladly accepted:

'No verdure smiles; no crystal fountains play,
To quench the arrows of the god of day;
No breezy lawns, no cool, meandering streams,
Allay the fervor of his torrid beams;
No whispering zephyrs fan the glowing skies,
But o'er long tracts the mournful siroc sighs.
Whose desolating march, whose withering breath,
Sweeps through the caravan with instant death.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

''Tis night: but here the sparkling heavens diffuse
No genial showers, no soft distilling dews:
In the hot sky, the stars of lustre shorn,
Burn o'er the pathway of the wanderer lorn,
And the red moon from Babelmandel's strand
Looks, as she climbs through pyramids of sand,
That, whirled aloft, and gilded by her light,
Blaze the lone beacons of the desert night!'

A correspondent, well known to our readers, in a note to the Editor, remarks as follows, upon the passage of our May 'Gossip' which touched upon Coleridge and his conversations: 'I am glad of your remarks on Coleridge and Wordsworth. I have been for years sick of the interminable cant about those two men. Their admirers have too long exalted them above all that is human. And would you know the reason? In discovering more depth, and pure humanity, and high inspiration, in their school of the prophets than the rest of the world have seen, they think the world will give them credit for deep penetration, high and refined sense, and a large share of the same or a kindred humanity and inspiration. Witness a sixty pages' laudation of Wordsworth, opening a number of the 'New-York Review,' by a writer who doubtless thought his own fame was thereby planted like an eternal light-house on the rock of his idol. Now I hope I am Christian enough to admire greatly the genius of Coleridge; and I am yet to find any thing in English or elsewhere more movingly and musically beautiful than 'Genevieve,' or more wizard-like and solemn than the 'Rime of the Antient Mariner.' I also plead not guilty to a contempt of 'Christabel' and 'Wallenstein.' Nor am I such a rebel to reason, or heretic in taste, as not to see surpassing beauty in many of Wordsworth's minor poems, and lofty grandeur in his 'Ode to Childhood,' and 'Stanzas on the Power of Sound,' and a high, philosophical, and musing mind in his great 'Excursion.' I have read him twice in the last two years, and my admiration has not at all diminished. But I choose to deny that he or Coleridge invented poetry, or carried it farther, or as far, as some others before and with them. I choose to deny that they have struck the great chord of humanity, unstruck before, or have sympathized more deeply or more sweetly with the joys and sorrows of the lowly million, than the great poets before them have done. I choose to assert, what has been abundantly proven, that they were both great egotists, eaten up by self, which the great poets have rarely been; and that Coleridge in particular often knew not what he meant himself, but between opium and metaphysics, frequently tied the tail of one idea to the head of another, and called the monstrous and unintelligible coalition a theory; a mixture of Platonism, Spinozaism, and the d——l knows what 'ism. And for believing this, the Coleridgeites and Wordsworthites, who are the most intolerant of bigots, would call me an earthy blockhead, and for expressing this, an ignorant, blaspheming fool. Why, I once had almost broken with a friend, because I would not admit that Wordsworth was superior to Byron, and that Byron stole almost all his beauties from him! And the secret was, that the poor fellow thought he had the Wordsworthian gift, and undeifying Wordsworth was undeifying him!' * * * Are not the circumstances narrated in the following communication from a truly veracious correspondent, 'very remarkable,' to say the least? Can their truth be doubted for a moment, however, by any intelligent reader? Yet 'it's curious, isn't it?' In a note to the Editor, our friend writes: 'I have an uncle 'down East,' a retired sea-captain, who having nothing else to do, frequently writes me long gossipping letters. Sometimes they are very amusing: an extract from one of them I now send you. The story appears almost incredible; but knowing my correspondent to be a strictly conscientious man, who would scorn to draw the long-bow on any occasion, I have no hesitation in believing every word of it, whether others are willing to credit it or not. I give it to you in his own language, for there is a strait-forward simplicity about it, that should command belief:'

* * * 'All these things, dear S——, happened in my younger days, of course. As I have still a white page before me, I will detail to you one of my youthful adventures. I had one night been to a convivial party, which did not break up until nearly morning, when, on arriving at my boarding-house, I found the doors closed. Not wishing to disturb the inmates at that unseasonable hour, I proceeded in search of temporary lodgings, not doubting but that I should get accommodated at some one of the numerous hotels. In this however I was disappointed; every place was shut as tight as an oyster. It happened to be a wet, drizzly night; and after wandering about the streets for some time, and getting pretty well soaked, I began to feel rather disagreeable. What added not a little to my discomfort, was the fact that within a few nights there had been committed several daring highway robberies, in the very heart of the city, in one of which the victim was murdered; and as a natural consequence, no watchman dared to venture out from his hiding-place; thus making my situation doubly lonesome. In this dilemma, finding all legitimate places closed against me, I began to consider the expediency of seeking shelter at least, if not sleep, in any place that might seem to offer it. While in this mood, I found myself abreast of the —— church; and leaning against the lightning-rod a moment, the query occurred to me: 'Why not 'shin up' this rod into the belfry? I have slept in worse places than that, no doubt, and can do so again.' Now I had been a great climber in my boyish days; and feats which to others seemed difficult, if not absolutely impossible, were to me often matters of mere pastime. I therefore hesitated but a moment in such an emergency, but slipping off my boots and swinging them round my neck, I commenced the ascent; and in less than five minutes I had mounted a hundred feet or more, and got safely into the belfry. My accommodations here were much better than I could have anticipated. Some carpenters had been to work a few days previously, repairing the railings on the outside of the tower, and had left a quantity of shavings, which lay scattered on the floor. Placing these together in a heap, I threw my weary limbs down upon them, and was soon in a deep slumber, but not a quiet one. My horizontal position enabled the fumes of wine to reach my head, which before they had been unable to do, in consequence of my extreme height, for you know I am six feet three, and I soon began to have all sorts of fantastic dreams. Strange wild shapes flitted around me, and loud unearthly sounds filled my ears. But prominent over all, was an incessant ding-dong of apparently distant bells, which reached me in every variety of volume and tone; now low and sweet, and anon loud, startling, and many-toned, as if the thousand steeples of Moscow were again pouring forth lamentations over the ruins of their beautiful city. Suddenly, a single stroke, that sent its vibrations through every limb, startled me from sleep; and lifting my head slightly, I at the instant received a blow upon the back of it that sent me quivering against the frame of the belfry. I lay stunned for some moments; and on recovering my consciousness, the bell of the steeple was just closing, with a strange jangle, the peal for seven o'clock in the morning!

'I now comprehended the whole. The edge of the bell, on its return revolution, had come in contact with my head at the instant I had lifted it, on being roused by the first stroke. I placed my hand upon the back of my scull, and the proof of that fact lay there too prominent to be denied. A bump had been raised as big as a hen's egg. I paid but little attention to it, however, as the pain was but slight, and I was moreover exceedingly anxious about the mode of extrication from my present unenviable predicament. Sliding down the lightning-rod of a meeting-house, in broad day-light, was not quite so pleasant a performance as 'shinning up' one at midnight. While considering this matter, in a sort of a 'quandary way,' as brother Jonas used to say, the scuttle-door slowly opened, and the sexton of the church made his appearance. He did not observe me, but went immediately to the bell, which he began to walk round, and to inspect very minutely. At last he stopped: 'It's just as I expected,' said he to himself: 'the bell's cracked! Now what upon airth could ha' done it? I am sure I felt it hit something hard.' Here I mechanically placed my hand to the back of my head, and coughed slightly. The man turned, and observing me, started back with affright. I immediately stepped forward, and told him my story in a few words, taking care to make it as lucid as possible by the aid of a little silver, and saying nothing, of course, about the bump on my head. The man appeared satisfied, and told me I could go down with him. Before starting, however, I bestowed a hasty glance upon the bell, and perceived that it was indeed cracked, longitudinally, from the flange to the crown, and that a lock of my hair was firmly inclosed in the crevice, just on the outer edge. This of course was enough to remove from my mind all doubt, had I had any, as to the cause of the mischief; but I said nothing, and followed the sexton down the scuttle. In a few moments I was once more in the streets, with my hat under my arm, for I found it impossible to place it any where near its true position on my head, in consequence of the new phrenological development already mentioned. But now, dear S——, comes the most wonderful part of my narrative. This little incident happened twenty years ago; and to my certain knowledge, since that date, the bell in that steeple has been replaced four times; and yet to this very day, whenever I pass within hearing of its tones, my ears begin to ring, my head violently to oscillate, and straitway I am seized with a stupor and dizziness that continue until I can get beyond the reach of its sound. You will recollect you once asked me why old Major N—— called me sometimes 'Captain Hardhead,' and sometimes 'Captain Waghead?' You have now the answer.'

