FIFTH POETICAL EPISTLE.

TO J. VANDENUOFF, ESQUIRE, OF COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, LONDON.

Macready's come! I met him, just at dark,
Crossing the yard these Yankees call 'the Park:'
Full on his figure gleamed th' obtrusive gas,
As I beheld the 'great tragedian' pass;
His decent person, neatly built and straight,
His air abrupt and grenadier-like gait;
His Irish face, which doth not much resemble
The more expressive front of Kean or Kemble,
All for an instant, as my glance they caught,
Brought you and either green-room to my thought.

From him I turned my meditative gaze,
Where through the trees the play-house lanterns blaze;
But not the multitude that nightly throng
To feast their ears with Ethiopian song,
Nor all the gaudy neighborhood around,
Where nuts and noise and courtesans abound,
Nor all the glitter of the gay saloons
Where oyster-lovers ply their midnight spoons,
Nor all the crowd of coaches waiting nigh,
Could check my mind's involuntary sigh.
Alas! how dwindled from her brighter years
The buskin'd nymph, the goddess-queen appears,
Who deigned a little while in yonder dome
To fix her throne, her altar and her home;
Securely trusting in a land so young,
Whose native speech was her own Shakspeare's tongue,
To see restored the glories of her reign,
And other Garricks born, this side the main.

Delightful dream! delightful as untrue;
Poor Drama! this was no domain for you.
Here never shall return that early time
When the fresh heart can vulgar life sublime,
And all the prose of our existence change
By magic power to something rich and strange;
Not here, among this bargain-making tribe,
Whose tricks the Muse would sicken to describe,
Shall the dull genius of a sordid age
Bring an 'all hallow'n summer' of the Stage.

They grossly err this thrifty race who call
A youthful nation; 'youthful!' not at all!
What though some trace of the barbarian state
Betrays at times the newness of their date;
What though their dwellings rose but yesterday?
The mind, the nature of the land, is gray.
Old Europe holds not in its oldest nook
A race less juvenile in thought and look;
There is no childhood here, no child-like joy;
Since first I landed I've not seen a boy:
For all the children in their aspect wear
The lines of sorrow and corrosive care;
Each babe, as soon as babyhood is past,
Is a grown man, and withers just as fast.

Oh my dear England! merry land! God bless you!
Though taxes, corn-laws, fogs, and beer oppress you,
Still, as of old, a jocund little isle,
Still once a year at least allowed a smile;
When, spite of virtue, cakes and ale abound,
And laughter rings, and glasses clink around.
Nor quite extinct is that robust old race
(Autumn's last roses blooming on their face,)
Whom, spite of silver hairs and trembling knees,
At Christmas-time a pantomime can please.
Still some bald heads adorn the lower row,
Green, lusty lads of three-score years or so;
Nor is the veteran yet ashamed to sit,
Three times a year, with Tommy, in the pit.

But vain your hope, ye gentle sisters twain,
Who hold of Passion's realm the double rein!
Mirth-moving maid! and thou who wak'st the tear!
Vain was your hope to build an empire here:
Not ev'n your slaves will freemen deign to be—
Fly to some region where the soul is free.
Find some fat soil of indolence and rest,
With some good-natured, easy tyrant blest,
Who to himself the toil of ruling takes,
And his own laws and his own blunders makes;
Leaving his people only to obey,
And sleep the noon and sing the night away.
Or waste in tawdry theatres the hours
Which here the service of the State devours.

Here nobler cares enlightened man engage
Than the poor fictions of a trifling stage.
Perhaps her sons th' alarmed Republic calls
To solemn caucus in her council halls,
Wherein her trembling destiny awaits
The awful issue of their high debates.
What time have they the ravings to endure
Of any mad young Prince or horn-mad Moor,
When Duty calls them to contrive a way
To pay the nation's debt—or not to pay?
Or when perchance upon a single voice
Depends an alderman's defeat or choice?
Why should they care to hear a greedy Jew,
With cut-throat air, insisting on his due,
When they, by far more naturally, play
Shylock themselves, in Wall-street, every day?
Yet should, by hap, a genial evening spare
The flaming patriot from his country's care,
Or Business loose his limbs and tortured brain
From the long thraldom of her golden chain,
Why then his tireless energies demand
A dish of knowledge, sold at second-hand:
With indefatigable ears and eyes
To look profound in lecture-rooms he tries,
And picks Philosophy's delightful scraps
From fossils, gases, diagrams and maps.
For Science now is easy grown, and cheap,
Keeps modest hours, nor interferes with sleep;
And much there is to wonder at and know
In all the 'ologies, from aer to zo.

What power against such rivalry could stand?
Farewell, poor Drama! seek another land.
Fancy ev'n now anticipates the day
When your last pageant shall have passed away:
I see, I see the auctioneer profane
Each inmost recess of your hallowed reign;
While crowds of clergymen and deacons pour
Your violated horrors to explore.
Nightly no more the magic foot-lights rise,
Nor oil-cloth moons ascend the canvass skies.
Bragaldis's brush, poor Queen! is dry for you,
Doomed now to deck the pulpit and the pew.
Yes; the same art which whilom could transport
The lost beholder to king Duncan's court,
Or bid him stand upon the 'blasted heath,'
Where the weird women, low'ring, hailed Macbeth,
Is now your only cheap cathedral-builder,
With some small aid from carver and from gilder:
What masons cannot build, the painter paints
In water-colors, to delight the saints.

'Tis true: I've witnessed in the house of prayer
Shows that had made a pious Pagan stare;
A lie bedaubed upon the walls, forsooth,
Where true believers come to worship Truth!
Lo! Gothic shafts their taper heads exalt
Arch above arch, and vault supporting vault;
Around the chancel, marble to the eye,
Seraphs and cherubs in distemper fly,
While far beyond a seeming choir extends
Whose awful depth a mimic window ends.
Through the dim panes (so well the scenes are done)
For ever streams a never-setting sun,
And all appears the work of hands divine,
Another Westminster—of varnished pine!
Nor only so; the very violins
Are now atoning for their ancient sins,
By sweetly blending with the organ's roar,
And winning souls as Orpheus did of yore.
Sure, flutes and hautboys and Italian skill
May with fresh crowds the 'anxious-benches' fill,
And many a heart an orchestra may move,
Past all the power of preaching to improve.

Herein observe how modes and tastes recur,
And all things are precisely what they were;
For all the changes of our history seem
Infinite eddies in the sweeping stream,
Down which, while gliding whither we are bound,
Our course eternally is round and round;
Or why life's progress may I not compare
To a long passage up a winding stair;
We turn and turn again, as we ascend,
For ever climbing toward the unknown end,
Where one impenetrable veil of clouds
The aim and summit of our being shrouds;
And on our state bestowing but a glance,
We seem to move, but never to advance;
Ev'n as old Earth, obedient planet! rolls
Poised on the balanced spindle of her poles,
Yet duly fills her more extended sphere,
Circling the central orb with every year,
Thus we our double journey still pursue,
Revolving still, yet ever onward too.

Think how the stage in piety began,
When early players played the 'fall of man;'
Or showed the Lord High Admiral of the Ark
Eyeing the clouds, about to disembark.
Now the Church borrows what it lent before,
And the just actors all her own restore:
Again Devotion asks the help of Art,
And paint and music rouse the torpid heart.
The self same vein which bade old bards rehearse
The book of Exodus in tragic verse,
Reveals itself in operas that mingle
Religious hist'ry with dramatic jingle.
'Moses in Egypt,' blazoned on the bill,
Night after night the galleries can fill,
While crowds of Sunday amateurs admire
The tale of 'David,' chanted by a choir.
Already, I foresee, the time is nigh,
When concert-rooms our worship will supply,
And sacred oratorios combine
(To suit all tastes) the play-house and the shrine.

But soft—the bell! the steamboat sails at noon;
Rest thee, my goose-quill, till another moon.

T. W. P.

Mr. Placide, the universal favorite, who requires not a word of praise from any one who has ever seen him upon the stage, leaves us soon, we learn, for the South-west. As an actor and a gentleman, we commend him to the especial regards of our play-going readers, and editorial and personal friends, in that meridian. Gentlemen, he is 'a trump!' Mr. Chippendale is cordially welcomed back to the Park. In his rôle, by no means a limited one, he is not second to any of his confréres. How admirably he personated the 'Intendant' in 'Werner!' It was a faultless performance, by common consent of his gratified auditors. The same may be said, and was said, indeed, and very unanimously, of his excellent representation of 'Col. Damas' in the 'Lady of Lyons.' Mr. Chippendale has been greatly missed, during his absence; and he 'can't be spared' again. We are glad of an opportunity to pay a deserved tribute to the talents of Mr. Wheatley. 'That first appeal which is to the eye' is most satisfactorily sustained by the manly person and fine features of this gentleman; and we know of no one in the profession whose improvement has been more marked. To our fancy, his performance of 'Ulrick,' in 'Werner,' was a study. The last scene won the most applause, perhaps; but the previous conception and execution of the actor, though less outwardly manifested, were certainly not less felicitous. As 'Icilius,' in 'Virginius,' also, Mr. Wheatley won golden opinions. Indeed, it seems quite certain, that with continued study and attention to the minutiæ of his characters, this young gentleman is destined to attain a high rank in his profession. Mr. Vache, the new Charleston acquisition, seems a very self-possessed, correct, and gentleman-like performer. All that we have seen him essay, has been well sustained. His success is no longer doubtful.

