The Knickerbocker, Vol. 22, No. 6, December 1843

by Various

TO THE REV. HENRY W. BELLOWS, NEW-YORK.

Lo! where it stands, the green life-giving tree,
Mid the pure garden of thy noble faith,
Where thou, unwearied, tread'st the onward path,
And Moses and Elias talk with thee.
Droop we beneath the cloud despondingly,
Thy voice its cheering influence imparts,
And we arise, and, girding up our hearts,
Go forth in hope to win eternity.
Behold! to thee is given a tongue of fire!
Thou speakest wisdom to the ear of youth,
And age takes counsel from thy lip of truth,
And each with trust thy teaching doth inspire.
By this we know the light thou hast divine—
Oh! may our darkened souls new lustre gain from thine!
New-York, Nov., 1843.
Mary E. Hewitt.

[WIDOWS.]

'Desrobbons ici la place d'un conte.'—Montaigne.

Fuller says, in his 'Holy State,' that 'the good widow's grief for her husband, though real is moderate;' and it is our object to illustrate the old divine's text by two famous and most ancient stories; but we would in the first place offer a few remarks upon the species widow.

If widow be derived from the Latin viduus, void, then Mr. Weller the elder's pronunciation, vidder, is the most etymological. We are, however, far from sharing that gentleman's feelings toward those ladies, cleverest of their class. We love widows. We gain by their loss. And the void to us and we fear to them is any thing but an 'aching void.'

In society a Miss is, not to make a pun, amiss. Your sixteens and seventeens are always at sixes and sevens among the men. They are so walled about by what is proper and what is not proper, that they can do nothing but sit bolt upright with their arms folded. Their sitting, walking, riding, dancing, talking, are all carefully graduated to the proper. They start when you speak to them, as a pigeon does when it sees a hawk, and take hold of a man's arm as though he were made of phosphorus; and are bound to look silly, and take refuge under mamma's wings, if the air be tainted by the ghost of a possible impropriety. In Spanish society young ladies are danced with, but never spoken to; but no more of them:

'Non ragionam di lor; ma guarda e passa.'

But a widow, as soon as the becoming sorrow is over, which soon takes place, is always gay, always charming:

'Jeppo. La princesse est reuve, Maffio.
Maf. On le voit bien à sa gaiete.'

In the first place, the widow sait vivre. She knows how to talk to men and how to treat them. In the second, she does what she pleases, and Miss Scandal has to shriek, 'How improper!' in a whisper. In the third place, she never grows old. A spinster is on the wane at five-and-twenty, and at forty, even Echo would be afraid to answer her, for fear she should consider it an offer; but a widow at thirty is on the 'wax,' and in her prime at forty; at least so says the song. We wonder that all women do not wish they were born widows; and that failing, and the occasion presenting itself, do not emulate the fifty Misses Danaus, in the mythology, who in their haste to become widows, stabbed their husbands on the wedding night.

The Rev. Dr. Sterne remarks, that 'the Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.' Bereaved married people must be shorn lambs. We have heard widowers a fortnight after the sad event humming Gai! Gai! de profundis!—and widows finding the breeze of a most comfortable temperature, and keeping up a cheerful liveman-loving spirit behind their impenetrable black veils, just as the sun shines as brightly as ever behind the darkest thunder-cloud.

The first tale is that of the Matron of Ephesus, told with infinite spirit by La Fontaine in his Contes. He took it from Boccaccio. It is to be found in Petronius, who had it from the Greeks. They borrowed it from the Arabians, who in their turn owe it to the Chinese. Du Halde has it in his version. The origin of most of our every-day stories is as completely hidden in the obscurity of by-gone ages as the name of the inventor of the plough. Who in Heaven's name was the father of jokes? Was Joseph Miller the Joseph who found favor in the eyes of the facile Fatima? Did Pharaoh write facetiæ? Or did Job edit a jest-book? Or was the husband of Eve the great first wag; and must we not consider Joseph a misnomer for Adam?

Once upon a time there lived in Ephesus a lady renowned for her beauty and for her wit, but most of all for her intense affection for her husband. Mothers cited her as an example to their daughters, and husbands were forever singing her praises to their wives. In short, the town esteemed itself lucky in possessing within its walls such a model of virtue. But alas! the husband died. Far from being consoled by a will full of legacies in her favor, the widow abandoned herself to the most distressing grief, and sobbed and groaned so bitterly and so loudly, that all the neighborhood was in tears. Frantic with her loss, she resolved to descend into the tomb with her husband, and to die upon his body. A faithful maid-servant accompanied her, after trying in vain to bring back her mistress to the love of life. She wished to feed her eyes to the last upon the bier of the deceased, and this was the only aliment she intended to allow herself. One day passed in sighing and weeping, and her grief omitted nothing which is necessary in such cases.

Another dead body was lodged not far from this tomb, but very differently. His monument was a gallows, and himself his only epitaph—a warning to all thieves! A soldier watched him night and day, and was threatened with instant death if the body were removed. During the night, the sentinel perceived to his great surprise a light flashing through the crevices of the tomb, and stealing toward it, heard many soft oh's and alas's. Entering, he was amazed to see two pretty women in tears, and inquired politely what motive could induce them to inhabit so melancholy an abode? The widow did not of course deign to answer, but the servant explained to him that they had resolved to starve themselves to death for love of the deceased. The soldier explained as well as he was able what life was, and asked leave to take his supper in their presence, if they would eat nothing themselves. They gave him permission. Animated by the beauty of the lady, and assisted by the maid, who began to tire of starvation, he pleaded so warmly and so well, that the dame consented by degrees to forget her mort, and to bestow herself upon him. Just as they had ratified the compact by a kiss, under the very nose of the defunct, he heard a noise without, and rushing to his post, found the body gone! Overwhelmed with shame and fear, he returned to the tomb, acquainted the ladies with the fate which awaited him, and bade adieu to his bride.

'What!' said the servant, 'shall we allow you to be hung for such a trifle? No! No! One body is like another. Let us hang up our old master. No one will know the difference.'

The mistress consented; the 'dear departed' was suspended in the place of the thief; and the soldier left the guard-house for the palace of the Matron of Ephesus.

The other story is from the Zadig of Voltaire, and illustrates the same characteristic trait.

One day Zadig's wife Azora returned from a walk, swelling with rage. 'What is the matter, my dear?' said Zadig; 'what can have happened to put you so beside yourself?'

'Alas!' said she, 'you would be as indignant as I am, if you had only seen what I have witnessed. I went to console the young widow Cosron, who not long since erected a tomb to her husband near the brook which flows through yonder meadow, and vowed to the gods to remain at the tomb so long as the waters of the stream should flow by it.'

'There is an estimable woman for you!' said Zadig; 'she sincerely loved her husband.'

'Ah!' replied Azora, 'if you only knew what she was doing when I visited her!'

'Well, what? sweet Azora!'

'She was laboring to turn the course of the stream!' Azora was so vehement in her condemnation of the young widow's conduct, and overwhelmed her with so many hard names, that Zadig was displeased with so great a parade of virtue.

He had a friend named Cador, who was one of those young men whom his wife thought better behaved and more moral than most others. He made him his confidant, and promised him a large sum if his plan succeeded.

When Azora, who had been passing a day or two at the house of a relation, returned to town, the servants in tears announced to her that her husband had died suddenly the night before, and had been buried that morning in the tomb of his ancestors at the bottom of the garden. She raved, tore her hair, and called the gods to witness that she would not survive him.

That evening Cador asked permission to see her, and they wept together. The next day they shed fewer tears, and dined together. Cador informed her that his friend had left him the greater part of his property, and hinted that it would be his greatest happiness to share it with her. The lady wept, grew angry, but allowed herself to be appeased. The conversation became more confidential. Azora praised the defunct, but confessed that he had many faults from which Cador was exempt.

In the midst of the supper, Cador complained of a violent pain in his liver. The anxious lady rang for her essences, thinking that perhaps one among them might be good for the liver-complaint. She regretted deeply that the great Hermes was no longer at Babylon; she even deigned to touch the side where Cador experienced such intense pain. 'Are you subject to this cruel complaint?' said she, compassionately. 'It sometimes nearly kills me,' replied Cador, 'and there is only one remedy which soothes it, and that is to apply on my side the nose of a man who died the day before.'

'That is a strange remedy!' said Azora.

'Not so strange,' he answered, 'as Dr. Arnoult's apoplexy-bags.'[5]

This reason, and the great merit of the young man, decided Azora. 'After all,' said she, 'when my husband passes from the world of yesterday into the world of to-morrow over the bridge Tchinavar, the angel Asrael will not refuse to admit him because his nose is a little shorter in the second life than in the first.'

So taking a razor in her hand, she went to the tomb of her husband, bathed it with her tears, and approached to cut off his nose as he lay extended in the coffin. Zadig sprang up, holding his nose with one hand, and seizing the razor with the other. 'Madam!' he cried, 'say no more against the widow Cosron! The idea of cutting off my nose is quite equal to that of turning a water-course!'

And that is the end of our other story.

The most sincere of us, alas! are always hypocrites, but never so much as when we bring our grief before the eyes of the world.

'De quelque désespoir qu'une âme soit atteinte
La douleur est toujours moins forte que la plainte
Toujours un peu de faste entre parmi les pleurs.'

[LITERARY NOTICES.]

Etiquette; or a Guide to the Usages of Society; with a Glance at Bad Habits. By Count Alfred D'Orsay. Number Six of the 'Brother Jonathan' Monthly Library. New-York: Wilson and Company.

We opened this little work with avidity. It is the production of one whose fame, as an accomplished leader and arbiter in fashionable life, has preceded it for some years throughout the United States, and may well impart to it the weight of grave authority. We read it to the close without interruption, and with the greater interest, from finding in it, as we went on, much more than a bare list of rules of intercourse; and we rose from our chair, gratified by the perusal; full of good feeling toward its author; and with a passage from the divine Jeremy Taylor hovering in our thoughts. This is it:

'The Greek that designed to make the most exquisite picture that could be imagined, fancied the eye of Chione, and the hair of Pœgnium, and Tarsia's lip, Philenium's chin, and the forehead of Delphia; and set all these upon Melphidippa's neck, and thought that he should outdo both art and nature. But when he came to view the proportions, he found that what was excellent in Tarsia did not agree with the other excellency of Philenium; and although singly they were rare pieces, yet in the whole they made a most ugly face.'