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The water stood in our eyes, reader, (and it will stand in yours if you have a heart to feel,) as we perused the subjoined eloquent passage of a letter from a friend to whom our readers have often been indebted for amusement, entertainment, and instruction. What a startling picture it presents of the first approaches of that 'hectic,' 'phthisic,' 'consumption,' or whatever be the favorite title of that most wily and fatal foe, who in one hand presents the insidious olive-branch, and in the other conceals his inevitable sword, cutting down youth in its blossom and manhood in its fruit! 'For very many years, from twelve to two have been my hours of retiring, and my exercise has been nothing, or nearly so, during the day. One result has been, that I have read one half of the Greek and Roman classics, and feasted largely in modern literature. A parallel result has been, that owing to corporeal sluggishness and nervousness, the curse of the sedentary, I have no doubt reaped less pleasure and profit than I might have done from half that assiduity coupled with a due regard to the wants of the body. The final result is, that an iron constitution is now largely disorganized; and from the constant presence of a dull, deep, stationary pain in my left side beneath the ribs, and fixed I fear upon the lungs, I begin to indulge in sad and deep forebodings. Often, when wakened by its painful urgency, I lie in the silence of the night, listening to my heart's deep beatings, and recall my early and yet unfulfilled dreams—dreams oh! how glorious!—and array before my unsated eyes this world, with all its lovely learning, and sweet poetry, and burning passion; and reflect how unfit I am to die, and try the conditions of a new existence, before I have fulfilled the duties and perused the mysteries of this, and then think of the wormy bed, and anticipate the hour when I shall lie there, closing my eyes to coloring and my ears to sound; the impatient longing I have sometimes felt for death is repaid by an indefinable horror; and between the tenderness of natural regret and the shudderings of unconquerable awe, passion masters pride, and both sink to meekness and humility in a flood of gushing tears!' * * * 'The Warning,' in its spirit at least, is borrowed. We are sorry to intimate this, but it is a fact, friend 'P.' You could not say that you have not read the poem which commences as follows, (if we rightly remember,) 'could you, now?' Guess not:

'All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul!'

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We gave on one occasion an extract from one of the 'Short Patent Sermons' of 'Dow, Jr.,' illustrating the endless extent of for ever. The same sublimity of conception is apparent in the subjoined glance at the magnitude of the planets, and the unsocial 'distance' they keep up between one another: 'If a person were sufficiently long-legged to step from star to star, and were to go at a decent dog-trot, he might as soon think of travelling from everlasting to everlasting and back again in a day, as to undertake to find an end to the planets which roll round their respective suns, as far beyond this insignificant solar system of ours as the farthest flight of imagination is beyond the jump of a ham-stringed grasshopper!' By the by, 'speaking of Dow,' here is a capital anecdote of the veritable Lorenzo, which is worthy of record. 'It appears' that Dow, in one of his odd, quaint sermons, declared that he 'had known sinners so very wicked that they actually bu'st!' This statement threw an old, ignorant, and fat impenitent present into a state of alarm and perspiration; and home he waddled, in mortal terror. At night, in the horror of his anticipated explosion, he rolled about until he could no longer bear it. He fancied he was already swelling. He rose and attempted to dress himself, in order to go out 'al fresco.' Who can paint his consternation, when he found he could but just strain the garments over his limbs, and even then they would not meet! He was suffering a rapid sin-dropsy; his iniquities were coming to light! He screamed in the agony of his fear; and a lamp being brought in, he found that in his haste he had put on his brother's clothes. 'The impression, however, says our informant, a clergyman of the Church of England, 'was a salutary one, for he became a pious man.' * * * The 'Knickerbocker'-Steamer, that floating palace of the Hudson, must not pass unnoticed by 'the editor hereof.' To describe her, however, and her superb 'belongings,' her Dutch paintings and quaint adornments, is quite another thing. We have no space for an essay in this department of Maga. It shall suffice to say, therefore, that this truly magnificent vessel is in all respects worthy the honored name she bears. Could we say more? Appropos of this: It was not until the first volume of the Knickerbocker appeared, (this is our TWENTY-SECOND, reader; and, non-reader, an excellent opportunity for you to commence your subscription,) that one met our noble potronymic 'about town.' How is it now? Let the Knickerbocker steamers, bathing-houses, omnibii, restaurants, clubs—aquatic, literary, social, military, scientific, and artistic—and eke the Temperance-halls and root-beer perambulatories, make answer! Their reply is triumphant; and yet 'our' children play with the neighbor's children, just the same as if these were not 'parlous facts!' This, however, is one of the tendencies of that republican form of government under which it is our happiness to reside! * * * Are not these lines of Motherwell very beautiful? Such thoughts have we had a thousand times; and we desire to thank the writer for expressing them for us so well:

'Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver;
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Flow softly down, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet, then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder-tree,
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A hundred suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever!'

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Small game, Mein Herr, of Albany—small game! A 'two-penny dip' would be wasted on it. Our correspondent's critique reminds us of the tailor in Laputa, who being employed in making a suit for the facetious Gulliver, disdained the vulgar measures of his profession, and took that gentleman's altitude by the help of a quadrant! We can pounce upon fair game, but we cannot 'like French falcons, fly at any thing we see.' Beside, if the satire was 'caviare to the General' of the 'New-Mirror,' how should it find a place in these pages? Our friend 'the Brigadier' is a fastidious and a prudent person. Did he not alter a quotation from Byron, in one of our friend Graham's 'Sketches by a Briefless Lawyer,' wherein 'waistcoat-pocket' was substituted for that startling indelicacy, 'breeches-pocket?' Verily, he did! * * * The following reflections upon the death of friends, and the memories of the departed, which we transcribe from a private letter to the Editor, are too beautiful and true to be confined to one or two readers only: 'I have read the exhortations of Plutarch, and Seneca, and Jeremy Taylor, and others, all hinging upon the idea that pain and bereavement are natural, necessary, inevitable, in this world of successive bloom and desolation. But pain is to me none the less painful because natural, nor separation less overwhelming for its necessity; nor yet is the blasting of cherished hopes less withering to my heart because the same blight has fallen on the verdure of other hearts, and kindred tears are falling from a world of mourners in a wide companionship of grief. 'The head may reason, but the heart will feel.' Time, however, is a great and effectual healer. Though a tree be lopped to the very root, the maimed giant will send up a new creation of vegetable strength. So the human soul, like some evergreen creeper, if you cut off or tear away its branches of affection with the object round which they entwined themselves, will send forth other tendrils, and wind its clinging arms around some other idol, embalming it with fragrance and clothing it in verdure. The sweet lines of Wordsworth are most practical and true, as well as poetical:

'There is a comfort in the strength of love:
'T will make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset tire brain, or break the heart.'