'American Theatre,' Bowery.—We have nothing but abundant success to chronicle of this spacious establishment. It has been crowded nightly, we are informed, to its utmost capacity, by admiring audiences, to witness the representation of Shakspeare's heroes and heroines by Mr. Hamblin, and that gifted actress, Mrs. Shaw. This fact sufficiently bespeaks the character of the personations of these two popular performers.

Mitchell's Olympic.—Full, every night, of wide-mouthed laughers, who go grinning homeward 'by the light of the moon' or the gas-lamps. What could we say more? The only thing necessary to add is, 'Go early, if you desire to enjoy with comfort the capital acting of Mitchell, in the amusing travestie of 'Macbeth,' the charming voice of Miss Taylor, or the clever personations of Walcott.'

The Chatham.—'E'yah! yah! yah!—e'look-o'-'ere!' James Crow, Esquire, has recently delighted his 'friends and fellow-citizens' at this commodious and well-appointed establishment, which has partaken, during the month, of the general prosperity of theatricals in the metropolis. Mr. Burton, a low comedian, formerly of Philadelphia, followed him in his round of characters, with satisfaction to his admirers; and 'at this present writing,' Yankee Hill is amusing crowded audiences with his unique representations of 'down-east' life and manners.

Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—It is many years since we first perused the thoughtful 'Vision of Mirza.' We have been pondering it again this wailing autumn evening; and as we read, we remembered how many companions, who went hand-in-hand with us through the valley of youth, had entered upon the bridge which spans the stream of time, and one after another disappeared in the ever-flowing tide below. Amidst the beating of the 'sorrowing rains' against the window-panes, and the fitful sighing of the night-wind, we thought of One who held with Nature an affectionate fellowship, and who loved this melancholy season as a poet only could love it; of one who stepped upon that bridge at the same moment with ourselves, but who, while yet in the first stages of his journey, growing weary and faint with the toil and strife, reached with gradually-faltering pace one of the concealed pit-falls, and was 'lost for ever to time;' leaving his companion alone, to press on toward the dark cloud which ever broods over the onward distance. Strange power of memory!

'In thoughts which answer to our own,
In words which reach the inward ear
Like whispers from the void Unknown,
We feel his living presence here!'

Something there is in the autumn season which reaches back into those recesses of the spirit, where lie the sources whence well out the bitter or the sweet waters; recollections of the hopes, the fears, the sorrows and the happinesses, of our incomprehensible being! Enter with us, reader, upon Mirza's Bridge, and listen to the teachings of this matchless allegory of the mysterious shepherd:

'Cast thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.' 'What is the reason,' said I, 'that the tide and sea rise out of a thick mist at one end, and again lose themselves in a thick mist at the other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life; consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of three-score and ten arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me farther,' said he, 'what discoverest thou on it?' 'I see multitudes of people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon farther examination, I perceived that there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner toward the middle, but multiplied and lay close together toward the end of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons, but then their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

'I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood by, to save themselves. Some were looking toward the heavens, in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often, when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I observed some with cimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them.'

The misty expanse which was spanned by this bridge opened at length, it will be remembered, at the farther end; where, thronging the Islands of the Blessed, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and 'interwoven with shining seas that ran among them,' were seen 'innumerous persons, dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers;' and there was a confused harmony of singing-birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. 'Gladness,' exclaims the rapt dreamer, 'grew in me, upon the discovery of so delightful a scene! I longed for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats!' But there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death, that were opening every moment upon the bridge. Happy are they who can say, in the fullness of faith and hope, 'Come the hour of reünion with the loved and lost on earth! and the passionate yearnings of affection shall bear us to that blessed land! Come death to this body!—this burthened, tempted, frail, failing, dying body!—and to the soul, come freedom, light, and joy unceasing!—come the immortal life!' * * * The 'Tale' of our Zanesville (Ohio) friend is too long for our pages. It is well written, however; and especially the third chapter, which describes the progress of a Yankee pedler through the 'Buckeye State,' thirty-five years ago. But for the injunction of the writer, we should have ventured to appropriate this chapter entire. The ''cute trick' upon the honest farmer was capital, and a fair quid pro quo. It was not better, however, than the following, which is equally authentic. A gentleman from New-York, who had been in Boston for the purpose of collecting some moneys due him in that city, was about returning, when he found that one bill of a hundred dollars had been overlooked. His landlord, who knew the debtor, thought it 'a doubtful case;' but added, that if it was collectable at all, a tall raw-boned Yankee, then dunning a lodger in another part of the room, would 'annoy it out of the man.' Calling him up, therefore, he introduced him to the creditor, who showed him the account. 'Wal, 'Squire, 'tan't much use tryin', I guess. I know that critter. You might as well try to squeeze ile out o' Bunker-Hill monument, as to c'lect a debt o' him. But any how, 'Squire, what'll you give, s'posin' I do try?' 'Well, Sir, the bill is one hundred dollars. I'll give you—yes, I'll give you half, if you can collect it.' ''Greed!' replied the collector; 'there's no harm in tryin', any way.' Some weeks after, the creditor chanced to be in Boston, and in walking up Tremont-street, encountered his enterprising friend: 'Look o' here!' said he, ''Squire, I had considerable luck with that bill o' your'n. You see, I stuck to him like a dog to a root, but for the first week or so 't wan't no use—not a bit. If he was home, he was 'short;' if he wasn't home, I couldn't get no satisfaction. By and by, says I, after goin' sixteen times, 'I'll fix you!' says I; so I sot down on the door-step and sot all day, and part o' the evenin'; and I begun airly next day; but about ten o'clock, he g'in in. He paid me my half, an' I 'gin him up the note!' * * * We invite the attention of our readers to the following spirited lines. We shall be glad to hear again from the writer, when he returns to his 'several places of abode.' He tells us that his physician, 'after giving him a little of every thing in his shop, and doubly jeopardizing his life by a consultation, has advised a change of air.' We shall less regret his temporary indisposition, if we can be made the recipient of his pleasant letters from the Southern Springs. In the stanzas annexed, not unmixed with one or two infelicities, are several fine pictures. The chant pealing from the choir of the North Winds; the fierce armies of the pole issuing from their battlements of snow to ravage the fair fields of the temperate regions; the hail-stones beating the march of Winter on the hollow trees; the snow falling silently in the garden of the dead; all these are poetical conceptions, graphically expressed:

WINTER.
BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

And art thou coming, Winter!
In thy wild and stormy might
To cast o'er all earth's lovely things
Thy pale and withering blight?
Ay, here he comes o'er the dreary wold;
I feel his breath—ah me! how cold!
He wears the same wild, haggard brow
Which he wore when in his prime;
And he singeth the same shrill, wailing song,
Which he sang in the olden time;
The same hoarse moan o'er field and fell—
Ah! ha! old Winter! I know thee well!

Thou art coming, icy Winter!
To tell the same sad tale,
Of bright things passing from the earth,
With sigh and moan and wail;
Of fair flowers fading, one by one,
As thy sable banners cloud the sun:
A chant from the polar choir peals out,
Wildly, and full of wo,
As march thy fierce escadrons forth
From their battlements of snow:
A requiem 'tis o'er pale Summer's form,
Or the deep war-cry of the gathering storm!

Thy cohorts with their night-black plumes
Shut out the bright blue sky;
All nature mourns the fast decay
Of Summer's blazonry:
Now murmuring low, now shrieking wild,
She sorrows o'er her dying child.
The lips of the prattling brook are sealed,
And the singing birds have flown
Away, away to some bright land
To thee and thine unknown;
And even man in his pride grows pale,
And trembles at thy fierce assail.

Thy trumpet rings through the mountain pass,
With a fitful, wild halloo;
And the hail-stones drum on the hollow trees,
With a mournful rat-tat-too!
Oh spare, in thy fearful marches, spare
The fruitful field and the gay parterre!
But the fierce battalions, filing on,
Nor heed nor hear my cry;
And a dirge for the fair and flowery field
Swells through the darkened sky:
And showers of icy javelins fall,
The only answer to my call!

But ho! a flag of truce hangs out
In spotless folds on high;
And the snow-flakes wheel in light platoons
Through the dark and troubled sky:
And now, like the ghosts of murdered flowers,
They seek the earth in countless showers;
They fall on the mountain's giddy height,
In the dark ravine they fall,
And o'er the distant city's domes
They spread their radiant pall;
That beauteous snow, like a winding-sheet,
Is spread over forest and field and street.