Now it is the exactness of proportion, and what the painters call the good keeping of a picture, that in real life designate the well-bred man. It is that quiet exemption from unnecessary display or prominence, in any single feature of character, while all are beautifully sustained; it is that style of existence which in the Venus de Medicis makes her appear to the eye to enlarge as you approach near and more near that miracle of art; it is that nice adaptation of conduct to momentary occasion, dictated by a cool judgment, a determined will, perfect self-possession, and a kind heart; that mark the character and manners, and give a tranquil and yet pervading and an unforgotten charm to the intercourse of the true and well-born gentleman:

——'it is not in the power of monarchs
To make a Gentleman, which is a substance
Only begot of Merit.'

Count D'Orsay has this innate perception throughout his chapter on Conversation, and he has well illustrated it in that on Dress; indeed throughout his work he writes as from a Source: 'It is bad taste to dress in the extreme of fashion; and, in general, those only do so who have no other claim to distinction; leave it, in these times, to shopmen and pick-pockets. Avoid wearing jewelry, unless it be in very good taste, and then only at proper seasons. This is the age of Mosaic gold and other trash; and by dint of swindling, any one may become 'flashy' at a small expense. Recollect that every shop-boy can coarsely imitate your 'outward and visible sign' if he choose to save his money for that purpose. If you will stand out in 'high and bold relief,' endeavour to become eminent for some virtue or talent, that people may say, 'There goes the celebrated (not the notorious) Mr. So-and-so.' In the same chapter are some valuable hints on dress to the other sex, too applicable, alas! too applicable! As our life is not long enough to do anything but praise them, we beg to refer our fair readers to the work itself; the whole of which they may read with advantage, and we doubt not with pleasure. We were much struck by the noble author's chapter on Dinners in several of its passages, one or two of which we are disposed to cite. The following is eminently just: 'Well-bred people arrive as nearly at the appointed dinner hour as they can. It is a very vulgar assumption of importance purposely to arrive half an hour behind time; beside the folly of allowing eight or ten hungry people such a tempting opportunity of discussing your foibles.'

With us indeed, this 'vulgar assumption of importance' on an occasion of dinner is rarely imagined, and would never be tolerated at all; but we have among us some men of genius, (Heaven save the mark!) to whom the flight of time seems never to be a matter of account. We remember having had our whole dinner spoiled (except the game, which providentially was not put down) by one of this class to whom the entertainment was given; and when at last, after being sent for, he made his appearance two hours beyond time, he remarked very blandly, 'I thought the hour upon your card was five o'clock.' The clock was striking SEVEN while he spoke!—yet it was impossible to look into his face and not forgive him. But the annoyance of the guests is not much less than this to the host, when, as is too frequently the case with us, they are kept waiting on their part an unreasonable time beyond the hour fixed for the repast. They have arrived in due season, have paid their compliments, and are ready for your soup; and Time wears leaden wings until they are seated and occupied with it. It is also at all times to be considered, that Lunch is by no means in America a thing of course; and a man may easily, with the kindest intentions in the world, by mere want of punctuality in his establishment, disarrange the gastric juices of eight or ten of his best friends!!

'Nothing indicates a well-bred man more than a proper mode of eating his dinner. A man may pass muster by dressing well, and may sustain himself tolerably in conversation; but if he be not perfectly 'au fait,' dinner will betray him.' How true! How infallible has this criterion ever been! We were surprised at the following observation, coming from such a source: 'It is a matter of regret that table napkins are not considered indispensable in England; for with all our boasted refinement, they are far from being general. The comfort of napkins at dinner is too obvious to require comment, while the expense can hardly be urged as an objection. If there be not any napkins a man has no alternative but to use the table-cloth, unless (as many do) he prefer his pocket handkerchief—a usage sufficiently disagreeable.'

Shade of Grammont! can it be, that at any table in England at which this true gentleman, this accomplished nobleman 'observed of all observers,' this cynosure, could be induced to sit, there can remain such a vestige of barbarism as this want implies, and this high authority establishes? No table napkin! No 'alternative but the table-cloth or the pocket handkerchief!' Good Heavens! can it be a possible thing, that these 'haughty Islanders' should rail at us upon both shores, come over the sea and compose their 'Notes on America' at tables where they have been invited as honored guests, and friends, and then go home to deliver their venom, and make market-money out of their coarse detraction of the domestic manners of their hosts, and spitting-boxes alike of their stomachs and their printing-presses; and this at a time when it is their practice to defile, with their soiled fingers, the drapery that covers a board that should be sacred in the eyes of all Christian men, as it is in those of the Mussulman and the Moor! Oh England! England! and yet, Fatherland! Fatherland!—--to think, that from thy prolifick and exhaustless bosom, thou shouldest send forth, almost in the same season, to us, warmed into life and golden being, the gentle, the accessible, the illustrious Morpeth—whose visit hath left a trace of light along the path he trod upon our shores—and that the same Sun should, 'kissing carrion,' give motion from Thee to these maggots of a dead dog! that crawl their way across the same blue deep to mark us with their slime! But enough of this; at least we use napkins at our dinners throughout the Union, thank God!

Two other short extracts shall be made, in order to establish with our readers the author's right to the rank he holds in society:

'There is no better test of a man's claim to be considered 'a Gentleman,' than a scrutiny of his conduct in money transactions. A man may possess rank and fashion, and, by an assumed frankness of character, deceive the multitude; but the moment his purse is invaded, if he be not of the true caste, he will display the most contemptible meanness; he will take advantage of the liberal; evade, by every miserable subterfuge, the claims of those he dares not oppress, and unblushingly defy those unfortunate persons whose poverty is likely to prevent the due assertion of their rights. Such a man may possess station in society—he may be an 'élégant'—he may be a prince!—but if he be not honest, he is not a gentleman.'

'Gentility is neither in birth, manner, nor fashion—but in the Mind. A high sense of honor; a determination never to take a mean advantage of another; an adherence to truth; delicacy and politeness toward those with whom you may have dealings—are the essential and distinguishing characteristics of a Gentleman.'

The work concludes with an admirable and elaborate analysis of the Waltz; and it is with earnest pleasure that we recommend it as a whole to the readers of the Knickerbocker.

Since preparing the preceding notice for the press, the following Rules à la D'Orsay, adapted to the meridian of New-York, have been handed to us under the highest fashionable sanction, to be appended to the future American editions of this interesting production. We leave to the publishers the charge of arranging them under the various heads to which they respectively belong.

'I. If your entertainer hand you his box, help yourself immediately to snuff with the fore-finger and thumb of the left hand; close the box at once and return it him with a demonstration of thankfulness for the compliment he has paid you. There is no need, if you should not be in the practice of regaling yourself in this way, to taste the snuff; you need raise the pinch only once to your olfactories, and may then let it fall. Neither affect the mastery of the box, by offering it to any one else; or by passing it round the table without an intimation from your host. Never breathe over it; nor, while you aspire to the character of a gentleman, SMELL from it and say, that 'you wish you could indulge yourself in this way.'

'II. Instruct your servants, that at all times before the course of Game be served upon your dinner-table, every dish of Vegetables be removed from the apartment. There are among us, grave men and of honest extraction who are yet capable of eating cooked vegetables even with Game; and who, with sallad at hand, and a woodcock before them extended upon his proper toast, would yet, (if permitted to practice such an enormity,) ask the servant for a potatoe without a sense either of humiliation or of remorse!!

'III. Abjure all dinner-communion whatever with the host, who, for the second time, places you at his table upon a cushionless chair; the bottom of which is formed of those hexagons of misery made out of split rattan, and known in New-York by the appropriate title of Cain-bottoms, doubtless in honor of the first murderer of man: the most charitable construction that can be placed upon such conduct being, that your entertainer compasses your death during the ensuing winter:

'You're there in double trust:
First as his Friend; his Entertainer, oft;
Strong both against the deed. And he, your Host;
Who should against the sharp Wind close the door,
Not bare the knife himself!'

'IV. Never again send a card of invitation to the young person—gentleman we could never call him—however great 'his expectations' may be, who at your ball or evening party where ladies are your guests, has had the insolent temerity of lighting his cigar before leaving the house.

'V. Until you thoroughly understand, and can gracefully accomplish in perfect time, the varied steps of the Waltz, never venture upon the experiment, even of a single tour, with one of those precious beings, whose feet are formed to touch the earth only par courtoisie; for—shall I tell you?—the very hyena might have uttered cries of real grief, during more than one morning last winter, over the bruised and discolored spots—traces of the last night's movement—upon a small, plump, eloquent foot, where the instep fades with a quick descent into the narrow and imperceptible plain, and the heel is lost at the moment an upright posture is assumed: and over which nature, until then, had gazed, entranced by the dimpling and ever-varying beauty of her Work!

'Practise yourself until perfect with some female professional Teacher, who can describe to you the effects of your gaucherie, and instruct you how to remedy it; or if, as is the case with many a worthy young man well received in society, you be come of a numerous, clumsy family, go it often with some of your strong-armed maiden aunts, or good-natured sisters, who can honestly and vigorously kick you in return, and break you in by degrees; and teach you feelingly what you are; and what pain you may impose, and absolute lameness you may inflict, upon that irradiation of light and joy, which, (as no language can express the pleasure that she gives,) we call by the pain she sometimes causes; and, in our tears, have named her Wo-man!

'VI. Do not entertain the thought, that as a young gentleman 'of large expectations;' or from your being one of those 'admirable waltzers;' or one of that class of favored persons whom for whatever cause, the ladies rank immediately next the music when they tell the père de famille, or the future manager, 'We must immediately engage So-and-so's band, and here is a list of the indispensable beaux without whom our party will be a failure'——do not, although your name be first upon that list, imagine you have nothing more to do, than go to the ball; enjoy yourself as much as you can; leave a card during one of the three following days; give a passing recognition in the street to the lady of the house; and then cut the family like a watering-place acquaintance until they give a ball again, or new-year's day come round to prove you ready for another night of pleasure. Leave such a course to the half-bred vulgarian. It is the part of the true gentleman on the contrary, after observing the other forms of etiquette toward a family whose hospitality he has chosen to accept, to take opportunities occasionally at the houses of their mutual acquaintance to renew his cheerful compliments to the lady, as he meets her undergoing the routine—alas! how often the laborious, the devoted, the unsatisfactory routine—of attending night after night upon those in whom her maternal wishes are centered and at stake! Do not believe, (if you require an incentive,) that this will be lost to you. It is among those amenities of life in which pleasure increases as the heart dispenses it. Your bosom's lord shall 'sit more lightly on his throne' for this employment of his gracious faculties; and—for there are many attentions that the sex love to see exercised toward each other—Eyes shall follow you approvingly, that may contain the untold treasure of your future hope.'