'And while there is one, and more than one, whose redemption from their iron sleep I would gladly purchase by a subtraction from the remnant of my own dismembered life, and principally that visible gushing tears, and the test of so great a sacrifice, might be some atonement for causeless misconceptions, and some proof of warm love beneath the outward shows of an inflexible hardness; yet I know that Time in his weary revolutions will soon bring us all together in a world of infinite knowledge, and liberal forgiveness, and uncircumscribed affection; a world where we shall 'see face to face,' and feel heart to heart; 'where no grief makes the heart heavy and the eye-lids red.' * * * Standing with a friend the other day by the river-side, to take in the noble coup d'œil of the new steamer Knickerbocker, we overheard a little anecdote connected with water-craft, which made our companion merry all the way home; which we shall here transcribe; 'and which it is hoped may please.' 'It seems there was' (nay, we know not seems, there was) a verdant youth from the interior of Connecticut, for the first time on board a steam-boat. His curiosity was unbounded. He examined here, and he scrutinized there; he wormed from the engineer a compulsory lecture on the steam-engine and mechanics in general, and from the fireman an essay on the power of white heat, and the 'average consumption of pine cord-'ood.' At length his inquiring mind was checked in its investigations, and 'the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties' made at once apparent. He had mounted to the wheel-house, and was asking the pilot: 'What you doin' that for, Mister?—what good does't do?' when he was observed by the captain, who said, in a gruff voice: 'Go away from there! Don't you see the sign, 'No talkin' to the man at the hellum? Go 'way!' 'Oh! certing—yäes; I only wanted to know ——' 'Well you do know now that you can't talk to him; so go 'way!' With unwilling willingness, the verdant youth came down; and, as it was soon dark, he presently went below; but four or five times before he 'turned in,' he was on deck, and near the wheel-house, eyeing it with a thoughtful curiosity; but with the captain's public rebuff still in his ears, venturing to ask no questions. In the first gray of the dawn, he was up, and on deck; and after some hesitation, perceiving nobody near but the pilot, who was turning the wheel, as when he had last seen him, he preferred his 'suppressed question' in the oblique style peculiar to his region: 'Wal, goin' it yit ha?—been at it all night?—screëwin on her up?—eh?' What vague conjectures must have bothered the poor querist's brain, during the night, may be partly inferred from the absurd but 'settled conviction' to which he had at length arrived! * * * What a mingling of the dead Past with the busy, bustling Present pervades the mind of the thoughtful observer, as he looks down from the rising tower of the New Trinity Church upon tens of thousands of the dead whose bones crowd the grave-yard below; bones, and dust and ashes, over which are thrown in wild confusion huge blocks from the quarry, and piles of uprooted grave-stones, and slabs and urns of marble! As you have marked an elaborately-carved stone sink slowly from its ponderous 'drop' to its place in an edifice which is to stand for ages, did you never scan closely its grained streaks, its delicate chissellings, with the thought that when you were senseless clay, that very stone might arrest the eye of another, gazing upon it with sensations like your own? So at least have we thought, concerning those who have gone before us, as we have looked at the ornamental marbles of our older public buildings, erected in another age. But from the countless Dead, who slumber below, how solemnly comes up toward this rising tower the voice of warning and monition! Each 'storied urn' takes the form of the Departed whom it commemorates, and seems to say:

'Time was I stood, as thou dost now,
And viewed the Dead as thou dost me:
Ere long thou'lt lie as low as I,
And others stand to look on thee!'

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Mr. Wallace, the great musical Wonder, is not now in town, but, reader, should he return among us, be sure to neglect no opportunity to hear him. In his hands, the piano seems like an instrument hitherto unknown. It has the chant of woodland birds, the silver sound of dropping waters, and 'all voices of nature and of art.' We have heard no resemblance to Mr. Wallace, as a pianist. But it is his violin which speaks to us; and on this instrument no approach to Mr. Wallace has been met with in this country. How exquisite the notes, pathetic, joyful, or in 'linked sweetness long drawn out' which he conjures from that most facile of all instruments! We would travel ten miles to hear him play, in his style, that ravishing melody, 'The Last Rose of Summer.' We shall have occasion, we hope, again to advert to the performances of Mr. Wallace. He is yet a young man, and possesses the characteristic modesty of true genius; and has hardly yet learned that 'the world meets nobody half way;' in his case, however, not a necessary lesson. * * * If any of our town readers are fond, by way of literary variety and contrast, of disinterring the intellectual treasures of the buried Past, they will find 'pleasant employment and liberal wages' in glancing over the antique stores of Messrs. Bartlett and Welford, under the Astor House. We have been indebted to the courtesy of these gentlemen for sundry communings with authors who have been in their graves for five or six centuries. Every ancient book is an argument in favor of the immortality of the soul. 'Fancy a deep-buried Mastodon, some fossil Megatherion, Icthyosaurus, were to begin to speak from amid its rock-swathings, never so indistinctly! Yet the most extinct fossils of Men can do, and does, this miracle—thanks to the letters of the alphabet!' * * * The friend who sends us, for 'a fragment of Gossip,' the anecdote of the verdant field-preacher who spoke of Saint Paul's having 'sat at the foot of Gammel-Hill,' is informed that it has already appeared in the Knickerbocker. The following specimen of kindred ignorance, however, is quite new to us, and worthy of repetition. It is a precious bit of ignorant bathos, which occurred in a discourse upon the sufferings of Christ: 'The blessed Saviour, my hearers, was dreadfully persecuted. Once, when going to Jerusalem, the Jews put him on a wild young jack-ass, and scattered branches in the road, and put clothes onto 'em, in order for to scare the little colt, and make him break the blessed Redeemer's neck!' The speaker actually preached this three times, till one of his congregation corrected him!' * * * The articles in the Edinburgh Review, and other eminent European periodicals, against the custom of the duello, would seem to be but the echoes of a prevalent public opinion. We perceive by late English journals that an Anti-Duelling Association has recently been formed in London. 'It consists of three hundred and twenty-six members, including twenty-one noblemen, thirteen sons of noblemen, sixteen members of Parliament, fifteen baronets, thirty admirals and generals, forty-four captains R. N., twenty-three colonels and lieutenant-colonels, seventeen majors, twenty-six captains in the army, twenty lieutenants R. N., and twenty-four barristers. They denounce duelling as 'sinful, irrational, and contrary to the laws of God and man;' and pledge themselves to 'discountenance the practice, both by example and influence.' The association includes, says a London journal, many members who have been successful heretofore in 'killing their man.' * * * One of the most delightful as well as most accessible places of summer resort in the vicinity of New-York, is the 'Hamilton House,' a spacious and elegant palace of an edifice, situated on the south-westernmost extremity of Long-Island, on the picturesque bluff at the ocean-entrance to the Narrows, commanding a wide view of the sea, the lower bay, Staten-Island, and the rich and cultivated fields of Long-Island; a combination of scenery unsurpassed on the Atlantic sea-board. Here, amidst healthful and invigorating sea-airs, and charming views; with spacious and well-ventilated apartments, public and private; 'tables richly spread;' wines of the best, and the means of recreation, natural and artificial, in abundance; what could one want more?—save perhaps the ready attention and courtesy of the proprietor, Mr. J. R. Curtis, and these are 'matters of course.' Go to the 'Hamilton House,' ye invalids and pining wights 'in populous city pent.' * * * We find the annexed charming translation in the hand-writing of Mr. Longfellow, among the papers of the late lamented Willis Gaylord Clark:

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SUMMER TIME IN GERMANY.
FROM JEAN PAUL.

The summer alone might elevate us! Heaven! what a season! In sooth, I often know not whether to stay in the city, or go forth into the fields, so alike is it every where, and beautiful. If we go outside the city gate, the very beggars gladden our hearts, for they are no longer a-cold; and the post-boys can pass the whole night merrily on horse-back; and the shepherds lie asleep in the open air. We want no gloomy house. We make a chamber of every bush; and so have my good industrious bees before us, and the most gorgeous butterflies. In gardens on the hills sit school-boys, and in the open air look out words in the dictionary. On account of the game-laws there is no shooting now; and every living thing in bush and furrow and on the green branches, can enjoy itself right heartily and safely.