On the storied monument it falls,
Blots out the studied verse,
And covers all the high and low
With one unsculptured hearse.
Methinks it lies more lightly on
The grave of the broken-hearted one.
The folds of a Paynim turban now
The village spire doth hide;
And see! it dresses the old yew-tree
As gay as a bonny bride;
With an ermine-cloak it wraps the plain,
And shuts the blast from the growing grain.

Come on! come on! old Winter!
Spring wears a winning smile,
And Summer has a lulling art
To charm and to beguile;
And Autumn is in beauty drest;
But thy rough form I love the best!
Thou tellest me 'of long ago,'
Of childhood's spotless day;
Of boyhood's freaks by th' old fire-side—
Of friends now passed away:
Albeit to me thy accents drear
Tell that Life's winter draweth near!

The 'Tribune' daily journal finds the October number of the Knickerbocker 'well filled with readable and pleasant papers, upon a gratifying variety of topics;' its 'Literary Notices extended and interesting;' and 'its Editor's Table admirably filled, as usual, with whatever is light, graceful, and pleasing.' We hold ourselves bound to be duly grateful for praise so much beyond our deserts; but we cannot permit the young associate-editor of that print, howsoever prompted, to misrepresent us, as he has done, in the notice from which we derive the encomiastic tributes we have quoted. We are accused of 'going out of our way' to attack the writings and the fame (Heaven save the mark!) of the author of 'Puffer Hopkins;' and of being actuated in this by a spirit of malevolence and personal pique. We choose, for the nonce, to occupy space which we could much better employ, in opposing a point-blank denial to this charge. Such a course is not the wont of the Knickerbocker; a fact no better known to our readers themselves than to the absent senior editor of the 'Tribune,' with whom for ten years and upward we have walked hand-in-hand in the support and encouragement of such native literature as was worthy of the name. Were this Magazine accustomed to be swayed in its judgments by private pique, its adverse opinions would need no corrective; its 'sneers' would be impotent; its 'satire' unavailing. No; our sin consists in exposing, without fear, favor, or hope of reward, the literary pretensions of one who has no claim to be regarded as an 'American author;' who has foisted upon the community such works as we have elsewhere considered; and whose efforts to establish a literary reputation are of a kind to heighten rather than to lessen the effect of his uniform failures. We are gravely told, that this writer has 'just conceptions of what an American literature ought to be; of the mission of the American writer,' and so forth. We have had and have nothing to say of his 'conceptions' of what our literature should be, nor of his ideas of literary 'missions;' but we have had something to say of his performances, and of the manner in which they have been presented to and received by the public; and for this reason, and this alone, are we accused of being actuated by private prejudice. But so it has always been. 'Tell these small-beer littérateurs,' says Christopher North, 'that they are calves, and sucking calves too, and they low against you with voices corroborative of the truth they deny.' We should like to know whether all who hold our own opinions touching 'Puffer Hopkins' and the other 'writings' of its author are also actuated by 'personal pique.' If so, there is a goodly number of us! ''Fore Heaven,' as Dogberry says, 'we are all in a case;' for we can truly say, that we never heard an individual speak of these productions, who did not agree with us entirely in the estimate we had formed of them. 'Personal pique!' Was it this which led the kindly 'Boston Post' to pronounce 'Puffer Hopkins' 'about as flat an affair as it ever tried to wade through?' and the 'Poem on Man' a 'mere pile of words,' in which even poetical thoughts were 'completely spoiled by verbiage?' Was it this which prompted our own lively 'Mercury' to say that Mr. Mathews had 'no more humor than a crying crocodile,' and that his short-lived Arcturus 'died of a lingering 'Puffer Hopkins?'' Was it this which caused a monthly metropolitan contemporary to declare, that his writings were 'characterized by an air of pretension, and an eternal succession of futile attempts at humor, which at once disposed the reader to dislike him and his works?' Was it 'malevolence' which prompted the publishers of 'Behemoth,' (over whom the writer had 'come the evil eye,') when they saw his proposals for a 'new edition,' to advertise their's—'four years old and complete'—at half the money? Was it 'personal pique' which caused the house whose name appears as publishers on the title-page of his last work, to complain that it had previously been used by him without their consent, and to object to its being again employed?—on the ground, too, that they did not desire their names to appear upon any of his productions? Was it 'malevolence' which suggested a new title-page, at the publisher's expense, from which their names might be omitted? As well might 'the disaffected' upon whom a humorous 'work' of the author had been inflicted abroad, be accused of acting from 'personal pique' in deciding that for them at least 'one such fun, it was enough!' Æsop is dead, but his frog is still extant; and if we were not at the end of our tether, we could 'illustrate this position' to the satisfaction of every body save Mr. Mathews himself. As it is, we take our leave of him, with no fear that he will write less creditably, and no hope that he will print less frequently, than heretofore; for such is his cacoëthes scribendi, that we verily believe he would be an author, if he were the only reader in the world. Indeed, we even hear of another edition of his writings, 'at the risk of the owner,' to be sent forth from his stereotype-plates, by our friends the Harpers! We had intended a word or two touching Mr. Mathews's position in the 'Copy-right Club'—for we hear there are two sides to that matter—but we wish well to a cause of which this Magazine was the earliest, and has been a constant advocate, and to Mr. Mathews's efforts in it; and if he is to prepare an address to the public, we earnestly hope that it may be clear, simple, and direct, as becomes the plain truths it should present; and that 'giants, elephants, 'tiger-mothers,' and curricles, angels, frigates, baronial castles, and fish-ponds,' will be carefully excluded from its arguments and its expostulations. By the by: this reminds us that we have an error to correct, alike unintentional and immaterial. It was at the Society Library, not the Tabernacle, that Mr. Mathews's great lecture on copy-right was delivered. On this point, the following passage from an editorial paragraph in the 'New World' may be deemed pertinent by many readers, and impertinent, perhaps, by one or two: 'The 'Tribune' accuses the Knickerbocker of mistaking the Tabernacle for the Society Library, as the place where Mr. Mathews delivered his lecture on copy-right to a beggarly account of empty benches, last winter, after placarding the town with the fact that 'the author of 'Puffer Hopkins' was to be heard and seen at that place. But is the fact altered by this trifling error? Was there not a 'capacious edifice' almost empty, and tickets numbered as high as twelve hundred, and not fifty persons in the room?—and half of those 'dead heads?'—as dead as the lecturer's? If this is denied, it can easily be proved.' * * * We are obliged for the kind wishes and intentions of our friend and correspondent 'F.;' but he must allow us to say, that his 'Sketch of Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell' embodies many anecdotes of that learned and eccentric person, which are already familiar to the public. The story of the semi-black man is 'as old as the hills.' The following, however, which we segregate, is quite new, at least to us: 'Jarvis, celebrated no less as an artist than as a pleasant social companion, walking one sultry summer morning with a friend down Murray-street, encountered the Doctor, with a pound of fresh butter upon a cabbage-leaf. 'I'll lay you a small wager,' said he to his companion, 'that I'll cross over on the sunny side, and engage the doctor in conversation, until his butter has melted completely away!' No sooner said than done. Jarvis entertained him with inquiries upon abstruse themes, which Dr. Mitchell took great delight in answering in detail, as well as the objections which Jarvis occasionally urged against the correctness of his conclusions. Meanwhile, the butter dripped slowly away upon the walk, until it was utterly wasted. The waggish painter then took leave of the Doctor, who now for the first time glanced at his cabbage-leaf, exclaiming: 'You've almost made me forget my errand, Jarvis; I started to get some fresh butter from Washington-market!' * * * We shall venture to hope that in declining the 'Stanzas to my Boy in Heaven' we shall give no pain to the bereaved author. The feeling of the lines is itself eloquent poetry; but their execution is in certain portions marked by deficiences in rythm and melody. Will the writer permit another to express for her the very emotions which she evidently depicts with her 'heart swelling continually to her eyes?'

'The nursery shows thy pictured wall.
Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thy empty chair.
Thy playthings idly scattered there
But speak to us of our despair.

'Even to the last thy every word,
To glad, to grieve,
Was sweet as sweetest song of bird
On summer's eve;
In outward beauty undecayed.
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade.
And like the rainbow thou didst fade.

'We mourn for thee, when blind blank night
The chamber fills;
We pine for thee, when morn's first light
Reddens the hills:
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
All, to the wall-flower and wild pea,
Are changed—we saw the world through thee!

'And though, perchance, a smile may gleam
Of casual mirth,
It doth not own, whate'er may seem.
An inward birth;
We miss thy small step on the stair;
We miss thee at thine evening prayer;
All day we miss thee, every where.

'Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair.
Fond, fairest boy!
That heaven is God's, and thou art there.
With Him in joy;
There past are death and all its woes;
There beauty's stream for ever flows;
And pleasure's day no sunset knows.

'Farewell, then—for a while farewell—
Pride of my heart!
It cannot be that long we dwell,
Thus torn apart;
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee.'