Bankrupt Stories. Edited by Harry Franco. 'The Haunted Merchant.' In one volume, pp. 381. New-York: John Allen, 139 Nassau-street.

Soon after the work entitled 'Harry Franco' had made its appearance, we took the liberty to send it, together with several other late publications of the day, to our eminent contributor, Mr. Washington Irving, then at his charming 'Sunnyside Cottage' on the Hudson. In acknowledging his reception of the books, he took especial occasion to speak of 'Harry Franco' as a work replete with natural description and quiet humor; and on learning that the author was a regular correspondent of the Knickerbocker, he added: 'Cherish him; he is a writer of excellent parts, and great promise.' 'The Haunted Merchant' was soon after commenced in these pages; and after gradually increasing in interest, until the interval of a month in its publication was deemed by many readers a very painful hiatus, it was suddenly suspended by the author, owing to overwhelming business avocations, which engaged his undivided attention. When, after many months, he was once more in the enjoyment of the necessary leisure to finish the work, it was not deemed advisable to resume it at so late a period in the Knickerbocker, but to complete it in a volume, in which it should form the first of a series of 'Bankrupt Stories;' and this is the volume before us, more than two-thirds of which will be entirely new to our readers. We have once or twice referred to the work, while in the process of publication in numbers; but having re-perused it entire in its present form, we cannot resist the impulse to counsel our readers to secure the enjoyment of the same pleasure. Aside from the numerous 'palpable hits' at men, manners, and customs, in our commercial metropolis, there is in the story itself, in its incidents and characters, a pervading interest, which increases, not fitfully, but in regular and natural progression, to the dénouement. The curiosity of the reader, stimulated but not satisfied, continues unabated to the end; an opinion on which we pledge our critical judgment, and the correctness of which we desire our readers themselves to test in the only way in which it can be tested. Meanwhile, leaving the story untouched, we proceed to select a few of the 'palpable hits' to which we have adverted, which we shall arrange under indicative heads, after the manner of certain of our English contemporaries:

FASHIONABLE PHYSICIANS: SEALING-WAX.

'With his accustomed ingenuousness, Jeremiah proceeded directly to the house of Doctor Smoothcoat when he went in pursuit of a physician, for he knew that that personage was celebrated for his high charges, and he thought than no physician could have the conscience to value his services at a higher rate than the rest of the faculty unless he were conscious that they were worth more to the patient; and as there were many other simple-minded people beside Jeremiah, Doctor Smoothcoat had a good many rich patients who enabled him, by their contributions, to live in great magnificence, and occasionally to refresh himself by a visit to Europe, which brought him more patients than even his high charges, for a European reputation is a great help to one's progress in the New World.

'Jeremiah's heart sank within him when he reached the doctor's house, and was informed that the great man was out on a professional visit; he waited a long time expecting him to return, and at last came away without seeing him, but left a note on his office-table requesting him to call at Mr. Tremlett's house. He sat by the old gentleman's bed-side until past midnight watching with great anxiety, but no physician came; and then, growing alarmed, he went again in search of Doctor Smoothcoat. This time he found the professional gentleman at home, but he was astonished to learn that he had been for more than an hour in bed and asleep. How could he sleep when a patient lay sick almost unto death, waiting for his assistance?

'But the Doctor said he had not received a call.

''Did you not get the note that I left for you?' asked Jeremiah.

''The note!' said the Doctor; 'I have received no communication from you.'

''But I left one upon your office-table,' said Jeremiah.

''Oh! ah! I do remember that I observed a bit of paper lying there directed to me, but I did not think that it could be of any moment,' said Doctor Smoothcoat; 'gentlemen having communications to make to me usually seal their letters with wax.'

''Wax!' exclaimed Jeremiah, with unusual warmth; 'wax! O, true; it should have been wax; and here it is sealed with a wafer; and it has not been opened! Well, well, I am very sorry. But, surely the life of a human being is of more consequence than a bit of wax!'

'The doctor thought otherwise. He had not been to Europe for nothing. Moreover, he was a conservative, and consequently a great stickler for forms. So wicked a departure from established usages as sealing a note to a person of his consequence with a wafer, was not to be lightly passed by. He understood the full importance of wax.'

WRITING A LOVE-LETTER: COUNTERFEIT EMOTION.

'John, after he had retired to his chamber, sat down and penned a few but expressive lines to Fidelia, in which he told her in simple language, without adornment or exaggeration, that he loved her, and that on his return he should call upon her to learn from her own lips whether or not she could love him in return. Never before had he expressed himself on paper so easily, so feelingly, and so much to his own satisfaction. After he had written his letter he read it over and over again; delighted at the true expression of his own feelings, and wondering at his success in a style of composition which he had then attempted for the first time. Those who feel can write feelingly; but counterfeit feelings on paper, like counterfeit laughter, or counterfeit tears, affect nobody, because feelings lie deeper than the eye or the ear, and like can only affect like; as the devil could not tempt St. Anthony, although he has tempted so many sham saints before and since his time; and the angel could find shelter with no man but Lot in all Sodom, because Lot alone of all its inhabitants partook of the angel's nature.'

A 'GOOD MAN,' AS THE WORLD GOES.

'Many people looked upon Mr. Bates as a very excellent person, as indeed he was; for he had always paid his debts, a great thing assuredly in a community where a neglect to do so is looked upon as an odious offence, without any consideration of the debtor's misfortunes or ability; but then it must be remembered that nobody would have trusted Mr. Bates beyond his known ability to pay; he had robbed no man of his money, an unusual thing in those days, when even governments and independent states set examples of dishonesty; he had never cheated government out of a penny, although it is right to say that he had never been intrusted with any of the nation's funds; he had run away with no man's wife, which was a greater merit in him, since he would not have looked upon it as an unpardonable offence if any body had run away with his; he had never accepted office of a party and then proved traitorous to those who placed him in power; a rare virtue in him, since he saw so many examples around him, and heard them spoken of as good jokes rather than as black crimes.'

DEAD HONORS TO DEAD MEN.

'When a rich man dies, everybody says: 'Is it possible!' as though it were quite an impossible thing for audacious Death to grapple with a man of wealth: when a lawyer dies, all the courts adjourn with complimentary speeches, and Justice sheathes her terrible left-handed sword and pockets her scales for a whole day; as though lawyers were so exceedingly rare that the loss of one deserved to be wept as a public calamity: and when a merchant dies, all the ships in the harbor hoist their flags half-mast, out of respect to his memory; as though the business of merchandising was one of such exceeding honor to humanity that the bare accident of being connected with it conferred such peculiar merit upon a man that his loss called for a public demonstration of grief. This last compliment was paid to Mr. Tuck; and while there was but one pair of eyes that wept a tear at his funeral, there were hundreds of yards of bunting, of all possible colors and combinations, drooping from the half-mast-heads of innumerable sea-going crafts at the wharves, and in the river, and bay, out of respect to his memory.'

A QUAKER DAMSEL AMONG THE WORLD'S-PEOPLE.

'Huldah was by no means so strict a disciplinarian as her father, and she was guilty of some wide departures from the rules of her sect, which would have given the conscientious farmer much concern of mind if he had witnessed them. For instance, she had twice accompanied Jeremiah to a Presbyterian meeting; and once she had even entered the precincts of a public garden where there was much profane music elaborated by fiddles and cornets-a-piston; and she had looked with a manifest liking upon a gentleman and lady, decorated with a wicked profusion of spangles, and quite an unnecessary economy of clothing, who performed certain mysterious and highly figurative evolutions, the object of which she did not fully comprehend; but they were called in the bills a 'grand pas de deux.''

SAGE ADVICE TOUCHING MOTHERS-IN-LAW.

'It is a matter of great mortification to me, my son, that in so important a transaction as marriage I am incompetent to give you any advice. But I hope that advice will not be needed by you and Julia: you will no doubt be happy in each other; yet there is one thing that an old gentleman used to tell me when I was of your age, which I think you will do well to bear in mind. 'Why don't you get married my boy?' he used to say to me: 'Because,' I would reply, 'I don't know how to choose a wife, and I am afraid of getting a bad one.' 'Poo! poo!' he would say; 'any wife is good enough, if her mother don't live with you, but the best wife will not be good enough if she should.''

LOVE-LETTERS.

'I never liked the looks of letters from young people,' said the old man, drawing a long whiff at his pipe. 'I don't suppose that Mr. Tremlett would write anything out of the way to my grand-darter, but I never liked the looks of letters. They have a suspicious look. I am now rising my seventy-sixth year, and I never wrote a letter to a young woman in my life; never; and I don't think I ever shall.'

We have but one remark to make, in concluding our notice of 'The Haunted Merchant.' It is printed with large types upon clear white paper; but the punctuation is 'most tolerable and not to be endured;' and there are other evidences of carelessness in the proof-reading, which we hope to find removed in the next edition.

History of Europe from the Commencement of the French Revolution in 1789, to the Restoration of the Bourbons in 1815. By Archibald Alison, F. R. S. E., Advocate. In four volumes, 8vo. pp. 2426. New-York: Harper and Brothers.

This transcendant work is at length completed, and in four well-bound and well-printed volumes, may be obtained of the publishers at one tenth of the price charged for the English copy. It certainly is unnecessary for us to enlarge upon the many and various merits of this great work. They are every where, and by all classes of readers and critics, cordially conceded. Certain mistakes there were, indeed, in the chapters upon Great Britain and this country, to the commission of which the monarchical and aristocratical predilections of the author naturally led him; but when pointed out to him by Chancellor Kent, he had the candor to acknowledge them, and the justice to correct them, in the edition before us. Another great defect in the European edition has here been supplied. The original work was issued without any Index, so that any particular document or fact could with difficulty be discovered by the reader. The very copious Index which is now supplied, adds largely to the value of the work, and so facilitates the references which may be necessary, that every prominent occurrence and record amid all its multitudinous subjects can be traced throughout the history. A series of explanatory notes, tending materially to rectify the author's principal errors, and to enhance the value of the narrative, leave little to be desired in this monument of historical research, which will be as lasting as it is unrivalled.