In all directions come travellers along the roads. They have their carriages, for the most part, thrown back. The horses have branches stuck in their saddles, and the drivers roses in their mouths. The shadows of the clouds go trailing along, and the birds fly between them up and down. Even when it rains do we love to stand out of doors, and inhale the quickening influence; and the wet does the herdsman harm no more!

And is it night, so sit we only in a cooler shadow, from which we plainly discern the day-light on the northern horizon, and on the sweet, warm stars of heaven. Whithersoever I look, there do I find my beloved blue; on the flax in blossom, on the corn-flowers, and the godlike, endless heaven, into which I would fain plunge as into a river!

And now if we turn homeward again, we find only fresh delight. The whole street is one great nursery; for in the evening after supper, the little ones, though they have but few clothes upon them, are again let out into the open air, and not driven to bed as in winter. We sup by day-light, and hardly know where the candle-sticks are. In the bed-chambers the windows are open day and night, and likewise most of the doors, without danger. The oldest women stand by the window without a chill, and sew. Flowers lie about every where; by the ink-stand, on the lawyer's papers, on the judge's desk, and the tradesman's counter. The children make a great noise, and one hears the rolling of nine-pin alleys. Half the night through, one walks up and down the street, and talks loud, and sees the stars shoot in the high heaven. The foreign musicians, who wend their way homeward toward midnight, go fiddling along the street, and the whole neighborhood runs to the window. The extra posts arrive late, and the horses neigh. One sits in the noise by the window, and drops asleep, and the post-horns awake him; and the whole starry heaven hath spread itself open. Oh, God! what a joyous life, on this little earth!

Cambridge, July 20.

Longfellow.

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The following we derive from the same source with the above. It is placed in type from the MS. of Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler:

THE PARTING PLEDGE.

I.

Yet once again! but once, before we sever,
Fill me one brimming cup—it is the last,
And let those lips now parting and for ever,
Breathe o'er this pledge 'The memory of the Past!'

II.

Joy's fleeting sun is set, and no to-morrow
Smiles on the gloomy path we tread so fast;
Yet in the bitter cup, o'erfilled with sorrow,
Lives one sweet drop—the memory of the Past!

III.

But one more look from those dear eyes now shining
Through their warm tears, their loveliest and their last.
But one more strain of hands in friendship twining,
Now farewell all, save memory of the Past!

'What is more ridiculous to a dandy than a philosopher, or to a philosopher than a dandy?' We thought of this query, while reading a description, in a communication before us, of a knot of fourth-rate dandies, the 'apes of apes,' which the writer encountered in the bar-room of an inn, in one of the fourth-rate towns of Maryland. Doubtless these artificial 'humans' looked upon our friend as quite to be pitied that he was not 'one of us:' 'In their ultra dress, affected manners, drawling tones, and whey-faces, you might read the foolish inanity of an existence parallel in every respect to that of Beau Brummel, except that his was original absurdity, and theirs was folly on loan. It was Parisianism adulterated in London, qualified in Broadway, weakened in Chestnut-street, reduced in Baltimore, and at last in these provincial decoctions diluted to the lowest possible degree of insipidity, with scarce a perceptible tincture of the original liquid. These had no souls by nature; and the only idea they could inspire was one of humiliation, that apes were permitted to wear the likeness of God's image.' * * * We annex below a few random comments from an old and favorite contributor, (a 'scholar ripe and good,' who holds a felicitous pen,) upon three or four papers in our May number: 'John Quod is beyond all praise. I read the May chapters throughout with unqualified delight. The passage describing the old lawyer's affixing his own name, in his confusion, to the blind man's will, aroused me to unseemly, uproarious laughter; and the painting of Kornicker's manner, particularly his laugh, is scarcely inferior to Cooper's account of Leatherstocking's noiseless, inward laugh, the impression of which could not fade from my fancy in a thousand years. I'll wager my head that the May number of no Magazine in the world contains a sketch of more power and humor. As for the 'Lay of Ancient Rome,' I cannot praise it too highly. The imitations of ancient manners, and the keeping with ancient ideas, is excellent, excellent indeed; far better than the efforts of Bulwer, in his 'Last Days of Pompeii,' or than any other late imitations which I just now remember to have seen. Fresh from the perusal of Anthon's 'Horace,' (Anthon's classics are entirely unequalled,) and with Livy in my reach, the verisimilitude strikes me as almost perfect. You cannot fail either, to observe that, as in the 'Three Passages in the History of a Poet,' there is a great deal of sweet poetry scattered about among the jewels of delicate criticism and mirthful wit. I believe my love for the old Greeks and Romans is a little unreasonable; but it is my first love. I often woo other mistresses, but I always return to my 'prima donna.' Twelve or fourteen years ago I ingorged all of Smollet, Fielding, Richardson, Scott, and Cooper, at one intemperate meal, and then lay some months inert and drowsy, like a huge boa-constrictor after swallowing a bullock. Then again for several years I dieted on Greek and Roman and early English literature. Once more I devoured all then published of Edgeworth, Bulwer, James, Marryat, and I know not how many others, rolled up in one monstrous mass. I wonder it had n't killed me; but the process of digestion brought me again to a state of healthful depletion, and my natural appetite revived. So, although I am delighted with genius, or talent, or wit, or mere taste, no matter when or where I encounter it, yet I cannot forget my youthful worship, or forego my early gods. The death-scene in 'The Young Englishman,' I do declare, went to my very heart. I have had since continually before my eyes the poor youth, flying from his destroyer, whose unerring dart was already in his bosom. What a mournful comment on that most affecting passage of Virgil, where the wounded deer flies from the pursuer, (who is in truth her companion,) with the arrow for ever in her side—hæret lateri lethalis arundo—flies through the summer forests, all heedless of their greenness, and lies down by some blue streamlet, helpless and hopeless to die! Seeing the other day a number of 'Graham's Magazine,' I read in it an article by E. A. Poe, who comes down on your old correspondent 'Flaccus' like a mountain of lead! It is clear that 'Flaccus' has in many places exposed himself to the charge of unmelodious rhymes, incongruous figures, and occasionally faulty taste. But there is a difference between a Pope that sometimes nods, and a Cibber that never wakes! I am not easily moved, in the matter of poetry; I think, at least, that it must have merit to please me; and I well remember that Flaccus's metrical love-tale in your pages seemed to me very sweet and original, and strongly redolent of the early English odor. His 'Epistle from my Arm-chair' was in good hexameters, and his 'Address to the President of the New-England Temperance Society' had a Tom Moore-ish spice of elegant wit about it, and might have been written by Mr. Poe in about a century of leap-years.' * * * The venerable Noah Webster, full of years and full of honors, has gone down to his grave, 'like a shock of corn fully ripe in its season.' Our very earliest associations, like those of millions of others, are associated with his name. That blue-covered spelling-book of his, with its progressive lessons of learning and morality; its pleasant fables and pretty pictures; its large type and dingy paper—the very smell of that spelling-book—all are as vivid in our mind as when we first took it to bed with us, in an ecstacy of enjoyment, some score and a half of years agone. And then his great philological work, which is now so well known in both hemispheres, what a monument it is of careful research, discriminating judgment, laborious industry! It will die only with the 'land's language.' Mr. Webster has been a frequent and always a welcome contributor to these pages; and we have even now in our possession late communications from his pen, of which our readers will know more hereafter. Noah Webster was an honor to his country. He was a scholar; a 'gentleman of the old school,' who lived a life void of offence toward God and toward man; and he died in the full assurance of a blessed immortality. May he rest in peace! * * * 'Poetry run Mad' is inadmissible, on two accounts. In the first place, it strikes us we have met parts of it at least before; and in the second, the style has 'outlived our liking.' Nobody but Hood manages well this ragged species of verse; a very clever specimen of which is contained in his 'Custom-House Breeze,' the story of a lady-smuggler who would not go ashore at Dover, because there was 'a searching wind' blowing, which might expose the lace-swathings of her person:

'In spite of rope and barrow, knot, and tuck,
Of plank and ladder, there she stuck!
She couldn't, no, she wouldn't go on shore.