The 'Lines to Niagara Falls' are very far from being worth double-postage from Buffalo. They are termed 'descriptive;' but they afford about as much of an idea of the Great Cataract as the 'magnificent model' of the Falls which was 'got up at an enormous expense' at the American Museum last winter. That was a sublime spectacle! We saw it, it is true, under very favorable circumstances. The whole hogshead of water had just been 'let on,' and the wheezing machine that represented the 'sound of many waters' was in excellent wind. Indeed, so abundant was the supply of cataract, (as we were afterward informed,) that a portion of the American fall, to the amount of several quarts, leaked down into the barber's-shop below. A lisping young lady present was quite carried away with the exhibition. Some one inquired if she had ever seen 'the real falls, the great original?' She had not, she said, 'but she had heard them very highly thpoken of!' They are clever, certainly; and if their real friends would occasionally 'say a good word for them,' they would doubtless soon become very 'popular!' * * * We were struck (and so we recorded it at the time) with the felicitous remarks of Mr. Consul Grattan, on 'Saint Patrick's Day in the' evening. He said he could not help wondering sometimes how the dear old country looked in her new temperance dress; remembering as he did how becoming to her was the flush of conviviality and good fellowship. 'When I picture to myself,' said he, 'the Irishman of the present day seeking for his inspiration at the handle of a pump, I cannot help thinking of the Irishman I once knew, who couldn't bear cold water at all, unless the half of it was whisky; without which they considered it as a very depreciated currency; a sort of liquid skin-plaster, in comparison with the healthful circulating medium of grog and punch.' This is both lively and witty; and we do not wish to derogate from either quality; but if the reader will permit us, we will ask him to glance at the following passage from Charles Lamb's 'Confessions of a Drunkard:'

'The waters have gone over me. But out of the black depths, could I be heard, I would cry out to all those who have but set a foot in the perilous flood. Could the youth to whom the flavor of his first wine is delicious as the opening scenes of life, or the entering upon some newly-discovered paradise, look into my desolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it is when a man shall feel himself going down a precipice with open eyes and a passive will; to see his destruction, and have no power to stop it, and yet to feel it all the way emanating from himself; to perceive all goodness emptied out of him, and yet not be able to forget a time when it was otherwise; to bear about the piteous spectacle of his own self-ruin; could he see my fevered eye, feverish with last night's drinking, and feverishly looking for this night's repetition of the folly; could he feel the body of the death out of which I cry hourly with feebler and feebler outcry to be delivered; it were enough to make him dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the pride of its mantling temptation; to make him clasp his teeth,

——'and not undo 'em
To suffer WET DAMNATION to run through 'em.'

'Oh! if a wish could transport me back to those days of youth, when a draught from the next clear spring could slake the heats which summer suns and youthful exercise had power to stir up in the blood, how gladly would I return to thee, pure element, the drink of children, and of child-like holy hermit! In my dreams I can sometimes fancy thy cool refreshment purling over my burning tongue. But my waking stomach rejects it. That which refreshes innocence, only makes me sick and faint.'

How many thousands in Great Britain, whose experience is here described as with a pencil of light, has Father Matthew rescued from 'slippery places,' and placed once more within the charmed circle of sobriety and virtue! * * * The grammatical blunder recorded by 'S. T.,' and 'suggested by the sixth claw of the constitution,' reminds us of a clever anecdote which we derive from Mr. Robert Tyler. The old negro who receives and ushers visitors at the President's mansion is always very precise in his announcements. On one occasion a gentleman named Foot, with a daughter on each arm, was shown into the drawing-room with this introduction: 'Mr. Foot and the two Miss Feet!" * * * 'Cry you mercy!' gentlemen of the long robe and of the bar; we have neither 'abused the law' nor yet 'the lawyers,' though by your wincing you would seem to say so; at least some score of law-students would, if we may judge from the communications which have thickened upon us since our last. Saving the sordid and obscure tricksters of abused law; such, for example, as may be seen any day in the week, holding their sanhedrim of babble around or within the miscalled 'Halls of Justice;' and the undignified personal bickerings of the members of the bar; nothing of a local character, in a legal point of view, deserves the whip and the branding-iron. The latter matter, too, is generally understood, we believe, by the public. A pair of lawyers, like a pair of legs, may thoroughly bespatter each other, and yet remain the best of friends and brothers. Our allusion to courts implied no reflection upon Judges. We hold in proper respect and reverence these sacred depositories of the people's rights. 'The criminal, and the judge who is to award his punishment, form a solemn sight. They are both men; both the 'children of an Universal Father, and sons of immortality;' the one so sunken in his state as to be disowned by man; the other as far removed by excellence from the majority of mankind.' No function can be more honorable, more sacred, or more beneficial, than that of an upright judge. With his own passions and prejudices subdued; attentive to the principles of justice by which alone the happiness of the world can be promoted, and by the rectitude of his decisions affording precedent and example to future generations; he presents a character that must command the reverence and love of the human race. * * * The 'London Charivarri,' or 'Punch,' maintains its repute—for which it is partly indebted to the high indorsement of the 'Quarterly Review,' 'Examiner,' 'Spectator,' etc.,—undiminished. It really overflows with genuine humor, not unmixed, certainly, with many failures. We condense from it a few items of metropolitan intelligence, commencing with an office-seeker's 'begging letter' to Lord Lyndhurst: 'My Lord: I am an Irishman, in the direst distress. To say that I am an Irishman, is I know a passport to the innermost recesses of your soul. I want something of about three hundred pounds per annum; I will not refuse four hundred. At present, however, I am destitute, and terribly out of sorts. You will have some idea of my condition, when I tell you that I have not tasted food these six weeks, and that I am so disastrously off for clothing, that the elbows of my shirt are hanging out of the knees of my breeches! P. S. Don't mind the hole in the bearer's trowsers; he is trustworthy.' To this missive the 'noble lord' replied: 'Sir: That you are an Irishman, is a sufficient passport to my fire-side, my purse, my heart. Come; never mind the shirt. With or without that conventional ornament, you will be equally well received by your devoted Lyndhurst.' The writer 'went very often to the house of his lordship, but as often as he went, just so often was his lordship not at home!' Curious, wasn't it? The plan of the 'Joke Loan Society' reminds us of Sanderson's joke-company for the Opera-Comique in Paris, several members of which, with due economy, managed to live for an entire quarter upon the 'eighth of a joke' which they had furnished to the management! 'The object of the institution is, to supply those with jokes who may be temporarily distressed for the want of them. The directors invite the attention of barristers to a very extensive stock of legal jokes, applicable to every occasion. The society has also purchased the entire stock of a retired punster, at a rate so low that the jokes—among which are a few that have never been used—can be let out on very moderate terms. Damaged jokes repaired, and old ones taken in exchange. Dramatic authors supplied on easy terms, and a liberal allowance on taking a quantity. Puns prepared at an hour's notice for large or small parties!' Under the 'Infantry Intelligence' head we find the following: 'The Twelfth Light Pop-guns acquitted themselves very creditably, and discharged several rounds of pellets with great effect and precision. The First Life Squirts also highly distinguished themselves, and kept up a smart fire of ditch-water for upward of a quarter of an hour; and the Hop-Scotch Grays went through their evolutions in admirable order.' A 'commercial problem' must close our excerpts: 'How can a junior partner be taken into a house over the senior partner's head? By the senior partner sitting in the shop, and the junior partner being taken in at the first-floor window!' * * * The eulogy entitled 'Mr. Webster's Noble Speech at Rochester' is from the pen of an Englishman, or we have for the first time in our life mistaken the 'hand-write' of John Bull, Esq. The spirit of the paper is not in the main unjust to this country; yet it touches with severity upon those culprit States of our Republic, that abroad are considered remarkable for their 'swaggering beginnings that could not be carried through; grand enterprises begun dashingly, and ending in shabby compromises or downright ruin;' and for their treasuries, filled with evidences of 'futile expectations, fatal deficit, wind, and debts.' Cruel words, certes; but are they wholly groundless? 'Guess not!' But Sir Englishman, pr'ithee, don't despond—don't be scared! Look at the progress of our western States, as evinced in the growth of their towns. Louisville, in three years, has gained eight thousand additional inhabitants; Saint Louis twelve thousand; Pittsburgh nearly the same amount; Cincinnati has erected within that period nearly three thousand houses, and gained seventeen thousand inhabitants. Four western cities have added to them nearly fifty thousand inhabitants in three years; and the adjacent country has kept pace with the towns. And the like progress is visible elsewhere. Truly, this is 'a great country!'

——'Who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchained strength.
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
Far, like the comet's way through infinite space,
Stretches the long untravelled path of light
Into the depths of ages: we may trace.
Distant, the brightening glory of its flight
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight.

——'seas and stormy air
Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where,
Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well,
Thou laugh'st at enemies; who shall then declare
The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell
How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell?'