The Rose of Sharon: a Religious Souvenir, for 1844. Edited by Miss Sarah C. Edgarton. pp. 304. Boston: A. Tompkins and B. B. Mussey.

Here is a modest but very pleasant annual, which contains, aside from its embellishments, matter which would far more than repay the small cost of its purchase. Of its engravings, however, we may say in passing, that the first is a charming view, exquisitely drawn and engraved, of 'Sabbath-Day Point' on Lake George; the third, a capital engraving of Liverseege's 'Good Resolution;' the fourth, 'Jephthah's Daughter;' and the fifth a pleasant 'Scene on the Hudson.' The volume opens with an essay on 'Human Life,' from the pen of Horace Greeley; a paper which we should be glad to copy entire, but for the 'tyranny of space.' It is written in an easy, graceful style, and is replete with thought and feeling. 'Emma,' by Miss L. M. Barker, deserves all the praise of the Editor, and will that of the public. The overflowings of a bereaved heart are visible in the almost sobbing 'Lines on the Death of an only Daughter;' and to the writer, as well as to others who have suffered the loss of near and dear friends, we commend 'The Happy Thought' which succeeds it, the conclusion of which will forcibly remind the reader of the close of Rev. Mr. Dewey's unrivalled and inimitable discourse upon the 'Natural Dread of Death.' The Editor's portion of the volume is by no means the least of the attractions of 'The Rose;' and her fair collaborateurs have lightened her task by the excellence of their own contributions. With variety and excellence in its prose and verse; unexceptionable in all its inculcations; well printed and tastefully bound; we cannot choose but commend the volume to the favor of the public, in the holiday season which is approaching.

[EDITOR'S TABLE.]

Visitors at the 'Home Department.'—'I cannot make a speech myself,' said a wag, when suddenly called upon to address a political assemblage, 'but if any body else wants to speak, I'll hold his hat!' This was an obliging person; and we here ask leave in some sort to imitate his example. While we are making out the Index to the twenty-second volume of the Knickerbocker, our readers will permit us to introduce to their acquaintance our thoughtful friend 'Hans Von Spiegel,' and our imaginative and mercurial correspondent 'Julian,' whose 'Top of New York' in our last number, by the by, we placed to the credit of a new contributor to this Magazine, whose hand-writing greatly resembles his own. These gentlemen came too late to sit at the regular board; so an' please you, reader, make them welcome, as we do, to our round-table. We have 'taken their hats;' and while the one addresses you, upon a theme seasonable at this present, and fraught with reminiscences of golden days, and the other enlightens unwedded people on the subject of 'matrimonial gettings-up of a morning,' permit us to accomplish our ungrateful task of composing a 'curtailed abbreviation compressing all the particulars' of the various matters contained in the last six numbers of the Knickerbocker. Ladies and gentlemen, 'Herr Von Spiegel,' in an 'Epistleized Reverie:'

'While I mused, the fire burned.'

'The gorgeous autumnal sun had just sunk behind the line of the Jersey shore as Hans, an hour since, turned homeward. He had it in his thoughts, dear Editor, to give thee a desultory train of reflections which the quiet loveliness of the scene suggested: the hills of Long Island stretching away to the eastward, with their wooded sides yet mantled with the many-colored foliage, that brightened in the evening glory of the sun; the radiant surface of the Narrows, dotted here and there with sails, their swelling bosoms spread to the land breeze; the white gulls returning in many a gyration to find their resting-places among the rocks on the beach; as they had done ages before; when the red man, who harmed them not, alone and happy, paddled his canoe around the head-lands which now are crowned with the tasteful dwellings of civilization; the gray sky bending over all, and arching in the landscape. He thought to discourse with thee of these; but now, seated before a coal-grate, all a-blaze and cheerful, he has changed his mind. Through the window-blinds of his chamber he can see the cold twinklings of the Northern Bear; and, if he would, the star that looks so brightly down on the Arctic Sea. There, now he does gaze upon it—sadly though, and tearful. Thou mayest not know why that star makes him sad. Again his eyes are turned away from his window, and his heart from sad thoughts. He pusheth the table a hair's breadth farther from the fire; presseth the cushion of a comfortable chair with a pair of curious slippers, in which his feet are encased; adjusteth himself at an easy angle; droppeth his head upon his breast, and wooeth the enchantress Fancy, lustrous-eyed and beautiful.* * * Hast thou never felt, gentle reader, while enjoying the first cold evening of the season, beside thy glowing hearth, a sudden influx of fresh life; a flow of quiet joyousness, as mysterious as pleasant; the melancholy gloominess with which thou beheldest the approach of winter, all at once disappearing to trouble thee no more for a whole year?—the dread of snow-tempests, and keen winds, and hurrying, gray clouds, on the instant giving place to a longing love for merry sleigh-bells, jingling in the frosty air? Well! Hans thought he was not the only one who experienceth the like.

Give us thy hand, Old Winter! Thou art welcome! Thou awakenest visions of other days, when Hans, in the simplicity of his childhood, believed that 'Thanksgiving' and 'Christmas,' some how or other, came into town in an old-fashioned double-seated sleigh, with racing gray horses and cracking whip, wielded by an invisible Jehu. How the idea got into his head, is more than he can tell. Exquisitely happy were those days of uncareful childhood; when the winter school called scores of rosy-cheeked urchins, hallooing on the morning air, through the snow to the old red school-house in the village of Hans's nativity. The larger boys all with their sleds, on which sat their sisters, with the 'dinner-basket' in their laps; and their smaller brothers floundering through the drifts which they sought, contrary to the last injunctions of their mothers, along the fences. The huge box-stove roared a 'good morning' to them, as the boys stamped off the ice from their shoes, and the girls untied the strings which kept down their pantalettes. As there were no unlucky flies to inter and imprison in transparent quills, nor coke-berries wherewith to paint the sides of their noses farthest from the master's eye, the boys, perforce, studied their tasks; and the girls, as girls always are, were equally the objects of pedagogical favor. Was the day 'thawy,' the noon-time witnessed magic castles erected; and the numberless streaks of bare turf showed where the huge balls of snow of which they were constructed had been rolled into unwieldy masses; and the wet mittens under the stove in the afternoon amply compensated for the want of water in the iron basin on the top of it. Shouting when four o'clock released them, they hurried home, only to prepare for the evening's sport of 'riding down hill.' Hans would give worlds to be a boy again, and for one single moonlight evening slide down 'Furnace-hill,' as of yore! * * * When a few winters had passed over your boyish head, beloved reader, and you first knew that magnetic feeling which told you what gave the charm to rosy lips, and you guessed what kissing was, did you not feel all ecstasy while the bell-bedizzened horses and the belle-enlivened sleigh scoured with half a score of you over hill and through dale; the thick hood of the maiden next you being excuse unquestionable for telling her pretty lips what her ear could not so well apprehend? You needn't be ashamed to confess it; for those were, let Hans tell you, the golden days of your life. Before the wide fire-place of thy father's kitchen, thou hast, days long gone by, arranged the pippins just outside the andirons, and placed the gallon-pitcher of good brisk October on the coals, and cracked hickory nuts, (yes, and the more accessible butternut,) for thy semi-circle of smiling, grown-up sisters and sweet blooming cousins, until the apples were roasted and the cider warmed. Then, when nine o'clock came, and thy spectacled and pious grandmother had read a chapter in the Holy Book, and thy father had knelt in prayer, didst thou not, as Hans does now, while thou laidst thy head upon thy pillow, and heard the whistling wind shaking thy window, bless Old Winter for making you so happy? * * * Courteous reader, Hans, while he draweth up the bed-clothes, biddeth thee 'Good Night!'

It is not possible that the foregoing can be read by any one who has enjoyed the blessed privilege of passing his early years in the country, without 'kindling the flame of memory,' and placing before him, as in a backward-moving panorama, the hallowed associations of childhood and youth. Listen now to 'Julian.' He keeps a late appointment with a friend, with whom he is once more to look down upon 'the top of New-York.' He is certainly highly colloquial, and very familiar; but you'll find thought enough in him, expressed and suggestive, albeit at the first glance he may seem rambling and desultory:

'My dear Sir, how are you now? Hope you haven't been waiting. Possible? Been here all the morning under an umbrella! You must have breakfasted very badly. I should have been up sooner, but my wife——Ugh! how the wind blows! Won't you have part of my cloak? There goes your umbrella inside out. Ah, well; it's better than a collapse. This 'falling inward,' as the women call it, is frightful. This, then, is December. Chimney-tops pirouetting, tiles on the wing, and clouds pouring out of the North, legion upon legion, as though all the winds of Heaven had been gathering them for the last month, and were now bound to the tropics with the momentum of the world's motion. The top of New-York, Sir, is very well of a warm day; but allow me to say that there is air below, now—plenty of it. Suppose we step down and look out of the window? * * * Well, Sir, how have you been? Down in the mouth again! Ah, Sir, you have been looking at something too long. Never should do that. In a world that's whirling a thousand miles an hour, every thing should be taken at a glance. Get the wit of a thing, and have done with it. I give you five minutes every day to look at the stars, but don't particularize; for some in those far-off places send their light down long after they have been knocked out of existence, and you may be looking at a blank. Look out for such delusions, and act, remembering that the poetry of the hour, like the cream of your coffee, should be fresh every morning. Oh, Sir! in a world that never halts for a single moment in its everlasting round of changing amusement, your small agony is unpardonable. Why, the clouds and darkness are part of the play. Certainly—part of the play. Rain and snow, and chilling winds, pain, trouble, and torment—these are the variations for which you may thank God. If there were not plainer faces and worse figures, your little wife would soon be a fright to you—a perfect fright. Find your bubble and blow, but never stop to look at the colors. Let them burst; no matter for that, while your wind lasts. Blow away; there's nothing like it. If you are tired, like myself, and would like to look on, I can only say that the moralities of such speculation are hazardous; and if you have any wind left, it's better to die with a round cheek than a hollow one. A man without a bubble is flatulent; and a woman without one—but that's impossible. Take my advice, Sir, and let the world wag. If it choose to run off the track, let it, and if any comet is amind to take us en route to the sun, why, blaze away! There are thousands of better dots in creation than this old concern; and whether we go up, down, or sideways—rocket, earthquake, or thirty-two pounder—we shall land somewhere; can't get lost. In short, Sir, you have no right to grumble, unless you are——But that's my secret. Shall I confess it? Mind, a secret; for if my wife should hear of it, she would tease me to death. Of course you will dine with me to-day; beg you wouldn't hint this in the remotest manner; not a whisper. * * * Sir, I am nervous—a solemn truth. Been examined by a double-combined microscope, and found to have two sets of nerves. I can see double, hear double, think double, and sleep double; and yet with such nerves, I have this very day been outwitted by a woman with only a common set. 'Nothing remarkable about that,' you say. Perhaps not; we shall see. * * * Speaking of nerves; now a day like this is endurable. People, you observe, are in earnest. There is what the new school would call a 'oneness' in the public mind to get out of the rain; and cloaks, handkerchiefs, umbrellas and skirts are used for the temporary shelter, because one can't stop to be nice. But of a warm day, when people can afford to dally and act their part, my nerves are troublesome, and I mount to the top of New-York. Did you ever look at a crowd of faces, when, under some dull lecture or sermon, the mind is comparatively at rest, and the character stands out upon the countenance? the smile, and all the other acted poetry of the face, gone for the moment, leaving only the impress of the slow march of years, the crows'-feet, the hieroglyphic, the line upon line of the devil's own hand-writing? If you could forget that you have looked at such things for a life-time; say for instance, you were a modest individual, just dropped from the moon, or any star that may be a part of Heaven; what would be your first impression? Why, Sir, you can't make your own dog look you in the face. There are different ways of viewing things, and in this light, one would be disposed to say that if the sun is the bad place that some people think, why, the farther planets may not, after all, be such outside barbarians as we generally imagine. There may be a reason, a very convenient reason, why we are not farther off.