'But, Ma'am,' the steward interfered,
'The wessel must be cleared.
You mus'n't stay aboard, Ma'am, no one don't!
It's quite ag'in the orders so to do,
And all the passengers is gone but you.'
Says she, 'I cannot go ashore and won't!'
'You ought to!'
'But I can't!'
'You must!'
'I sha'n't!''

We have given no notice of Carlyle's 'Past and Present,' for the reason, let us inform the publishers, that we received no copy of the work. We have perused the book, however; and are compelled to say that in its style it exhibits no improvement upon the previous writings of its distinguished author. It is even less clear, to our comprehension, (or perhaps from the lack of it,) than any of his former productions. We are sorry to see, moreover, that he is obliged to repeat himself so frequently. Yet is there much matter for deep thought in his pages, and sometimes a whole sermon in a single sentence. His heart bleeds for his suffering fellow-men in England, Ireland, and Scotland; 'twelve hundred thousand workers, their cunning right hand lamed, lying idle in their sorrowful bosoms; asking only for work, and such return for it in food, clothes, and fuel, as shall enable them to live, that they may still work on;' yet we do not see that Mr. Carlyle points out any means by which these many 'workers' may obtain redress of the 'crowned, coronetted, shovel-hatted, quack-heads' whose rule he stigmatizes so severely. Here is a fine passage illustrating the fact that he only is successful who is 'fortunate for good:' 'Success! If the thing is unjust, thou hast not succeeded, no, not though bonfires blazed from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote leading articles, and the just thing lay trampled out of sight, to all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing. Success! In a few years thou wilt be dead and dark; all cold, eyeless, deaf; no blaze of bonfires, ding-dong of bells, or leading articles, visible or audible to thee again for ever! What kind of success is that?' It is not possible for Mr. Carlyle to write a stupid or an unreadable volume; and it can only be affirmed, in dispraise of the present work, that it is less forceful and attractive than one or two of its immediate predecessors. * * * You are wrong, Sir 'P. F.,' altogether wrong. The 'competence' of the tiller of the soil, the 'abundance' of the successful mechanic, and the 'sufficiency' of the tradesman, we conceive to be better calculated to promote happiness than 'great wealth,' even when unencumbered. We are not insensible to the value of money. Our remark was pointed as to the wants that wealth brings; but the cares of it are not less exacting. 'Don't you know me?' said a western millionaire, soon after 'the crisis,' to a friend of ours, with whom he had formerly been intimately acquainted; 'don't you remember me? My name is ——.' 'Good heavens! it can't be possible!' exclaimed our friend; 'why, what has wrought such a change in your appearance? Where's your flourishing head of hair? where's your flesh gone? what's put that bend in your back?' 'The times! the times!' replied the 'poor rich man;' as for my back, I broke that last year, lifting notes; some of them were very heavy.' A grievous and unnecessary burden no doubt they were; and how much better was the rich man's 'wealth,' with its carking cares, than the 'abundance' of the contented mechanic?' * * * A MOST forcible warning to 'nations that know not God' is contained in the following passage from a recent discourse by Rev. Geo. B. Cheever:

'This world has been the theatre of a mighty experiment—whether nations could be prosperous and permanent in pride and sin. The result has been overwhelming. Empire after empire has fallen to the ground. I have passed over the ruins of dead and buried kingdoms; have seen the shades of departed monarchies, and conversed with them, haunting the spots of their former glory; and the hollow voice, as if the wind were moaning from earth's central sepulchres, has spoken in the words of Scripture, deep unto deep, in my hearing, The nation and kingdom that will not serve Thee shall perish; yea, those nations shall be utterly wasted! It is a solemn thing to stand in the Colosseum at Rome, beneath the shadow of the Parthenon at Athens, within the crumbling shrine of the temple of Karnak in Egypt, and to listen to the echo of those awful words. These historical materials and monuments are so many intelligent chords, which men's iniquities have wrought for that great harp of the past, across which God's Spirit sweeps with its majestic, awful utterance! God grant that the history of our nation may not add another tone of wailing to the melancholy voices of dead empires!'

We are glad to perceive that the 'American Book Circular,' recently put forth by Mr. Geo. P. Putnam, of the Anglo-American house of Wiley and Putnam, London, has been received with a becoming spirit by the English press. It has been most favorably noticed in the 'London Review,' 'Examiner,' 'Athenæum,' 'Literary Gazette,' and other influential journals; and its publication has secured to the writer the attention and friendship of several of the most distinguished literary and scientific gentlemen of the British metropolis. This timely pamphlet, in fact, has opened the eyes of the English people to the progress of science and belles-lettres in America, and has served to enlighten them as to the extent of their literary obligations to this country. Widely noticed by the press, and stitched in all the principal reviews and periodicals of England, the 'American Book-Circular' has already been productive of great good to the reputation of our vigorous but infant 'republic of letters.' * * * 'Flaneur,' whom we welcome, has made sundry inquiries in preceding pages concerning certain terms and sayings which have long and generally obtained among pen-and-ink writers of romances and novels, native and foreign. There are other common sayings and comparative-adages, toward one or two of which we should be glad to direct the researches of the reader, 'on the present occasion.' 'Poor as Job's turkey,' has always puzzled us. Is there any authentic record of the personal condition of that afflicted bird, or of the causes which threw it into a decline? Why has it been handed down to us as the very Calvin Edson of its tribe? 'Not worth a Tinker's d—n' is another adage, whose origin is involved in mystery. When was the standard of value established for that intangible commodity of this particular artizan? Was there ever a 'sliding scale' for it, or such a thing as a 'first-quality' article in its kind, before it became a synonym for nothing? We have already asked who that 'Dick' was, who wore such an 'odd hat-band' that its memorial has been perpetuated even unto this day? 'We shall resume this important subject in our next discourse.' * * * The sudden death of William Abbott, Esq., of the Park Theatre, has been announced in nearly all the public journals of the United States. We had the pleasure to know Mr. Abbott well. He was first introduced to us, on his arrival in America, by a private letter from Miss Landon, who spoke of his literary and social qualities in terms of cordial admiration and praise, which subsequent acquaintance convinced us were well deserved. To marked amenity and cheerfulness of manner, Mr. Abbott united literary acquirements of great extent and variety; a thorough knowledge of society; and a frankness of deportment which won, and a sincerity which retained, many friends. He was a most gentleman-like actor; and will be missed and mourned not less by his professional brethren than by those whose acquaintance with his talents and many good qualities was unconnected with his dramatic career. * * * How very prettily this little Love-passage is rendered! Our correspondent lets us hear from him quite too seldom:

TO ALMEDA: FROM THE SPANISH.

Think you, my love, if ever fate
Should cast a shadow o'er our bliss,
That you or I could e'er forget
In darkest hours our Good-night Kiss?

Ah no! though hopes should melt in tears,
And fade for ever days like this,
Sad memory through the longest years
Would hover round our Good-night Kiss.

Boston, June, 1843.