We sometimes wish that we had been born fifty years later than it pleased Providence to send us into the world, that we might behold the ever-increasing glory of our native land. * * * The reader will be struck, we think, with the paper upon 'Mind in Animals,' elsewhere in the present number. The writer 'has firm faith in every conclusion he has drawn. He has considered the ultimate tendencies of his doctrine in many different points; and the result is, an additional confidence in the correctness of his conviction, that one principle of intelligence is bestowed upon all created beings; modified, like their physical structure, to adapt them to different spheres.' Time is an abstract term; and as touching the faculty of abstraction in animals, the writer has a curious calendar which he kept of the time of the crowing of the roosters in his neighborhood. Having observed that they gave their midnight signal at about the same hour for several nights in succession, the following record was preserved:

Aug. 30,11.25P. M.Pleasant.
" 31,11.22""
Sept. 1,11.7½"Cloudy.
" 3,11.27"Pleasant.
" 4,12.24"Moonlight.
" 6,11.30"Rainy.
" 7,11.29"Cloudy.
" 9,11.20"Moonlight.

As a new style of crow-nometer, this is a curiosity; but we cannot perceive that it proves any thing very conclusively. If it were in our power, however, to watch the operations of animals as carefully as our own, one could very soon place the whole question above controversy. * * * Thackeray, the exceedingly entertaining author of 'The Yellowplush Correspondence,' has in a late number of 'Frazer's Magazine' some judicious advice in relation to the modus operandi of novel-reading. 'Always look,' says he, 'at the end of a romance to see what becomes of the personages before you venture upon the whole work, and become interested in the characters described in it. Why interest one's self in a personage whom one knows must at the end of the second volume die a miserable death? What is the use of making one's self unhappy needlessly, watching the symptoms of Leonora, pale, pious, pulmonary, and crossed in love, as they manifest themselves, or tracing Antonio to his inevitable assassination? No: it is much better to look at the end of a novel; and when I read: 'There is a fresh green mound in the church-yard of B——, and a humble stone, on which is inscribed the name of Anna-Maria,' or a sentence to that effect, I shut the book at once, declining to agitate my feelings needlessly. If you had the gift of prophecy, and people proposed to introduce you to a man who you knew would borrow money of you, or would be inevitably hanged, or would subject you to some other annoyance, would you not decline the proposed introduction? So with novels. The book of fate of the heroes and heroines is to be found at the end of the second volume: one has but to turn to it to know whether one shall make their acquaintance or not. I heartily pardon the man who brought Cordelia to life. I would have the stomach-pump brought for Romeo at the fifth act; for Mrs. Macbeth I am not in the least sorry; but as for the General, I would have him destroy that swaggering Macduff, or if not, cut him in pieces, disarm him, pink him, certainly; and then I would have Mrs. Macduff and all her little ones come in from the slips, stating that the account of their murder was a shameful fabrication of the newspapers, and that they were all of them perfectly well and hearty.' * * * It has pleased some late English writer to laud the conduct of Sir Hudson Lowe, at Saint Helena, while Napoleon was under his 'treatment,' and as Byron says, 'stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.' The least said on that point, the better. 'He was England's greatest enemy, and mine, but I forgive him!' said that notorious military martinet, when informed that his renowned captive was no more. This is rather rich; and almost justifies the remark of Napoleon, in exhibiting to an English visitor, in a copy of Æsop's Fables (which Sir Hudson had sent him, among other English books) the fable of the sick lion, which, after submitting with fortitude to the insults of the many animals who came to exult over his fallen greatness, at length received a kick in the face from an ass. 'I could have borne every thing but this!' said Napoleon; and pointing to the wood-cut, he added: 'It is me and your governor!' A friend of ours once informed us, that at a table d'hôte at which he was seated in a German inn, soon after Bonaparte's death, Sir Hudson Lowe was announced; when nearly every person arose from the table, and 'left him alone in his glory.' * * * It is somewhat remarkable that so little attention is paid to the clearness of expression. Every body remembers the geographer who, in describing ancient Albany, represented it as having 'two thousand houses, and ten thousand inhabitants, all standing with their gable-ends to the street!' A similar error was made not long since by a western journalist, who in publishing a clever poem, remarked that it 'was written by an esteemed friend, who had lain in the grave many years, merely for his own amusement!' A scarcely less ludicrous misstatement occurred very lately in one of our popular daily journals. In describing the explosion of a brig, near the Narrows, and certain accidents which resulted from the disaster, the editor, among other items, had the ensuing: 'The only passengers were T. B. Nathan, who owned three thousand dollars' worth of the cargo, and the captain's wife!' * * * Bryant, our most eminent American poet, has entirely 'satisfied the sentiment' of our correspondent 'Senex's' stanzas on 'Old Age,' in his fine lines commencing, 'Lament who will, with fruitless tears,' etc. A modern English poet, too, has recently reëxhausted the theme, in an extended string of six-line verses, from which the subjoined are derived:

'To dark oblivion I bequeath
The ruddy cheek, brown hair, white teeth,
And eyes that brightly twinkle;
Crow's feet may plough with furrows deep
My features, if I can but keep
My heart without a wrinkle.

'A youthful cheer sustains us old.
As arrows best their course uphold
Winged by a lightsome feather
Happy the young old man who thus
Bears, like a human arbutus,
Life's flowers and fruit together.'

We should be bound to dissent from the conclusions of 'T. R.' on the Hudson, were we to give his paper a place (which we shall do, with his permission,) in the Knickerbocker. His pecuniary conclusions are right, no doubt; but his natural deductions are, in our poor judgment, decidedly wrong. 'Oh! mad world!' exclaims one who knows it well; 'oh! incomprehensible, blind world! Look at the rich! In what are they happy? In what do they excel the poor? Not in their greater store of wealth, which is but a source of vice, disease, and death; but in a little superiority of knowledge; a trifling advance toward truth.' * * * We do not know who drew the following 'picture in little' of fashion's changes, (changes alike of person and apparel,) but to our mind it has the 'veritable touch and tint:' 'There is something awful in the bed-room of a respectable old couple, of sixty-five. Think of the old feathers, turbans, bugles, petticoats, pomatum-pots, spencers, white satin shoes, false fronts, the old flaccid, boneless stays, tied up in faded riband, the dusky fans, the forty-years' old baby-linen; Frederick's first little breeches, and a newspaper containing the account of his distinguishing himself in the field; all these lie somewhere damp and squeezed down into glum old presses and wardrobes.' * * * We have observed going the rounds of the press a paragraph which speaks of 'excitements' of all kinds as prejudicial to longevity; and citing, among other examples, the constant whirl of the stage, as a reason why theatrical persons are generally so short-lived. But the premises in this particular instance are wrong. As a class, actors attain to more than common longevity. Call to mind those who in our own era have nourished in England and in this country, in proof of the correctness of this position. And it was thus in a previous age. Look at Macklin. He performed the part of 'Sir Pertinax MacSychophant' in his own Comedy of 'The Man of the World,' consisting of thirty-six 'lengths' or nearly sixteen hundred lines, including 'cues,' with a vigor and spirit that astonished every beholder, when he was in his one hundredth year! How old was Garrick when he was seen for the last time as Macbeth, marching at the head of his troops (in a modern court-suit, and a well-powdered peruke!) across the blasted heath? We do not exactly remember his age, but he was 'no chicken.' * * * There is great beauty as well as truth in the annexed brief synopsis of the characteristics of the author of 'The Spectator.' Addison, says the writer, seemed at the same moment to be taken by the hand by Pathos and by Wit, while Fiction enrobed him with her own beautiful garments which Truth confined with her cestus, and Imagination put her crown upon his head, and Religion and all her band of Virtues beckoned him along the path to immortality, both in the life of the genius and the life of the soul. All the lineaments of beauty wake into splendor in his prose. It is in his essays that his muse beams out upon the reader, and calls forth all the sleeping wonders of her face. His true tragic energy is exhibited in his earnest panegyric of virtue; his true comedy is contained in the history of Sir Roger de Coverly, and his true fancy in the 'Vision of Mirza.' He was an essayist, a tale-writer, a traveller, a critic. He touched every subject, and adorned every subject that he touched.' Do we seek for the opinions of a man of letters upon the aspect and the antiquities of the most famous country in Europe? We have his 'Remarks on Italy.' Are we fond of examining the aids which history derives from some of the obscurer stores of antiquity? We can turn to his 'Dialogues on Medals.' Are we charmed with the stateliness of Eastern fiction and the melancholy grandeur of Eastern allegory? We find it in all the allegories and visions of this charming writer. Or do we seek to be withdrawn from the cares of our maturer life into the thoughtless sports and pleasures of our youth? Who so good a guide as Addison, in those papers which unlock all the gentler and purer emotions of the heart? * * * Among the pleasant papers of the late Robert C. Sands, which we intended to have included in our late series of his 'Early and Unpublished Writings,' was the following extract from a burlesque imitation of the literary-antiquarian 'researches,' so common some years ago. The poem was 'edited' by a celebrated cook in London, and was 'intituled 'Kynge Arthour, his Puden.' It purported to have been derived from the MS. which 'contained the original Welsh, as well as the version.' It throws great light on the gastrology of the olden time:

'Ys Kynge for Sonday mornenge bade
Hys cooke withoute delaie
To have a greate bagge-puden made,
For to dyne upon yt daie.