'But, Sir, I was speaking of my wife. As you are a man of family, and I am only experimenting a little, nervously so to speak, return the compliment by giving me a little advice upon a matter of my own. How is it, Sir, about getting up first? We can't agree. She insists (my wife) that the man should rise first, as the sun before the moon, the useful before the ornamental, etc. Now, if I am gifted in any one thing, it is the half-hour dream after the first rouse in the morning; but my wife, Sir, in that particular is a perfect genius. Talk about sympathies! Let me tell you that people must not count upon married happiness from unanimous likenesses. The likes may be too like, and they may like too well. They may. I have decided that point. Well; this morning I was roused from the half-hour dream by the breakfast-call, and was provoked to find my wife still asleep; that is, she pretended to sleep; and I must confess that she had studied her attitude, so far as longitudinal position would admit, with no little skill. Having this important engagement with you, I gave her a little shake. 'Fanny! Fanny!' said I; but she didn't move a dimple. So I gave another shake. 'Eh?' said she; 'what's that? mercy! how you frightened me!' and then dropped away again. 'I say, Fanny,' accenting it a little. 'Ah, don't, dear, you are so rude!' She opened her eyes the merest trifle, and then lapsed away again into perfect oblivion as any one would suppose, who didn't know all about it. Putting on another emphasis, I sung out again, 'Are you going to get up?' She raised her eye-brows a trifle: 'Why, my dear child, you know it's your turn this morning.' My turn! and 'my dear child!' I knew from the manner of her saying that, that she would lie there all day before getting up first; but as I was determined to give her a trial, and am always easy at a nap, I thought of my interrupted dream, and sliding gently into the continuation, was soon fast asleep. When I woke again, it was twelve o'clock, but there was Fanny, just as before, the arm perhaps a little more à la Grecque, and a tinge on her cheek that looked a little saucy; but that might be the thought of her dream; the fit of a cap, or a new bonnet, any of those innocent little things that make up the burden of women's night-thoughts in the way of dreams. Any one would have sworn it was sleep, deep and profound; a child asleep after a day's frolic would not have been more perfect in the 'doing' of it. By this time, people were beginning their morning visits; but of course, Mrs. Julian was 'not at home.' People came and went for an hour; and I was about despairing of my breakfast, when the sleeping wife sprang suddenly from the bed and ran out of the room.

'What now?' said I; but I didn't get up, for I knew there was some mischief a-foot; and sure enough, back she came in a jiffy, and got straight into bed, munching a large piece of ginger-bread!

'Now, Sir, what is the law in such a case?

Julian.

Life and Times of the late William Abbott: Second Notice.—This entertaining work, from the MS. of which we quoted several admirable passages in our last number, is now in the hands of the Brothers Harper; and when it shall appear, it will be found to sustain, and more than sustain, the character we have given of it. We annex one or two additional extracts which were prepared for our November issue. In the following incident, we rather incline to the opinion, Mr. Abbott 'had the worst of it;' his evident self-satisfaction to the contrary notwithstanding:

'On my return to London from Paris, the farewell engagement of Mr. Kemble took place; and in the play of 'Cato,' Mr. Young had relinquished the toga of 'Portius,' which fell most unworthily upon my shoulders. A rehearsal was called on my account; but all the adjuncts of trumpets, drums, etc., were not considered necessary. My usual exuberance of spirits would have placed me in a most awkward position, but for the extreme simplicity of the great tragedian. When Cato is seated in council, an announcement is made of ambassadors from the senate, through the medium of a flourish of trumpets. Without a moment's hesitation or thought, I gave an imitation of the required instrument, to the perfect astonishment of all the performers. They looked at me, to see if there was any appearance of sanity left in me. I hung my head in dismay, fully expecting a severe lecture from the chief; the actors of course enjoying the anticipated censure; but to the astonishment of all parties, Mr. Kemble looked up with evident surprise, and said: 'Well, I declare, that is one of the most extraordinary things I ever heard in the whole course of my life. My good boy, do it again.' I naturally felt that this was meant as a kindly reproof, and with some little hesitation, I repeated it. The actors now began to chuckle; but Mr. Kemble retained his gravity, and was again astonished by my performance. He then made an asthmatic attempt to do the same, but his wind would not fill the instrument; and with an effort amounting to 'Pooh! I can't do it!' he said: 'Well, now we will go on with our rehearsal.' It was quite evident, from his general manner, that he really did look upon it as an extraordinary effort. I triumphed, consequently, and had the laugh against those who were exulting in the prospect of congratulating me on the loss of a week's salary.'

The annexed anecdote of 'old Mathews' occurs in a description of the dinner given by John Kemble, soon after his retirement from the stage, to some of the principal actors of Covent-Garden Theatre, at which Talma was present, as already recorded:

'At this dinner but one feeling prevailed; and the only alloy was the thought that perhaps we looked upon our host for the last time; an anticipation soon too painfully realized.[6] The inventive talents of Mathews were of the highest order; nor were they merely confined to the common peculiarities of the individual in whom he took an interest, but he had the art of throwing his whole mind and spirit into the very genius of the man. I had lived on the most intimate terms with that fine-hearted and most eccentric creature; indeed, my acquaintance with him commenced at Bath, and very soon after I entered the profession: I was consequently inducted into all the peculiar bearings of his oddly-constructed mind. In the course of the evening, in the midst of the most social gayety, and flashes of wit that would have enlightened the dullest of mortals, I arose, and asked Mr. Kemble's permission to propose the health of a distinguished friend, which was immediately accorded. In a few brief remarks, I stated how gratifying it must be to the whole party, on such an occasion, to be honored with the presence of the late Master of the Rolls in Ireland, Mr. Curran. This was quite sufficient; for a great majority of persons at the table were aware of the wonderful powers of Mathews, although little prepared for so brilliant an exhibition of them. The extraordinary peculiarities of Mr. Curran were sufficiently characteristic, to give effect even to a common-place imitation; but Mathews was able to enter into the disposition and thoughts of his subject as effectually as if he had been changed into the very man. Burke, speaking of the imitative powers of a person of his acquaintance, said, that whenever he thought proper to penetrate into the inclinations of those with whom he had to deal, he composed his face, his gestures, and his whole body, as nearly as possible into the exact similitude of the person whom he intended to examine, and then carefully observed what turn of mind he seemed to acquire by the change. Such a man was Mathews. He immediately arose, and made a brilliant oration. He scattered the flowers of poesy with the most lavish hand; not a metaphor did he lose, that could in the slightest degree illustrate the departure of Kemble from the stage; the brilliancy of the setting sun, the tears of Melpomene, the joys of Thalia at the prospect of her undivided reign, etc. There was no hesitation, no pause; and he concluded with a peroration which was perfectly electrifying; for he concentrated all his powers, and when he did this, he was irresistible. I scarcely ever witnessed so glowing a scene; and Mr. Kemble seemed lost in utter astonishment. It must be perfectly understood that no previous arrangement had taken place, and that my proposition was made at hazard, and without communicating with an individual.'

Here is a very pleasant anecdote of Le Merceir, the distinguished author of the 'Tableaux de Paris,' a remarkable old man, whose daughter was the wife of Kenney, the author of 'Raising the Wind,' 'The World,' etc.:

'On one occasion, he crossed over from Paris to London to visit his daughter, who a few months previous had given birth to a pair of fine boys. 'On arriving at the house in Bedford-Square, he found, to his great mortification, that she had left that day with her husband for Brompton, leaving behind the nurse and one of the twin-children, to join them on the following day. The old gentleman's distress was extreme, and greatly increased by his slight knowledge of English, and the almost utter impossibility of making himself understood. The servant, with the infant in her arms, came to his relief. She had fortunately been living there during the time of his previous visit. The old gentleman's agitation was intense; and the tears rolling down his time-worn cheeks, made the interview quite affecting. He clasped the unconscious child to his heart; and anxious to see the other, gave vent to his inquiries in the following words: 'Oh, mon petit! my dare!—ah! you littel rog!—where is—ah! yaas, where is—de oder piece belong to dis!' At length with some difficulty he found his way to Brompton; and when he arrived at his daughter's lodgings, the family had retired to rest. After knocking for a long time, a head was thrust out at the window, demanding to know who was there. 'Opane, opane de door! I am de fader of all!' was the comprehensive reply, which of course procured him instant admittance.'