J. T. F.

The appearance on our table of an exquisitely beautiful card of invitation to the great Dinner at Faneuil Hall on the Seventeenth of June (a kindness of the 'Committee of Arrangements,' for which, although unfortunately adscititious, we desire to render our cordial acknowledgments) reminds us to speak of another species of card, from the same press, which we must believe is little known, but which only requires to be known, to be found in the possession of every tasteful lover of the Beautiful. Mr. Dickinson, of Boston, has recently completed a variety of ornamental cards, of various sizes, large, medium, and petite, one use of which we desire to indicate to our metropolitan readers; not without the hope also that the information will not come amiss to our readers every where; for the cards are 'awaiting' as well as 'under orders.' As frames for medium and small engravings, we certainly know of nothing so tasteful and so appropriate. In color various; of tints inconceivably delicate; and with borderings of the most chaste yet elaborate and distinct bas-relief; they are 'just the thing' for the purpose we have indicated. We shall be happy to afford 'the ocular proof' to any one who may doubt the justice, or impugn the good taste, which we conceive to characterize as well the cards as our encomiums! These admirable specimens of American taste and skill may be found at the establishment of the Messrs. Woodworth's (late Bonfanti's) and at Nesbitt's in this city. * * * The interest still excited by the slightest object connected with the name of Napoleon has recently been curiously illustrated by the opening of a 'Napoleon Museum' in London, consisting of a vast collection of mementos of the great hero and his associates, from the day of his birth to the time of his burial. Among them is a morceau of his penmanship in his latter days, on the back of a card, the ominous nine of diamonds, which has caused a good deal of merriment to the cockneys, although it strikes us they should 'laugh on the wrong side of the mouth.' The imperial prisoner appears to have been making an attempt to commit some English words to memory, and to have noted down the difference between hungry and angry—words which must have sounded marvellously similar in his ears, from the mouths of his English visitors: 'Are you 'ungry?—are you angry?' We do not wonder at his perplexity. His memorandum runs thus upon the card: 'Are you 'ungry?'—'Avez vous faim?' 'Are you angry?—'Etes vous en colere?' * * * 'Polemics' is an article catholic and cogent in spirit and argument, but it is TOO LONG for an essay. (We wish we could impress upon our didactic correspondents the necessity of at least comparative brevity!) Rev. Theodore Parker, in the following, has expressed every fact and argument which our correspondent has expanded over eight letter-sheet pages! Indeed, himself shall be the judge:

'Who shall tell us that another age will not smile at our doctrines, disputes, and unchristian quarrels about Christianity? Who shall tell us they will not weep at the folly of all such as fancied Truth shone only in the contracted nook of their school, or sect, or coterie? Men of other times may look down equally on the heresy-hunters and men hunted for heresy, and wonder at both. The men of all ages before us were quite as confident as we, that their opinion was truth; that their notion was Christianity, and the whole thereof. The men who lit the fires of persecution, from the first martyr to Christian bigotry down to the last-murder of the innocents, had no doubt their opinion was divine. No doubt an age shall come, in which ours shall be reckoned a period of darkness, like the sixth century, when men groped for the wall, but stumbled and fell, because they trusted a transient notion, not an eternal truth. But while this change goes on; while one generation of opinions passes away and another rises up; Christianity itself, that pure religion, which exists eternal in the constitution of the soul and the mind of God, is always the same.'

'Fancy's Vision,' says a correspondent, in a running commentary upon the poetry of our May number, 'is very well done for a Scotch song; although I think Burns and others have too well occupied that field, for foreign imitators to expect to glean much. It seems a little unnatural for Americans to compose in the Scottish dialect, however simple and well-adapted to love-lyrics that English-Doric may be thought. Some Scotticisms, such as 'bonnie,' 'burnie,' 'wimplin,' etc., are very sweet; but others, in my view, such as 'hame,' 'drap,' etc., are inferior to the English. Perhaps, however, the writer is a Caledonian.' To be sure she is; and 'that makes a difference;' yet we do not disagree in the main with our correspondent. By the by, speaking of Scottish poetry, here is a specimen of the true thing. It is from the pen of an esteemed friend and contributor, and has been widely circulated, and as widely admired, both at home and abroad:

THE WEE VOYAGER.

WRITTEN ON SEEING IN A GLASGOW NEWSPAPER THAT THE CREW OF A VESSEL DISCOVERED A HARE FLOATING IN THE FRITH OF FORTH UPON A SHEET OF ICE TO THE OCEAN.

BY JAMES LAWSON.

An' where are ye gaun ye wee voyager,
Wi' look sae fleyed or blate?
An' where are ye gaun ye wee voyager,
On sic an unco gate?

Ye're sailin' awa in a cauld cauld bark,
An' nae a frien' beside ye;
Ye're sailin' awa in a frail frail bark,
Without ane helm to guide ye.

Ye hae nae a mast, ye hae nae a sail,
Nae bield frae win' to hide ye;
An' the lift cours' down wi' a threatenin' glow'r
Sae ill maun sure betide ye.

The gloamin is mirk, and the gurley sea
Is yaupin to rin ower ye;
The big pellocks soom, an' the wild maws wing,
As watchin to devour ye.

The wraith of the storm shaws her grim grim face,
The petrel skreighs aloud;
An' the yird looks sick, an' the lift as t'wad fa'
For nature's funeral shroud.

Then wherefore sail ye in this frail frail bark
At sic an uncany hour?
Come your ways wi' me (the skipper then cried)
Frae gurly ocean's power.

An' his coggly punt the gude skipper launched,
Upon the roarin' wave;
An' stoutly he skulled wi' his stumpy oar
The voyager to save.

Then, giegly he reached the wee timid puss,
An' snatched her frae the flood;
An' now the wee maukie that sailed the sea,
Rins in the bonny green wood.

This would be 'ower Scotch,' perhaps, for an English ear, but that the very sound of the doubtful words is expressive of their meaning. * * * The 'Reminiscence of Little Burke' is not to our taste. He was an extraordinary urchin, certainly; but like all very precocious children, he grew to—nothing. We have always utterly detested infant theatricals. We know of no more ridiculous a sight than one of these dramatic juveniles 'strutting like a Lilliputian grenadier; trying to knit its brow, and flourish its little falchion at an over-grown victim of its vengeance,' who is bending half way down, to hear more distinctly the penny-trumpet tones in which he is threatened. 'Little Burke's' father had no very exalted opinion of his son's genius! 'Oh, no! by no means! oh, certainly not!' * * * We cannot resist the employment of a line or two, though sadly pressed for space, to commend to citizens and strangers the establishment of the American Museum, as conducted by its present indefatigable proprietor. It was our intention to have particularized some of the numerous attractions of this very popular resort; but as these are constantly changing, our intelligence would be likely to prove 'Johnny Thompson's news' at the end of the month in which we write. The corps of gentlemen-singers, for example, who adopted the 'Ethiopian' garb, were alone worth a walk of miles to hear. Think of a charming duet, in the most perfect time and harmony, on a pair of tongs and an accordion! * * * We derive from a lady-friend, to whose kindness our readers have heretofore been indebted, the stanzas translated from the German by Fitz Greene Halleck, Esq., in preceding pages. They were withheld originally from publication; the fastidious taste of the writer suggesting infelicities, which we are certain will escape the scrutiny of less refined critics of 'the gentle art of song.' * * * Some newspaper 'down east' has been instigated to hint that the lively and gossipping New-York correspondence of the Washington 'National Intelligencer' is written by John Neal! As if it were possible to mistake the pleasant style of Mr. Willis, for the labored yet slovenly no-style of 'Omnium Scriblerius!' One might as well attribute the authorship of 'Thanatopsis' to 'Sir William Marsh, of Apple Island, Boston Harbor!' * * * The paper elicited by the article upon 'Forensic Eloquence' in our last number, is somewhat too kindred in character with that excellent performance, to be at present admissible. As the MS. is left to our option, however, with permission to 'add, clip, or destroy,' we annex a passage which will be new to many of our readers:

'Cæsar, who was himself an accomplished orator, and knew all the windings of the art, was so shaken on the occasion of Tully's oration, that he trembled, dropped his papers, and acquitted the prisoner. Many attributed this to the force of Tully's elocution; but it seems rather to have been the effect of Cæsar's art. He played back the orator's art upon himself. His concern was feigned, and his mercy artificial; as he knew that nothing could so effectually win Tully to his party, as giving him the pride of having conquered Cæsar.' In relation to the different styles of eloquence, the same writer observes: 'The pathetic orator who throws a congregation of enthusiasts into tears and groanings, would raise affections of a very different nature, should he attempt to proselyte an American congress; and on the other hand, the finest speaker that ever commanded the House, would in vain point the thunder of his eloquence on a Quaker meeting. Voltaire tells us, that 'in France a sermon is a long declamation, spoken with rapture and enthusiasm; in Italy, it is a kind of devotional comedy; in England, it is a solid dissertation, sometimes a dry one, which is read to the congregation without action or elocution.' A discourse which would raise a French audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, would throw an English one into a fit of laughter.'