'Ye cooke yn tooke hys biggeste potte,
Yt 90 Hhds. helde,
And soon he made ye water hotte
Wyth which yt potte was fyllede.

'Hys knedynge-troughe was 50 yds
In lengthe, and 20 wide;
And 80 kytchen wenches stode
In ordere bye its side.

'Full 60 sakes of wheaten floure
They emptyed in a tryse,
And 15 Bbls. of melases,
& 7 casks of Ryse!'

This really seems somewhat common-place, just at this period; but twenty-five years ago it was a 'gem of one of the old English school of metrical writers!' * * * With perhaps as strong sympathies in behalf of the great philanthropic moments of the age as most of our readers possess, we are nevertheless sometimes inclined to wish that the liberal patrons of the great benevolent societies could now and then have a glance behind the curtains at the chief actors there. In many of these institutions true Christian principle is doubtless paramount, and the managers men of exalted piety and worth; but there are others of them which, while the names of good men are paraded upon the 'Boards' to inspire confidence, are really directed by a set of individuals who would have done honor to the Spanish Inquisition in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Some facts have recently come to our knowledge in regard to the doings of the directors of a soi-disant charitable institution, which operates in this city and State for the ostensible benefit of a transatlantic colony, which, were they known to the public, as without doubt they soon will be, would pretty effectually set the seal of condemnation upon all their efforts toward collecting moneys from the benevolent, for many years to come. A friend and correspondent of ours, whose character stands above reproach, fell by chance into the hands of some half a dozen of these directors, who, among a body of thirty for the most part honorable men, usually form the quorums and do the business; and the treatment he received (these same half-a-dozen sheltering themselves the while under the sanctity of their religious body) would have disgraced a band of King Philip's warriors in the old Pequot war. We are no Abolitionists, technically so called, as our readers well know; nor do we take sides with either of the two great societies whose professed object is the benefit of the colored race; so that we cannot be charged with speaking from prejudice. But we do go for justice, for truth, for fair-dealing, and Christian principle; and when any body of men, whatever may be their standing or professions, outrage these; and worse than all, when they commit this outrage under the garb of pharisaical sanctity, we know of no reason why they should be screened from public rebuke. * * * Some kind-hearted and affectionate female correspondent, an integral portion of the girlery of New-York, on the strength of some remarks in our last upon the universality of the tender passion, has sent us a love-tale, with this motto:

——'All things seem
So happy when they love; the gentle birds
Have far more gay a note when they unite
To build their simple nest; and when at length
The 'anxious mother' watches o'er her young.
Her mate is near, to recompense her care
With his sweet song.'

Our fair correspondent has exalted the attractions of her heroine 'to a degree,' as the English cockney novelists have it: 'Every look of her beaming eyes penetrated to the heart; every motion of her moist coral lips gave ecstasy; and every variation of her features discovered new and ineffable beauties!' Good 'eavens!—how 'Theodore' must have felt, as he 'gradually recovered from the hurt of his fall,' (was his 'limb' amputated?) and found that angel 'lifting his head from his pillow, and touching his eye-lids with awakening light!' * * * Thanks to the kind 'Incognita,' to whom we are indebted for a beautiful worsted butterfly, destined to a 'literaneous' sort of destiny! Verily, it is a beautiful fabric; so vivid and life-like in its brilliant colors, that it seems, while hanging by the thin ear of our iron gray-hound, as if about to rise and float a living blossom of the air. How deftly the Ettrick Shepherd ('the d—d Hogg!' as Ballantyne called him,) has limned its counterpart: 'Perhaps a bit bonny butterfly is resting wi' folded wings on a gowan, not a yard from your cheek; and now, awakening out of a summer-dream, floats away in its wavering beauty; but as if unwilling to leave the place of its mid-day sleep, comin' back and back, and round and round, on this side and that side, and settling in its capricious happiness to fasten again on some brighter floweret, till the same breath o' wind that lifts up your hair sae refreshingly catches the airy voyager, and wafts her away into some other nook of her ephemeral paradise!' Answer us, all ye that ever saw a summer butterfly in the country, is not that a perfect picture? * * * We have a prospectus of a new series of the 'New Mirror,' which can now be obtained in complete sets, weekly, or in monthly parts, 'with four steel-plates, and sixty-four pages of reading matter.' When we add, that the Mirror has many of its old corps of writers, with several new ones, and that General Morris and N. P. Willis are also diligently laboring at the oars, we have said all that is necessary, to indicate the claims of the work. Success to ye, gentlemen! By the by: the first number of the new series had a full-length portrait, by the Johnston, of the eminent and deeply-lamented painter-poet, Washington Allston. If it is at all like the original, we can well believe the statement of an indignant writer in the 'Boston Post,' who avers that 'the engraving from Brackett's beautiful bust of Mr. Allston, in the last 'Democratic Review,' bears no resemblance whatever to the bust itself, and might as well be called a likeness of one of the numerous John Smiths, as a portrait of the great artist.' Speaking of likenesses: we would venture to ask, what is the thing at the end of the right arm of a figure in one of the Philadelphia 'pictorial' monthlys intended to represent? Is it a hand, (no, that it isn't!) or the end of a tri-pronged beet or radish? It is 'a copy' from the end of some diverse-forked vegetable, that is quite clear. * * * It is a very interesting work, the History of Elizabeth of England, recently published by Messrs. Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia. Proud, powerful, and haughty as that imperial potentate finally became, her infancy was distinguished by the want of even comfortable clothing. An uncommon intellect she certainly possessed, and she had her wrongs, no doubt; but who can think of her without at once reverting to poor Mary of Scotland? After an imprisonment of nineteen years, that unhappy Queen was left alone, without counsel and without friends; betrayed by those in whom she had trusted, and confronted by the representatives of the power and majesty of England. 'But she evinced in the last sad scene of her mournful life the spirit of the daughter of a long line of kings, and exposed to the wondering world the spectacle of a helpless woman, enfeebled by long confinement, 'gray in her prime,' and broken down by sickness and sorrow, contending single-handed against the sovereign of a mighty realm, who sought her blood, and had predetermined her death.' * * * Our entertaining correspondent, the 'American Antiquary,' has given elsewhere some account of the stalwart citizens of a portion of New-Hampshire. They are 'good men,' no doubt, and 'honest as the skin atween their brows;' but 'where two men ride a horse, one must go before.' Our friend should see a specimen or two of our western and southwestern noblemen of nature. We should like to place his hand in that of Albert Pike, for example, the Arkansas poet, politician, and lawyer. His first impression would be, that in his Blackwood 'Hymn to the Gods' he had been lauding his own kith and kin. We consider it a great pleasure to have encountered so fine an illustration of the 'mens sana incorpore sano.' Having seen him once, one could not soon forget him. We should know him now, if we were to 'come across his hide in a tan-yard!' * * * Our Salem (Mass.) friend, who complains that we 'are leagued with the Quakers against the memory of the pious Puritans,' is 'hereby respectfully invited to attend' to the following hit at old Cotton Mather and his fellow-persecutors of that era, from the pen of a true 'Son of New-England:' 'We can laugh now at the Doctor and his demons: but little matter of laughter was it to the victims on Salem hill; to the prisoners in the jails; to poor Giles Corey, tortured with planks upon his breast, which forced the tongue from his mouth, and his life from his old palsied body; to bereaved and quaking families; to a whole community priest-ridden and spectre-smitten; gasping in the sick dream of a spiritual night-mare, and given over to believe a lie. We may laugh, for the grotesque is blended with the horrible, but we must also pity and shudder. God be thanked that the delusion has measurably vanished; and they who confronted that delusion in its own age, disenchanting with strong, clear sense, and sharp ridicule, their spell-bound generation, deserve high honors as the benefactors of their race. They were indeed branded through life as infidels and 'damnable Sadducees,' by a corrupt priesthood, who ministered to a credulity which could be so well turned to their advantage; but the truth which they uttered lived after them, and wrought out its appointed work, for it had a divine commission and God-speed.' * * * To 'X. L.' of Hudson we say, 'By no means!' He is another 'rusty, fusty, musty old bachelor,' who lacks that 'company' which Misery is said to love. 'If love,' he commences, 'were not beneath a man, he couldn't 'fall into it,' as he is so often said to do. Borrowed, dear Sir, 'to begin with!' Learn wisdom of one of your aged fraternity, whom we have the pleasure to know, who was married within a twelvemonth, in the fiftieth year of his age. He has lately been heard to observe: 'If I had known as much about matrimony twelve years ago as I do now, I should just as lieve have been married then as not!' * * * Wherever you are, reader, if you have an opportunity to see Macready in Byron's 'Werner,' fail not to enjoy that rich intellectual repast. It is a matchless piece of acting. A friend of ours, whose experience in dramatic excellence embraces all the great standards usually referred to, tells us that Edmund Kean's 'Othello,' John Kemble's 'Coriolanus,' Talma's 'Britanicus,' and Macready's 'Werner,' in their several styles of merit, are the most admirable performances he ever beheld. * * * A correspondent inquires if there is 'any more of such charming scenes' as the one we quoted from the 'Mysteries of Paris,' in our last number. 'It was very beautiful,' she adds. Yes; there is an account of a joyous country excursion made by Rodolphe and 'Fleur-de-Marie' in the Autumn, from which we take a short passage:

'Oh! I am very happy, it is such a long time since I have been out of Paris! When I saw the country before, it was spring; but now, although we are almost into winter, it gives me just as much pleasure. What a fine sunny day! Only look at those little rosy clouds, there—there! And that hill! with its pretty white houses gleaming among the trees. How many leaves remain! It is astonishing, in the month of November, is it not, Monsieur? But in Paris the leaves fall so soon. * * * And down there—that flight of pigeons! Look! look! they are settling down on the roof of the mill! In the country, one is never tired of looking; every thing is attractive.'