Mr. Gould's Abridgment of Alison's History of Europe.—We have good reason to believe, both from our knowledge of the capacity and industry of Mr. Gould, and an examination, at considerable extent, of the abridged work before us, that the main and important points of Alison's History are here preserved with great care and fidelity; and that as a work of accurate historical record, of wonderful cheapness, it will doubtless command the 'patronage' not only of many general readers, but more especially of colleges, academies, and other seminaries of learning, for which, as we may infer, it is deemed particularly appropriate. The editor claims, and we have no doubt justly, to have 'extracted every material fact from Alison's work, adding nothing of his own in the way of opinion, argument, or assertion, and endeavoring to present the original narrative in the spirit of the author,' but without endeavoring to preserve his language, which a condensation so great rendered quite impossible. The work is presented upon good paper, with a large, clear type, and reflects no little credit upon the 'New-World' press of Mr. J. Winchester.

Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—We have been profoundly impressed by reading in a late English periodical a dissertation on the nature, origin, and destination of the Soul, written in 1793, by the Right Hon. Warren Hastings. He commences with the argument that our attachment to this life is grounded on delusion, to the end that we may be compelled to fulfil our allotted course through it, and that it may serve as a preparative to a better state reserved for us in another. How forceful and philosophical are the following sentences: 'In health all the allurements of sense strongly attach the mind to that state of present existence which furnishes the means of their gratification, and quicken the relish of those enjoyments which are purely intellectual; while, on the other hand, an instinct, infinitely more powerful, imprints on the soul a fixed horror of its dissolution. Without these coöperative principles, man would give himself no care about his preservation or existence. They were, therefore, ordained by nature as necessary to both. When sickness or the infirmity of age has exhausted all the powers of life, and the dread of death has nothing left to excite it but the last parting pang, the illusion of instinct, no longer necessary, disappears, and leaves its place to be occupied by reason alone, encumbered, perhaps, and enfeebled by the bodily weight which oppresses it, but free from all desires or fears except those which it derives from its conceptions of futurity.' In relation to the necessity of immortality—if we would not derogate from the power and wisdom of the Deity, or controvert our own experience of the laws by which he regulates all his works—the writer remarks: 'Can we for a moment believe that a Being of infinite perfection has made us for no other purpose than 'to fret our hour upon the stage' of mortality, and then vanish into nothing? that He has quickened us with sensations exquisitely susceptible of happiness and misery, to make the latter only our general portion? that He has endowed us with intellectual powers capable of extending their operations beyond the bounds of this narrow sphere which we inhabit, and of penetrating into the regions of infinite space, which we are destined never to see but in contemplation? and that He has stimulated us with desires of future bliss which we are never to enjoy?' No! He has made nothing in vain; He has made nothing without ends adequate to its means; and though all things may change, nothing perishes. Man was made susceptible of happiness that he might be happy; he was made capable of receiving but a small portion of happiness here, that its completion might be made up in another state; and he had given him the conception and hope of another and better state, that he might qualify himself for it, and that he might hereafter possess it.' This is felicitously and forcibly put, and will perhaps remind the reader of the fine lines of Bowring:

'If all our hopes and all our fears
Were prisoned in life's narrow bound,
If, travellers in this vale of tears,
We saw no better world beyond;
Oh! what could check the rising sigh?
What earthly thing could pleasure give?
Oh! who would venture then to die?
Oh! who would venture then to live?
'Were life a dark and desert moor,
Where mists and clouds eternal spread
Their gloomy veil behind, before,
And tempests thunder overhead:
Where not a sunbeam breaks the gloom,
And not a floweret smiles beneath,
Who could exist in such a tomb?
Who dwell in darkness and in death?'

Touching the future destination of the soul, Mr. Hastings observes:

'It must either remain in its unmixed and elementary state, or be united to some body, and endowed with new powers in participation with it. In either way, its existence is secured. But we may reasonably conclude that, as it was necessary in the order of Providence for its prior state to have been an incorporate one, its next will be of the same kind, however varying in the form, character, and quality which it may derive from those of its new associates. I do not mean by this supposition to reject the possibility of the soul existing independently of a bodily support. I believe such a state to be possible, and, if possible, certainly probable; but as our present is a mixed state, and as it is very unlikely that if our souls are destined to exist for ever, they began to exist in their present state, and yet more unlikely that they should have originated in a perfect and proceeded in an imperfect one, it will be most reasonable to suppose that a pure spiritual essence is to be that of our ultimate destination.'

We have remarked in one or two of our weekly and daily journals elaborate defences of Mr. Forrest, the distinguished American actor, against charges of ingratitude to early and devoted friendship, and of a lack of generosity in spirit, and of liberality in practice. We had almost said that these defences were wholly unnecessary. We have known Mr. Forrest for fifteen years, and during that period have been intimate with those who have known him for twice that length of time; and we know that the very virtues in which he is now declared, in certain quarters, to be deficient, are the very attributes of his character for which his friends have the most ardent esteem. Where a man lives down such calumnies as we have cited, it really seems like supererogation to defend him from them. Truth isn't slipping on boots, while Falsehood of this stamp is running away unscathed. * * * The old adage that 'Habit is second nature' was well exemplified in a case cited by a friend of ours, of an old sea-captain living in a small town on the coast of the Bay State. He had followed the seas for forty years and upward, during which time he always shaved himself on ship-board, in storm or calm, without the aid of a looking-glass, or of any thing by which to steady himself. So accustomed had he become to this mode of shaving, that when he finally left the seas, he found it impossible to remove his beard without keeping himself in motion the while; and if he attempted to look in a glass, he invariably cut himself. His most usual method, while performing this operation, was to run about his room, and occasionally tumble over a chair, to preserve his equilibrium, as he said. Sometimes, however, when there was a storm without, and a heavy sea rolling, even this was too tame; and he then varied his exercise by trotting up and down stairs, and once in a while sliding down the ballusters! * * * There is another 'Richmond in the field!' Scarcely have we done chronicling the thousand-and-one attractions of the Knickerbocker steamer, than we find 'our good name' and the portrait of old Deidrich arresting the eye over the Gothic entrance of the Masonic Temple in Broadway. Enter that imposing edifice, walk along the vaulted passages, and ascend to the great saloon. 'What a scene!' exclaims every visitor: 'six ten-pin alleys in Westminster Abbey!' And this is the description, precisely. The majestical roof, with its mingling arches and rich and elaborate tracery, overhangs a hall profusely ornamented, and 'illustrated' with several fine paintings, and which contains six of the best ten-pin alleys in the world. Here the 'Knickerbocker Club,' composed of 'O. F. M.', (our first men,) and their non-resident guests, drop in ever and anon, to develope their chests and strengthen their lungs, in 'a bout' or two at the healthful game of bowling. There, too, do we occasionally 'expand and bourgeon,' when we have over-wrought brain and hand; an example which persons of sedentary pursuits would do well now and then to imitate. Other apartments there are, for billiards, whist, and dominoes, (as well as for conversation, reading, refreshment, etc.,) which are in a kindred style of elegance and comfort; and attractive to those who, unlike ourselves, are not confined in their exercise to 'ball and pin.' The proprietor's care for the convenience and enjoyment of his guests is such as might be expected of a tasteful Knickerbocker, from the classic region of Sleepy Hollow. By the by; he suggests a most important addition to the pictorial 'features' of the great saloon; namely, the Nine-pin Players whom Rip Van Winkle found bowling among the Kaätskill mountains one thundery afternoon. A capital suggestion, and worthy of heed. * * * We are in the receipt, at too late an hour, we regret to say, for adequate notice, of 'An Address to the People of the United States in behalf of the American Copy-right Question,' recently put forth by a committee of the 'American Copy-right Club.' We earnestly commend it to the attention of every American reader, who has a desire to enhance the prospects, and increase the value, of our native literature. The address, we are informed, proceeds from the pen of Mr. Cornelius Mathews; and we take great pleasure in stating that it is what we ventured in our last number to hope that it would be, clear, simple, and direct in its arguments; forcible, and with two or three exceptions, not forced in its illustrations; and occasionally touched with a quiet but not the less affective satire. We shall refer to this address, and present certain extracts which we have marked for insertion, in an ensuing number. * * * The lines upon 'My Mother's Grave' are from the heart; that we can easily perceive; but yet they are not poetry, we are unfeignedly sorry, for the young writer's sake, to be compelled to say. For the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth stanzas, pray read these few lines of Schiller. It is all embodied here:

'It is that faithful mother!
Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted,
From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted.
Far from those blithe companions, born
Of her, and blooming in their morn;
On whom when couched, her heart above,
So often looked the Mother-Love!
'Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band,
And never, never more to come!
She dwells within the shadowy land,
Who was the Mother of that Home!'

In the course of a concert given lately by Mr. Henry Russell at Washington, (D. C.,) the following affecting incident occurred. The vocalist had just finished singing the little song of our friend 'the General' Morris, 'Woodman! spare that Tree!' which was received with the customary applause; upon which Mr. Russell arose, and begged permission to 'relate a remarkable circumstance connected with that song.' He had but just executed it, he said, at a concert given by him at Boulogne sur Mer, when a gentleman, in a state of alarming excitement, arose from the midst of the assembled multitude, and in a voice trembling with emotion, exclaimed: 'Was the tree spared?' 'Never,' said Mr. Russell, 'can I forget the glow which bu'st out all over that man's face, when I answered: 'Yes, it was!!' If that 'inquiring mind' did not belong to a wicked wag, then the probability is, that we are rather mistaken than otherwise. * * * We have before us, in pamphlet-form, taken from the last number of the 'Southern Quarterly Review,' a 'Sketch of the Character of the Hon. Hugh S. Legare,' which we have perused with a satisfaction unmingled, save with a melancholy regret, that one so preëminently gifted as the subject of this article, should have been so early called away. The lamented deceased was a man 'affluent in learning, whether it regarded the useful or beautiful in life; delicate and exquisite in his tastes, elevated in character, and sensitive in his affections; true to his public trusts, and exemplary in his relative duties.' Our country may well lament his loss. The 'Sketch' is in the main well written: it irks us, however, to encounter in a description of Mr. Legare's dress the term 'pants' instead of pantaloons. The word is a vulgarism almost as gross as the substitution of 'gents' for gentlemen, after the manner of Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse; no model, certainly, for a grave reviewer. * * * Our readers will doubtless recollect a marriage between a Mr. Long and Miss Little, which went the rounds of the papers some years ago, and to which some wag had appended the well-known lines:

'Man wants but little here below,
But wants that Little Long.