D.'s story of 'The Whistling Bridegroom' is very good, but 'drawn too fine' for the strength of the fabric. Briefly, it is this: A clergyman is uniting two persons in marriage; and when he arrives at the point in the service where he directs the bridegroom to 'take the bride by the hand,' the former pays no attention to him, but looks steadfastly upon the floor, and indulges in a subdued whistle. The direction is repeated, but again the only notice taken of it is a continuation of the whistling, sotto voce. A third time the command is given, and the only response is the unique musical accompaniment aforesaid. The clergyman pauses, thinking himself intentionally insulted, when the blushing bride, who had doubtless been thinking of other things, raised her eyes, saying: 'He's deaf, Sir; and it's his way to whistle to himself, when he's any thing on his mind!' The explanation was satisfactory; and 'the deaf was made to hear' the next repetition of the important direction. * * * 'Pretty good,' but not quite probable, we think, the wonderful 'Lusus Naturæ' described by our Kentucky correspondent! Did he really think we should nibble at that hook? There is a wind-mill, we are informed, on the coast of Holland, which lays eggs and breeds young ones; but its family is not near so remarkable as the Kentucky wonder of our new contributor! Would he have the goodness to 'try again?' We fancy it must have been with him that the western story of the 'Prock' originated; a singular animal, with its legs, on one side of its body, very short, to enable it to 'graze on the inclined planes of nature!' It was caught, we remember, by 'heading it,' which reversed the animal, and rendered his legs useless, by changing their position! Vive la Bagatelle! * * * The recent death of Hon. Hugh S. Legare is an event which deserves a particular record in these pages. He was one of the ripest scholars of whom the Union could boast; and in all regards reflected high honor upon our literature. He always wrote from a full mind. Let any one turn to the papers which he furnished for the 'Southern Review' and our own New-York Quarterly, and it will be seen how forcibly they illustrate the justice of this encomium. Had Mr. Legare lived, our readers would soon have had an opportunity of admiring his literary performances in the pages of the Knickerbocker. In a late letter to the Editor, written only a few days previous to his leaving Washington for the last time, Mr. Legare incidentally exhibits the patient research of which he was about to reap an adequate reward, in the new and high career of public service upon which he had entered. 'My studies,' he writes, 'have for many years been of a very severe and serious cast, looking all of them, more or less, to useful results in active life, and most of them connected with political economy and jurisprudence.' Works of recondite research and striking views, such as those of Niebur, Savigny, and others of that illustrious German line, had richly furnished his adversaria and port-folios; and it was from these that he was to have enriched and diversified our pages. The death of such a man, in the prime of life and in the midst of his usefulness, is a public loss, which cannot fail to be widely and deeply felt. Honorable and high-minded in all the relations of life, Mr. Legare met his last hour with perfect composure. In dying as in living, he was the admiration of his friends. * * * We saw the other day what its possessor termed a 'Dogberry-o'-type likeness' of Miller, the Prophet—a counterfeit presentment of a cunning old humbug, 'on its very face.' Its exhibition led to a story of one of Miller's converts, which we thought worth remembering. A matter-of-fact old gentleman in New England, whose wife was a thoroughgoing 'Destructionist,' was awakened out of his sleep by his 'possessed' rib, one cold and stormy March night, with: 'Husband! did you hear that noise? It's Gabriel a-comin'! It's the sound of his chariot-wheels!' 'Oh, psha! you old fool!' replied the gude man; 'do you s'pose Gabriel is such an ass as to come on wheels, in such good sleighing as this? I tell you it's the wind; turn over, and go to sleep!' We believe she did. * * * The 'Confessions of a Belle' is not a new title, and it strikes us that we have encountered some of its incidents before. The lesson, howbeit, is an excellent one. Theodore Hook speaks forcibly to this point, in a portrait of one of his female characters: 'With all this blaze of notoriety, did any body esteem her particularly? Was there any one man upon earth who on his pillow could say, 'My God! what an angel is Fanny Wilding!' Had she ever refused an offer of marriage? No! for nobody ever had made her one. She was like a fine fire-work, entertaining to look at, but dangerous to come near to; her bouncing and cracking in the open air gave a lustre to surrounding objects, but there was not a human being who could be tempted to take the exhibition into his own house.' * * * If 'J. P. S.' will look once more at our remarks, touching which he 'begs leave to demur,' he will find that we differ very little from himself. His pride of opinion runs to a point, and reminds us of a reply we once heard a quaint old Friend make to the eager question of a group around him, touching the relative speed of two steam-boats which were running a race, and a very even one, through Long Island Sound. 'Don't you think we've gained on her, in coming the last forty miles?' 'Yes,' replied the Quaker, with great gravity; 'I should say we had.' 'Well, how much, should you think?' 'I maybe mistaken,' responded our Friend, 'but, I should say, about an inch!' We believe this 'close observer' was not again appealed to for his judgment in the premises. * * * We do not much affect parodies, generally, but the following, from the London 'Charivari,' is too good to be lost. It is entitled 'The Macadamized,' and is set to the air of 'The Monks of Old:'

'Many have told of the roads of old,
What a swamp of muck they were:
But a Macadam-way, on a rainy day,
Would make a street sweeper swear.
For it goes beyond the Slough of Despond,
In its hopeless state of slush:
And it grows, ha! ha! to your clothes, ha! ha!
In spite of the hardest brush.

'And when it is fine, if the sun should shine,
You're no better off than before:
For it turns to dust and at every gust
It settles in every pore:
And it tries, as it dries, in a cloud to rise,
And peppers your coat and your hat:
And it flies, ha! ha! in your eyes, ha! ha!
And makes you as blind as a bat!'

'The Croton Fever,' by 'Straws, Jr.' has good points. Some of its humor is 'rather fine,' certainly, but only because it is strained. The satire, however, is in one instance just. A friend in a sister city, recently returned home from a visit to New-York, writes us that he is henceforth a Baptist, greatly preferring immersion to sprinkling, of which latter practice of ours, he entertains a vivid recollection. 'In short,' he writes, 'I never saw such a set of incorrigible squirts as you have in Gotham. Morning and evening, every householder, who can afford it, stands before his door, playing with his machine; now deluging the walk, now the pavement, and anon flooding his doors, windows, and blinds with hissing streams of Croton. When you write Dickens next, just tell him that the application of the douche to the pigs, from hundreds of Croton-pipers, has well-nigh driven those quadrupedal republicans from the thoroughfares. That's one comfort!' Ah! yes; and clean streets, and murmuring fountains, and cool side-walks, are 'comforts' also, 'which they of the adverse faction want.' The grapes are not sweet, and 'that's the humor on't!' * * * The Idleberg 'chronicle' will be concluded in our next. The loss of a sheet of the copy (which has now been re-supplied by the author) is the cause of the delay. The fourth number of 'Meadow Farm' will also appear in our August number. The following papers are filed for insertion, or awaiting adequate consideration: 'Greek Epitaphs and Inscriptions;' 'The Doomed Ship;' 'Thales of Paris;' 'Chronicles by an Antiquary;' 'My Leg, a Sketch;' 'A Defence of the Pythagorean System;' 'The Novel-Reader;' 'Disguised Derivative Words in English;' 'Mary May, the Newfoundland Indian;' 'An Old Man's Reminiscence;' 'Polygon Papers,' Number Ten; 'The Birth-Day,' by 'W. C.;' 'New Version of an Old Fable;' 'The Count of Paris;' 'The Painted Rock;' 'The Hour of Rest;' 'Sing,' by Lady Alicia Jane Sparrow, Ireland; 'Orators and Bells;' 'The Maiden's Burial,' etc. 'The Consumptive' is both labored and common-place. 'Neanias' of Kentucky is not deemed admissible. * * * Several publications, among them a Lecture by Eugenius A. Nisbet, delivered before the Georgia Historical Society at Savannah, in March last; 'A Voice from the Vintage,' by Mrs. Ellis, etc., will receive attention in our next. Our Philadelphia Friend, in reply to 'N. S. D.,' shall have a place in the August number.