'It is a pleasure, Fleur-de-Marie,' said Rodolphe, 'to see you so delighted with these nothings which make the charm of the country.' The young girl, contemplated the peaceful and smiling landscape which was spread out before her, and once more her face assumed its soft, pensive expression.'

'There!' she exclaimed; 'that fire from the stubble in those fields; see how the beautiful white smoke ascends to heaven! And this cart, with its two fat grays! If I were a man, how I should love to be a farmer!—to be in the midst of a large field, following the plough, and seeing at a great distance immense woods. Just such a day as to-day, for instance! Enough to make one sing songs, melancholy songs, to bring tears into the eyes, like 'Genevieve de Brabant.'

There is in this artless description a fine love and perception of the beautiful in nature. * * * 'Absence of Mind' is too scrappy. Its 'examples' seem collated from sundry files of old newspapers, of various dates. The man however who, in his hurry (at a late hour on a rainy day) to pay a note, took up in place of an umbrella an old broom, and rushed through Wall-street to the bank, with the besom over his head, reminds us of the 'absent' clergyman, who started one winter-Sunday for his church; and having nearly reached it, the wind blew his cloak open; upon which he turned about, that it might be blown close around him again: forgetting this fact, however, he continued to travel in the direction which he faced, until he arrived at his own door. Here he inquired for himself; and being told by a waggish servant that he was not in, he departed, with the remark that he should 'call again soon!' * * * 'The Exile's Song,' in the present number, was enclosed in a letter from its author, A. M'Craw, of Scotland, to the late lamented Dr. Timothy Upham of Waterford, by whose wish it is now published. It was written in this country, several years since; and was occasioned by the statement that two persons had been found in a cave in a forest on the bank of the Kennebeck river, who had sought seclusion and safety in that wild retreat. Dr. Upham was a gentleman of a highly distinguished family in New-Hampshire, whose mind led him to appreciate talent whenever and wherever he encountered it. Scientific and literary honors were tendered him from high sources, previous to his demise; but it pleased God to summon him to that heaven which is constantly enriching itself with the spoils of earth:

'Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus
Tam cari capitis.'

There is just now quite a passion for French Literature in this country, and translations have not only become frequent, but very indiscriminate. Much that we see is not amiss in its moral tendency, but more is positively pernicious in its effect upon society. 'What a strange opinion the world will have of French Society a hundred years from now! 'Did all married people,' they will say, 'break a certain commandment? They all do in the novels. Was French society composed of murderers, of forgers, of children without parents, of men consequently running the daily risk of marrying their grandmothers by mistake; of disguised princes, who lived in the friendship of amiable cut-throats and spotless prostitutes; who gave up the sceptre for the savate, and the stars and pigtails of the court for the chains and wooden shoes of the galleys?' It has been well said of Bernard, (author of 'The Innocence of a Galley-Slave,' in our last two numbers,) that 'he is full of fine observation and gentle feeling; has a gallant sense of the absurd; and writes in a gentlemanlike style.' * * * Here is a clever and characteristic anecdote of 'Randolph of Roanoke,' related by Mr. Harvey, a spirited (and he must allow us to add improved) racconteur: Robert Owen told John Randolph that he should live to see the day when mankind would discover the principle of vitality, and of course learn to live for ever. 'Are you not aware,' said he, 'that in Egypt, by artificial heat, the people create thousands of chickens?' 'Yes,' replied Randolph; 'but you forget to tell us who furnishes the eggs. Show me the man who can lay an egg, and I'll agree to your 'parallel case.' The proposition was a poser! * * * Mr. Peabody, in his excellent Address at Dartmouth College, speaks of the tendency of our lighter literature to 'aim primarily at impression,' without much reference to the means adopted to secure that end. What must he think of Mr. J. H. Ingraham's last infliction upon the public?—his 'Frank Rivers, or the Dangers of the Town,' the hero and heroine of which are Richard P. Robinson and Ellen Jewett? How captivating to tastes kindred with the author's, will be the headings of the different chapters: 'The two fine gentlemen; the Meeting with Ellen; the Consequences;' or, 'The Naval Officer; the Kept Mistress,' etc. Can there be but one opinion concerning such shameless 'literary' expositions as this, among all right-minded persons? * * * Many a reader of the Knickerbocker, residing in the smaller villages of our country, will recognize 'The Influential Man' among their 'fellow-citizens.' Our friend at Tinnecum has drawn from life the sketch in preceding pages, and with all his accustomed faithfulness. 'Uncle Billy Pine' reminds us of the 'influential man' who, when Rip Vanwinkle came back from the mountains, after his twenty years' sleep, made his way through a wondering crowd of his Dutch neighbors, with his arms akimbo, and after gazing at him for a moment, shook his head; 'whereat,' says our renowned historian, 'there was a general shaking of the head throughout the whole assemblage.' * * * Paris has always borne away the palm in cosmetics, perfumery, fancy toilet-soaps, etc.; but we suspect that Mr. Eugene Roussel, late of the French metropolis, but now of Philadelphia, has the means, by importation and manufacture, to bring 'nigh us, even to our doors,' the best specimens in this kind to be found in the gay capital. His stores, at the late fair of the American Institute, were the admiration of visitors; and almost outvied the collections of our own artizan, Mr. Lloyd, of Prince-street, near the Bowery, whose perfumery, for excellence and cheapness combined, has 'won all suffrages' from the ladies. * * * We are glad to learn that the 'American Athenæum' at Paris is so well appreciated. Its condition is already flourishing, and its usefulness and popularity gradually increasing. American books, newspapers, etc., may be sent free of expense, through the care of Mr. R. Draper, Number fifty-one, Beaver-street, New-York. * * * Just one word to 'F.' Do you remember the lord-mayor, who when told at his first hunting that the hare was coming, exclaimed: 'Let it come, in Heaven's name!—I'm not afraid on 't?' Have the goodness to make the application. * * * It was our intention to have offered a few remarks upon 'The Embarkation of the Pilgrims,' the great national picture, by that distinguished American artist, Weir, which is now open for exhibition at the Gallery of the Academy of Fine Arts, corner of Broadway and Leonard-street. We are compelled, however, to forego this duty, until another occasion. Meanwhile, we invite the attention of our metropolitan readers to the exhibition, as one well calculated to repay the most careful examination. * * * We receive at a late hour, from a friend in the French capital, the 'Proceedings of a Meeting of the Citizens of the United States in Paris, at the Royal Athenæum, in March last; embracing an Address upon the Literary Exchanges recently made between France and America, by Alexander Vattemare.' We shall probably have occasion to allude more particularly to this pamphlet hereafter. * * * Cricket, one of the fine manly games of Old England, is getting quite in vogue in this country, and excites not a little emulation between several antagonistic cities and towns. At a dinner which closed a recent spirited match in Philadelphia, our contemporary, Mr. Paterson, of the 'Anglo-American' weekly journal, gave the following felicitous 'sentiment:'

'The bat and the wicket,
And the good game of cricket
Till we come to the bucket.
When all must kick it!'

We find on our table a fervent, heart-full 'Discourse, preached before the Second Church and Society in Boston, in Commemoration of the Life and Character of their former Pastor, Rev. Henry Ware, Jr., D. D.; by their Minister, Chandler Robbins.' We shall share with our readers, in our next issue, the enjoyment we have derived from contemplating, with our friend and correspondent, the many virtues whose memory his predecessor has left in vivid greenness and freshness behind him. * * * We have lost the letter of our New-Orleans correspondent, who asked certain questions touching a foreign correspondence with the Knickerbocker. We liked the tone of his epistle very much. Write us again. Who are you? what are you? whence are you? whither are you going? and what have you got to say for yourself? * * * We hope our readers will appreciate the motives, not vain-glorious altogether, we suspect, which impel us to announce that our Twenty-Third Volume will eclipse any previous volume of the series, we think. Looking at our literary stores, (embodying papers from all our old and favorite contributors, and embracing articles, beside, from the Dutch and the Turkish, by our correspondents at Constantinople and Rotterdam,) we acknowledge a glow of satisfaction, which we hope in due time to transfer to our readers. As for matter, we were never more abundantly prepared; and for the manner, that is to be 'in keeping.' The work is to be presented upon entirely new type, in all its departments; and some of the very fine type heretofore employed in the editor's portion of the work will give place to characters more easily perused by old and young. But 'enough said.' Wait; and 'you shall see what you shall see.' * * * Among many other articles filed for insertion, or awaiting examination, are the following: 'The White-House, or the Money-Ghost; a Tale told in the Chimney-corner of a Village Public-House,' from the Dutch; 'Imaginary Conversations,' by Peter Von Geist; 'Mind vs. Instinct in Animals,' Number Two; 'Ninah and Numan,' from the Turkish, etc. 'P. G.'s favor is reserved for publication, when we can find a place for it. We shall appreciate his communications. * * * Several notices of new publications, (including 'The Rose of Sharon,' a beautiful and interesting annual, Barry Cornwall's Poems, 'Nature and Revelation,' 'The Mysteries of Paris,' and 'The Professor and his Favorites,') omitted from the present number, will appear in our next.

[LITERARY RECORD.]

Greenwood Cemetery.—A desideratum is timely supplied by a small pamphlet before us, containing the rules, regulations, etc., of the Greenwood Cemetery, on the beautiful Heights of Gowanus, near this city. It contains the names of the officers of the corporation, the trustees, terms of subscription, rules concerning improvements, interments, graves, tombs, visitors to the grounds, etc., with a description of some of the principal monuments already erected. It is to be regretted that the person who furnished the inscription for the monument to the beautiful Indian wife, Do-hum-me, did not quote the admirable verse of Bryant more correctly. In riding through the grounds the other day, we observed that two words were added to the last line, which entirely destroy its measure and melody. The four lines in question are from that exquisite poem, 'The Indian Girl's Lament' at the grave of her lover. We cannot resist the inclination to preserve the following stanzas in these pages, for the admiration of our readers:

'I've pulled away the shrubs that grew
Too close above thy sleeping head,
And broke the forest boughs that threw
Their shadows o'er thy bed,
That shining from the sweet southwest
The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

It was a weary, weary road
That led thee to the pleasant coast,
Where thou, in his serene abode.
Hast met thy father's ghost:
Where everlasting autumn lies
On yellow woods and sunny skies.

'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,
That shod thee for that distant land;
'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid
Beside thy still, cold hand:
Thy bow in many a battle bent,
Thy arrows never vainly sent.

With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,
And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,
And laid the food that pleased thee best,
In plenty, by thy side,
And decked thee bravely, as became
A warrior of illustrious name.

Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed
The long dark journey of the grave,
And in the land of light, at last,
Hast joined the good and brave;
Amid the flushed and balmy air,
The bravest and the loveliest there.

Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid
Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,
To her who sits where thou wert laid.
And weeps the hours away,
Yet almost can her grief forget,
To think that thou dost love her yet.

And thou, by one of those still lakes
That in a shining cluster lie,
On which the south wind scarcely breaks
The image of the sky,
A bower for thee and me hast made
Beneath the many-colored shade.

And thou dost wait and watch to meet
My spirit sent to join the blessed,
And, wondering what detains my feet
From the bright land of rest,
Dost seem, in every sound, to hear
The rustling of my footsteps near.'

In the fourth line of the fifth stanza, thus far transferred to the marble, the words 'the fair' have been interpolated, in the inscription to which we have referred. The error is attributable to one of two causes; an ambition to 'gild refined gold,' or unpardonable carelessness.

'The Sleep Rider, or The Old Boy in the Omnibus.'—If the 'Man in the Claret-colored Coat' had kept his promise, we should not have been compelled to dismiss this amusing work with a few words of commendation; but it is 'all along of him,' and we wash our hands of any thing 'short-coming' in the way of duty. We have read enough to know that there is an abundant sprinkling of lively, sententious wit, and shrewd observation of men and things in the volume, and that it is as replete with contrasts and abruptions as any thing of Lawrence Sterne's. Lieutenant White, one of the Mesmerised tale-tellers of the Omnibus, unwinds an exceedingly graphic 'yarn' which was once 'reeled off' in these pages by a lamented and most gifted kinsman of the 'Man in the Claret-colored Coat;' and there are sundry 'scenes, events, and things' recorded in a way peculiar to the writer, whose productions our readers have often laughed at, with the fullest exercise of their cachinnatory powers. The terse hieroglyphical epigraphs at the heads of the chapters have a world of meaning, most likely; but they require study! Buy the little book, and read it. It is both 'cheap and good.'

The Use of Classical Literature.—We have only space to commend warmly to the acceptance of our readers a little pamphlet from the press of Messrs. James Munroe and Company, Boston, containing an Address delivered before the United Literary Societies of Dartmouth College in July last, by Andrew P. Peabody, Esq. It is a spirited defence of classical literature against the attacks of those short-sighted persons, the utilitarian or other 'reformers' of the time, who undervalue the advantages for which they offer no equivalent. The writer's remarks upon the tendency of modern literature, and of the taste for which it caters, are worthy of heedful note.

Mr. Hillard's Discourse.—We have before us, from the publishers, Messrs. Little and Brown, Boston, 'The Relation of the Poet to his Age: a Discourse delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University,' in August last, by George S. Hillard. We agree in the main with the verdict of the North-American Review upon this discourse. Its diction is soft and beautiful, the style nicely polished, and marked by pictured words, glowing images, and fanciful expressions; yet, as a whole, the discourse 'lacks precision and definiteness, in the statement of the leading idea in the mind of the speaker, and a consequent defect of unity and method.' We would go as far as Mr. Hillard, or any other American, in inculcating a love of, and reverence for, the poetical in our country; its early struggles, its scenery, and its history as a nation; but with deference, it seems to us that the Merimac may fail to kindle the emotions, in ever so patriotic a heart, which the associations connected with the Tiber might naturally inspire; nor are 'Westminster Abbey, the Alps, or the Vatican,' to be excluded from a kindred place in the mind of the true poet. We must be permitted also to doubt whether 'Srumfry Davy,' as Mr. Yellowplush terms the great scientific discoverer, could have 'chosen' to be equally distinguished as a poet; or whether 'the whistle of a locomotive' has in it, per se, much poetry! The 'Discourse' is executed with great neatness, whether we regard it in a literary or external point of view, and will be found richly to reward the perusal to which we cordially commend it.

North-American Review.—The last issue of this 'ancient and honorable' Quarterly is a very good one, although less various in the style of its papers than one or two of its immediate predecessors. The 'articles' proper are nine in number, and are upon the following themes: 'The Military Academy' at West-Point; 'Our Commercial History and Policy;' 'Talfourd's Miscellaneous Writings;' 'Early Laws of Massachusetts;' 'Raczynski's Modern Art in Germany;' 'The Independence of the Judiciary;' 'Autobiography of Steffens;' 'Despatches of Hernando Cortes;' and 'Dr. Olin's Travels in the Holy Land.' The closing article contains the usual collection of brief notices of new publications, and opens with a review of Mr. Parson's translation of Dante's 'Inferno.' We are glad to find our own opinion of this excellent performance confirmed by the liberal praise of the North-American. Passages are given from Cary's version, in contrast with that of Mr. Parsons, and the palm of superiority, in poetical merit, awarded to our countryman. The poems of Friend Whittier are noticed with approbation; and also, in one or two instances, rather hypercritically, as it strikes us. The praise, however, is not scant: 'Mr. Whittier commands a vigorous and manly style. His expression is generally simple and to the point. Some passages in his poems are highly picturesque; and at times his imagery is bold and striking.' 'The Norsemen,' written for this Magazine, 'Raphael,' and 'Massachusetts to Virginia,' are pronounced 'musical, almost without fault; and the imagery and expression noble and spirit-stirring.'

'Cock-a-doodle-doo!'—Poultry merchants and 'cultivators' will have occasion to thank Mr. Micajah R. Cock (nom de plume) for his 'American Poultry Book,' a practical treatise on the management of domestic poultry. It bears the high commendation of the Board of Agriculture of the American Institute, as 'a work supplying a deficiency which has long been felt in this department of the agricultural library, and which should find a place in every farm-house.' The book originated in an attempt, for the compiler's behoof, to collect and embody in a methodical form all the various notices respecting the treatment of poultry in America, scattered through our various periodical publications. Scarcely any thing pays the farmer a better profit than poultry, fowls requiring little attention save at a season of the year when he has comparatively little to do; they are 'amenable' also to the attention of women, their best protectors indeed, in case the 'men-folk' are employed. Harper and Brothers, publishers.

The 'Illustrated Common-Prayer.'—Mr. H. W. Hewet has brought these excellent numbers to a close, and a very beautiful volume will be the result. The deserved success which has attended the work, we may presume, has led the publisher to commence an 'Illustrated Sacred History of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, as recorded in the Four Gospels; arranged in chronological order; with an appendix and explanatory notes.' The whole will be embellished with numerous engravings on wood, illustrating the principal events from the Annunciation to the Ascension. So far as the internal character of the work is concerned, it is only necessary to say, that it is confided to the competent care of the Rev. Dr. Wainwright, while the previous publications of Mr. Hewet give assurance that his own department will not be neglected.