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[LITERARY RECORD.]

Late Publications of the Brothers Harper.—Independent of the serial works of the Harper's, their Alison, Brande's Encyclopedia, etc., which they continue to publish with their wonted regularity, and in their accustomed style of excellence, we have before us, in a large and well-executed volume, 'A Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities,' illustrated by numerous engravings on wood, and containing numerous additional articles relative to the botany, mineralogy, and zoology of the ancients; by Charles Anthon, Esq., the American editor; a work of too comprehensive a scope and of too great value to be despatched in so brief a notice as the present; and M'Culloch's 'Universal Gazetteer, or Dictionary,' geographical, statistical, and historical, of the various countries, places, and principal natural objects in the world, illustrated by seven extensive and complete maps on steel.' Each article is written with fulness; the arrangement is concise and clear; and the work may be referred to on the instant for any subject embraced in its pages. We should be more indebted to the editor of the American department if he would give us his valuable facts unconnected with his opinions. His sneer at the voyages of discovery in the north-west, in connection with his reference to a ship-canal across the isthmus of Darien, is in bad taste, to say the least of it. Narrow views in relation to great public enterprises which may chance to be unsuccessful, are out of place in a noble work like this of M'Culloch, even though they appear in the 'questionable shape' of acknowledged annotation.

Cobb's Juvenile Readers.—Mr. Lyman Cobb deserves well of his country, and especially of its juvenile citizens, for the several excellent school-books for the young which he has prepared with great industry and tact, and from time to time put forth. We find on our table his three progressive 'Juvenile Readers;' and judging from the necessarily cursory examination which we have been enabled to give them, we have no hesitation in pronouncing them the best works of their class we have ever encountered. The author has taken great pains so to arrange the different lessons as to lead the child by a regular gradation from easy to difficult reading; to adapt the subjects to his advancement; and to place before him such matter, and such only, as shall convey to the juvenile mind correct views, and just principles of morality. All words of variable or doubtful orthography are also carefully exhibited. There are numerous other important merits, and improvements upon kindred works, to which we have neither time nor space at present to allude, but which we hope our readers will take occasion to find and admire in the works themselves. Mr. Caleb Bartlett, corner of Platt and Pearl-streets, is the New-York publisher of Mr. Cobb's series.

New Music: 'The Forsaken.'—Mr. J. L. Hewitt, 239 Broadway, has sent us 'The Forsaken,' a song sung with effect by Mr. Sinclair, and written and composed by James Lawson, Esq. The 'words' were originally furnished to the Knickerbocker by their author, and were thence transferred to many American journals with cordial commendations. The music is, we think, of a highly pleasing character; and we are not surprised to learn that the 'Song' is in very general request. It is not given to every clever man, we can tell our friend and correspondent, to excel both in poetical and musical composition, as himself has done in the instance before us. We know, for example, a poet 'of the first water' who failed, on a memorable evening not long ago, in improvising a solo for a jews'-harp, 'then and there being' in the hands of a legal friend, who was making the little instrument 'discourse most eloquent music' It was rather a rich scene than otherwise.

Agricultural Prize Essays.—A well-printed pamphlet of an hundred and forty pages lies before us, containing an 'Essay on the Preparation and Use of Manures,' and on 'Farm Management,' by Willis Gaylord, Esq., editor of 'The Cultivator,' one of the most widely circulated journals in the United States. The first essay is an elaborate consideration of the laws of nutrition; the preparation and distribution of animal, vegetable, and mineral manures; and the second is a well-digested compend of all the various kinds of information and directions necessary to the successful management of a farm. The useful pamphlet concludes with essays upon plans for farm-houses and out-buildings, (illustrated by several clearly-engraved wood-cuts,) by Mr. John J. Thomas, Macedon, New-York, Mr. G. D. Mitchell, Salem, Conn., and Mr. T. M. Niven, Newburgh.

Battle of Bunker-Hill.—The small but very comprehensive volume recently put forth by Mr. C. P. Emmons, of Charlestown, (Mass.,) containing 'Sketches of Bunker-Hill Battle and Monument, with Illustrative Documents,' should be in the hands of every American, who desires a record of this most important battle of the Revolution. In the preliminary remarks on the opening of the struggle, and the description of the great battle itself, there is nothing included that is irrelevant, while every thing is embraced that could add to the truth or force of the picture. The illustrative documents are of very great interest. On the English side, we have extracts from General Howe's orderly-book, letters from Generals Gage and Burgoyne, and several other British officers, together with divers grumbling extracts from the English newspapers, touching the result of the 'victory.' On the American side, we have the proceedings of the Committee of Safety, the accounts sent to England and to Congress, with descriptive letters from Colonel Stark, Mr. Isaac Lothrop, and Rev. Dr. Elliot. An account of the inception, progress, and final completion of the Monument, accompanied by a sectional engraving of the structure, appropriately closes the volume.

Froissart's Chronicles.—Who that has ever read the stirring Chronicles of Sir John Froissart, but will rejoice to learn that an excellent edition of them, upon a new and clear type, and with all the original engravings, is being issued in numbers from the office of the New World? We have never found such a historian as Sir John. Give him a battle to describe, a hero worthy of his pen to hand down to posterity, and what a love of his theme, what personal enthusiasm, does he throw into his glowing records! We have sometimes thought that our worthy and world-renowned progenitor, Diedrich Knickerbocker, of blessed memory, derived no small portion of his fervent historical style from a familiar study of his great predecessor. Be that, however, (and every thing else,) as it may, here are the glorious 'Chronicles' of Sir John Froissart, accessible to all, for a comparative trifle; and the more who embrace this occasion to read them, the fewer stupid people will there be in the country—in our humble opinion.

Port-Chester Seminary.—This boarding school for young ladies and gentlemen is in Westchester county, in a beautiful situation, and of easy access from the city. It has now for its Principal, Rufus H. Bacon, A. B., a fine scholar, and well skilled in the discharge of his important trusts. The design of the Principal and his subordinate teachers is, to impart a full and thorough knowledge of the branches of a good English education; to fit young men for college and the counting-room; and to prepare the pupils for honor and usefulness, by softening their manners and improving their moral perceptions. Kindness and attention to their neatness, health, and comfort, are not lost sight of. The terms are low, though the references are very high, being all 'O. F. M.'—'our first men.'

The Boston 'Christian World.'—We have looked through several numbers of this very various and well-supplied weekly journal, with invariable and increasing interest. It is edited, as we learn, by George G. Channing, a brother of the late lamented Dr. Channing, assisted by a number of Unitarian clergymen, and is widely sustained throughout the United States by the patronage and contributions of the members of that religious denomination. It is beautifully printed with a large, clear type, upon paper of a fine color and texture. The mechanical department is in the hands of an artist in his profession, to whose good taste and careful supervision this Magazine has heretofore been much indebted, and for which it here renders its acknowledgments.

'New Pictorial Bible.'—The Messrs. Harper may well pronounce this 'the most splendid and richly-illustrated Bible ever published in the world.' It is to be issued on the cheap plan, in numbers, on foolscap folio sized paper, and will be embellished with sixteen hundred historical engravings, more than fourteen hundred of which are from original designs by Chapman, made expressly for the work, and executed in the most finished manner, at an expense of over twenty-five thousand dollars! Those who subscribe early will have the advantage of proof impressions.

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☞ A notice of 'Classical Studies, or Essays on Ancient Literature,' 'The Karen Apostle,' and 'The New Purchase,' were in type for the present number, and will appear in our issue for August.

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