A few weeks since in B——, a Mr. Jonathan Goodeal was married to Miss Honora Little. After the ceremony, one of the company rose and uttered the following, which he considered a decided improvement on the original couplet:

'Man wants but little here below,
But wants that Little a Good'eal!'

A 'VERY anonymous' correspondent, who signs himself 'J. B.' (none of our Knickerbocker 'J. B.'s, as we have with some trouble ascertained,) writes us the annexed notelet: 'In your 'Gossip' for December, why not, in relation to Weir's picture, commemorate the courtship of Miles Standish and Mr. Bradford? Bradford's wife, as the picture-pamphlet tells us, fell overboard the day after the arrival, and Mrs. Rose Standish deceased the same autumn. Miles (Query Latin?) it seems looked with complacency upon a Mrs. Alden, but being no hero on a carpet, desired his friend Bradford to act as his second, and carry his offer. Bradford complied, and pleaded warmly for his friend. The lady, however, listened to him with much impatience, and as soon as he had finished, said, very demurely: 'And now why do you not speak for yourself, Master Bradford?' And history informs us that Mr. Bradford did speak for himself, and Alden Bradfords still extant verify the chronicle. You would also do me a favor by anathematizing one Flagg, who publishes Victor Hugo's plays, prefaces and all, under the name of Flagg, without giving the great Romanticist any credit therefor.' Mr. Flagg, who, if 'these be truths,' ought to be ashamed of his reputation, may consider himself 'anathematized.' * * * Some afflicted gentleman, with whom we deeply sympathize, has lately shown up in one of the London magazines a specimen of the genus Pundit; one of those persons who, having acquired the reputation of a wit, lives in a constant agony of endeavor to keep up the character; who lends nothing of a rational kind to the general entertainment during a whole evening, but watchfully 'bides his time' for the infliction of his own especial annoyance. In the present instance, the 'pundit and stock-joker' was caught at dinner by his host, during a shower of 'original puns' which accompanied the various courses, in this wise:

'Happening to possess some fine old Madeira in pints, a bottle of it was produced with an appropriate puff of its age. Taking up the bottle, Mr. Pundit remarked, 'that it might be old, but it was very little of its age.' Frank was in raptures at the joke, and laughed till tears came to his eyes. On recovering himself, he was surprised to find that my countenance, instead of being spread out into an approving smile, was fixed in something not much short of a frown. I expressed my regret that Mr. Pundit's admirable memory should be so unprofitably employed, while he interposed an appeal in behalf of the originality of the joke; but I hoped he would forgive me, if I proved to the contrary. 'Be good enough,' I told my son, 'to fetch me the fourth volume of Erasmus. It is,' I continued, turning to Mr. Pundit, 'the Leyden edition, and I shall have the pleasure of showing you your joke in a collection of ancient aphorisms, which was originally published several centuries ago.' Frank having brought the book, I found the passage, which runs thus: 'Gnathena, when a very small bottle of wine was brought in, with the praise that it was very old, answered, it is very little of its age.' Mr. Pundit was confounded, and confessed to a glimmering remembrance of having seen the joke before. 'The wonder would have been,' I replied, 'had a gentleman of your erudition in witticisms not met with it, for it has, since Erasmus's time, found its way into nearly all the jest-books of various ages and countries. I must, however, give you credit for its apt application to my diminutive modicum of Madeira.'

The old gentleman subsequently adds, by way of salvo: 'I know you err from innocence; you little thought that all the puns you were making were current when I was studying for the bar thirty years ago, and originated, I doubt not, amidst the al-fresco festivities of the Saxon heptarchy.' A capital 'recipe' is given for silencing the series of 'dinner-puns' proper: 'Should the Pundit begin at meal-times, attack his first effort; request the company's attention, and rattle off the whole string. Thus forestalled, he will allow the meal to pass off pleasantly, and the conversation to flow on.' * * * Surely 'C.,' if he has perused the 'Gossip' of our last number, will not think that it is from any lack of 'sympathy' with him, that we decline his 'Autumnal Thoughts.' What he felt, looking upon the 'glorious decay of Nature' from her sublime mountain pinnacles—over a scene which 'lay bathed in the smoky light of an October day and an Alleghany valley'—we ourselves felt, perhaps at the same moment, in gazing upon the frost-painted heights along the Hudson, and the calm beauty of the Long-Island shores. We, too, 'saddened by the solemn monitions of fading loveliness, went back to the past, and to the dear friends in whose light we saw all that the heart can see, of vanished days;' and with an unutterable longing to know the mystery of life, and the greater mystery of death and the grave, have asked, with a poet too gifted to be so little known:

'Where are ye now!—though Fancy's flight
To you my soul doth sometimes bear,
Departed Time's eternal night
Re-echoes back the question, 'Where!'
Nature, in simple beauty drest,
Still dances round the restless year,
And gazing on her yellow vest,
I sometimes think my change is near!
'Not that my hair with age is gray,
Not that my heart hath yet grown cold,
But that remembered friendships say,
'Death loves not best the infirm and old.'
As many a bosom knows and feels,
Left, in the flower of life, alone,
And many an epitaph reveals
On the cold monumental stone.'

But the lessons of autumn may partake of a sober gladness as well as of melancholy thoughts; and this is beautifully illustrated by a friend and correspondent, whose nom de plume in the 'New World' cannot divert attention from the characteristics of his style. He too has been looking at the 'glorious autumnal-forest display on the hills,' which were 'bedabbled like a painter's palette.' 'Ah!' he exclaims, 'the frost has done it! And now the outward life of the trees is killed. That beautiful spectacle is Death. Equally lovely does the soul appear when the frost has touched its outer covering. You see what a variety of colors has been produced by the same cause acting upon different natures, for the spiritual life in trees is as various as among men. So it is when our natures are touched by the chills of adversity, or death even; some of us, like the hemlock, will look sad and pale; some, like the wild cherry, will become red and fiery; and others, like those hardy cedars, the good and patient, will retain their primitive greenness and beauty.' * * * There is evidently a political or some other conspiracy hatching at this moment in the 'little people's' apartment adjoining our sanctum. Beside the good vrouw's, there are three other female heads together, and one of them belongs to a delegate from the High Priestess of Fashion; and through the two open doors, we can hear, in earnest but broken tones, such exciting words as these: 'White feather,' 'piece,' 'piping,' 'set in all round,' 'bias,' 'the skirt,' 'brought round to the front and fastened,' 'single bows,' 'busts,' 'bugles,' 'purple,' 'gore,' 'when it's made up,' etc. Now what can all this portend? Putting 'that and that together,' we are led to think that the ladies are about to follow certain sage advice from a very sage quarter, touching the 'rights of women!' These words are doubtless only 'parts of speech'-es to incite to action; fragments, very like, of what runs something in this connection: 'We have shown the 'white feather' long enough! Let us throw away our 'bias' for the gentler virtues, and 'set in all round' for Mr. John Neal's paradise of our down-trodden sex! We have been kept on 'the skirt' of society since the days of Eve; it is high time we were 'brought round to the front and fastened' there by public opinion! They think (the 'single beaux' as well as the married men) that we are only fit for 'piping' times of 'peace;' but we will let them know that we are not unfit for war; that we can stand by and see a shell 'bu'st' without winking; that we neither fear 'purple' nor any other 'gore;' and that the blast of an hundred 'bugles' would have no terrors for us. Our resolution, 'when it's made up,' cannot be shaken!' But we may do the ladies (God bless them!) injustice. It has just occurred to us, that perhaps after all it may be only the Eleusinian mysteries of millinery and mantuamaking that we are seeking to penetrate. 'Like as not!' * * * What a thoughtful, feeling, truthful poet James Russell Lowell has become! Not erroneously did we predict, from one of his early poems in the Knickerbocker, 'Threnodia on the Death of an Infant,' that 'to this complexion would he come at last.' Are not these stanzas from 'The Heritage,' one of Mr. Lowell's latest efforts, every way admirable?

'The rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
And he inherits soft, white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old:
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.
'The rich man's son inherits cares;
The bank may break, the factory burn,
Some breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft, white hands would hardly earn
A living that would suit his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.
'What does the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
'What does the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
'What does the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door:
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
'O, rich man's son, there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil;
But only whitens, soft, white hands;
This is the best crop from thy lands.
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.
'O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state,
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;
Work only makes the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign:
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.
'Both heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both children of the same dear God;
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past:
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.'

'A turkey,' once remarked a huge feeder in our presence, 'is a very inconvenient bird, in p'int of comin' over a man's pocket, and satisfying his stomach. You see, it's too much for one, and not enough for two!' This is exactly our quandary in relation to the excellent story of our Mississippi correspondent. It makes 'too much for one, and not enough for two' numbers of the Knickerbocker. Beside which, it has 'scene undividable, colloquy unlimited.' We may try hereafter to insert it entire, after the printer shall have 'taken its measure.' If we do print it, however, we shall take the liberty to erase such words as e'er, ne'er, o'er, etc., which have no business in prose. Ellipses like these are for poetry only, and not always felicitously employed, even in verse. 'Clang,' moreover, ('the one only hope to which his heart clang,') is a compound fracture of Old Priscian's skull, which would lay his brain open to day-light, and us to an action for assault and battery. * * * Mrs. Kirkland ('Mary Clavers,') the well-known author of 'A New Home,' 'Forest Life,' etc., has opened a school for young ladies in this city, at 214 Thompson-street, near Fourth. Familiar with the languages of Europe; thoroughly conversant with all the branches of an accomplished English education; of varied experience in society and real life; and possessing, with great kindness of heart and amenity of manner, a rare instructive tact; we cannot doubt that our fair correspondent will attract many pupils to her 'new home,' and that more will 'follow.' * * * Our excellent friend, the historian of Tinnecum, has been passing a few pleasant days on the Hudson, and in the neighborhood of the city of that name; and from his gossipping epistle thence, we shall venture to select a characteristic Daguerreotype-passage, for the entertainment of our readers: 'The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats, and so are the rocks for the conies. Hills and goats, rocks and conies, are plenty with me, as you shall perceive. Cras donaberis hædo, if I can get him out to you. The Lancashire sheep, a long-fleeced breed, come and eat corn out of my hand. I kept my eye on the beautiful blue ranges of the Kaätskills as long as possible, and then delved into this lovely valley. Mountains shut it in on every side, and every night the sun lingers upon their summits, and crowns them with a diadem of fire. Yesterday the whole scene was white as Soracte. As I was going to the cider-mill to get a jug of the sweet juice, my guide stopped to show me the identical spot where a low-spirited man, oh! horrible! cut his own throat. 'What did he do it for?' said I. 'Oh, he was low'n spurruts, wery cidery and wery grunty. The devil was into him.' 'Bad business,' said I, 'this cutting of throats;' yet did you know that a hog always does it, when he swims across a stream, which is no doubt the derivation of suicide. The cider was delicious. The mill was in full operation, set in motion by an old blind horse. 'Look!' said my cicerone, with a mysterious whisper, as I was busy at the tub, at the same time directing my attention to the person who was attending at the mill; 'the son of the man who cut his throat!' I gazed in utter astonishment, and endeavored to obtain a 'realizing sense' of the fact. It was almost as good as 'the fork that belonged to the case-knife with which Beauchampe murdered Colonel Sharpe in Kentucky,' which proved such a rival attraction to a western museum-proprietor.' 'This morning I went into the woods to gather chestnuts, which the hogs having got before devoured them all up. It was the same old story as on the frequented chestnut-grounds about Tinnecum. 'There! I found one! There! I found another! Two! three! four! five! six! Oh! oh! aint they plenty!' Then, alas! no more were to be had far or near. I piled them on a little hillock, and calling the attention of a neighboring Berkshire to the pile, had the gratification to see him address himself to their mastication, with evident goût.' * * * Our correspondent who writes upon the 'Manifestation of Mind in Animals,' and those interested in his able papers upon this theme, will find in the following a very forcible illustration of the correctness of his positions:

'A gentleman receiving a present of some Florence oil, the flasks were set in his cellar, at the bottom of a shallow box; the oil not being wanted for use, they remained there for some time; when the owner, going one day by chance in the cellar, was surprised to find the wicker-work by which the flasks were stopped, gnawed from the greater part of them, and upon examination the oil sunk about two inches or two and a half from the neck of each flask. It soon occurred to him that it must be the work of some kind of vermin; and being a man of speculative turn, he resolved to satisfy the curiosity raised in his mind. He accordingly found means to watch, and actually detect three rats in the very act; the neck of the flasks were long and narrow; it therefore required some contrivance; one of these stood upon the edge of the box, while another mounting his back, dipped his tail into the neck of the flask, and presented it to a third to lick; they then changed places; the rat which stood uppermost descended, and was accommodated in the same manner with the tail of his companion, till it was his turn to act the porter, and he took his station at the bottom. In this manner the three alternately relieved each other, and banqueted upon the oil till they had sucked it beyond the length of their tails.'

Would that our esteemed friend 'Polygon' could really know how many times we have strenuously endeavoured to gain leisure, from avocations more than usually various and constant, to return, in such poor sort as we might, the gratification we have always derived from his personal correspondence! It is in vain, we fear, that we hope to be able to redeem the past; for 'by-gones,' he must let us talk with him, as we have done, in this desultory 'Gossip' of ours; for the future, Providence permitting, we shall aim to escape even the appearance of indifference or neglect. Will 'J. N. B.,' of W——, New-Hampshire, also bear with us a little?' We have his last missive filed among our 'Notes Payable;' for there were thoughts in it that touched us nearly. 'L. H. B.,' too, of B——, to whom we have been indebted for many favors, must not infer neglect or indifference from our compulsory silence. 'Say not the words, if you and me is to continual friends, for sech is not the case;' as quoth 'Mrs. Gamp.' We must hope, likewise, that 'W. G.,' of H——t Hill (how of the removal, and what of the old homestead?) and our kind Tinnecum friend, will also look upon the above explanatory card as apologetical (if not satisfactory) for 'short-comings' of which, under other circumstances, they might with good reason complain. * * * If you are 'i' the vein,' reader, suppose you follow us in a hop-skip-and-jump flitting through the pungent, pithy, punning paragraphs of Punch, the 'London Charivari,' late arrivals of which garnish our table. Among its 'complaints,' is one against the clock of St. Clement's church, which stands opposite its publication-office in the Strand: 'We are constantly troubled by parties coming into the office to inquire why all the four dials tell a different story, and why every one of them is always wrong. If the clock cannot keep going, let it turn off all its hands, wind up its affairs, and retire at once from public observation; but let it not continue to occupy a high and prominent position, if it is unable to fill it with credit to itself and profit to the community. We have put up with more from this clock than from any other public servant. We thought it might only want time to bring itself round; but finding it will not give us any hour, we will no longer give it any quarter. We expected a meeting of the hands the other day at twelve o'clock, but it did not occur, and things remain in the same uncertainty. We feel justified in calling on the clock for an account of its works; and, if no minutes have been kept, we shall leave the public to judge of the entire matter. Since writing the above, we have been told that it is the hour-hand which refuses to move in the affair, but that the minute-hand is quite ready to second any thing reasonable.' Could any thing be more felicitous than this application of 'suspended payment' terms to the disarrangements of a public time-piece? Punch himself had just returned from a trip to Paris. He describes a diligence as 'a post-chaise fastened to a stage-coach before, and a slice of omnibus attached behind, with a worn-out cab mounted aloft;' which we are told is a perfect portrait of this lumbering conveyance. Here is a solution of one 'cause why' the French wear so much hair on their faces: 'The inferiority of French cutlery, especially razors, renders shaving an elaborate process, for which reason it is generally abandoned; and in common with the usual treatment of most things springing from a poor soil, they pay more attention to dressing their crops than cutting them. In fact, they consider all attraction to be capillary.' Punch was greatly interested in the 'Egyptian obstacle' in the Place de la Guerre, 'supposed to be Cleopatra's Needle, covered with hieroglyphics, of which the thread is altogether lost!' Among the domestic intelligence, is an account of the raising of fragments of the brig Télémaque, by means of a diving-bell. There were found 'a bit of the binnacle; half a yard of yard-arm; a quarter of the quarter-deck; a hen-roost and a portion of the hatch-way; a part of the cat-head, and an old mouse-trap.' In his brief notices to correspondents, the readers of the 'Charivari' are informed that the editor does not know 'who built Bacon's Novum Organum,' nor whether the elephant at the Zoological Gardens has his name in brass-nails on his trunk or not! * * * In a late number of the Albany 'Northern Light' monthly journal, there is a very able paper by Willis Gaylord, Esq., based upon a paragraph in the report of the Geological Lectures of Dr. A. Smith, of this city, from which we take the subjoined extract:

'It is a well-ascertained fact derived from a known law of centrifugal motion, that were the earth to revolve on its axis once in eighty minutes, as it now does in twenty-four hours, all bodies would lose their weight at the equator; if the revolution was made in a still shorter time, all bodies would fly off, like the drops of water from a rapidly revolving grind-stone. A universal deluge of all the temperate and polar regions would be the result of a stoppage or retardation of the earth's motion. Indeed, the first result would be the deluge of the whole; as the waters of the ocean would obey the impulse already communicated, and sweep over the entire earth from west to east; although it is easy to see that when this first impulse was over, the waters must flow to, and accumulate around the poles. If there must be a philosophical solution given of the existing evidences of a general deluge, can there be one more simple, or which better fulfils all the conditions of such a catastrophe, than the one here alluded to? All solutions must exist more or less on suppositions, and we have only to suppose the earth checked in its orbit from some cause, to produce all the observed phenomena of the deluge.'

Apropos of the 'Northern Light;' it is a journal which we always open with avidity, and from which we seldom fail to derive instruction and pleasure. Mr. Street discharges his editorial function with ability, and his collaborateurs are men of mark in the scientific and literary world.... What has 'enured' to our esteemed friend and correspondent, the 'Georgia Lawyer?' There has been 'good exclamation on his Worship' from various quarters of the Union, accompanied by inquiries after his health, and the state of his 'Port-folio.' Quære: Has a Georgia lawyer a legal right to 'set himself up against the will of the people?' Has not the 'party of the second part' the power to set aside a literary nol. pros. of that sort? 'By the mass! but we think we may stay him' from keeping all his pleasant thoughts to himself.... We are glad to learn that our young artist-friend Mr. T. B. Read, formerly of Cincinnati, is meeting with deserved success in Boston, where he has set up his easel. His improvement is very marked. There is at this moment before us a little cabinet-gem of his, which really seems to light up our sanctum. It is the portrait of a young and lovely maiden, whose attention is suddenly arrested as she is about descending a stair:

'She is fresh and she is fair,
Glossy is her golden hair;
Like a blue spot in the sky
Is her clear and loving eye.'

The situation, the drawing, the coloring, all are beautiful, and bespeak alike taste, skill, and genius, in the artist.... Of the Oi Polloi, we fear, is the author of 'Nature, a Tribute.' He is a metropolitan, born and bred, we will wager a year's subscription to the 'Old Knick.;' a sort of amateur lover of the country, touching which he knows little, and we must infer, cares less. He regards it, we cannot help fancying, somewhat as old Chuzzlewit's cockney undertaker did, who greatly affected the 'sound of animated nature in the agricultural districts.' ... The 'Southern Literary Messenger' appears monthly, with its accustomed neatness of execution, and quantity and variety of literary matter, much of which is of a sterling character. The new editor, B. B. Minor, Esq., discharges his duties with spirit and ability. He appeals to the South for the support which his Magazine well deserves, and should not fail to receive. The Charleston 'Magnolia,' which ran a short race for popularity with the 'Messenger,' has retired from the field; leaving it the only kindred candidate for Southern patronage, if we except the excellent Georgia 'Orion.' Mr. Minor has 'a squint' at the 'enterprising editors in Philadelphia, who sell so many pictures every month;' a branch of 'literary' business which has experienced a sad falling off; yet not sufficient, it would seem, to prevent new 'enterprises' of a similar kind. Mr. Israel Post, long the agent in New-York for Graham's and Godey's Magazines, has issued, since the establishment of a new city agency for those periodicals, proposals for 'The Columbian Magazine', a work after the Philadelphia models, in pictures and price; to be edited by John Inman, Esq.; a sufficient guaranty that at least one department of the work will be well sustained. Success to ye all, gentlemen and lady contemporaries!... 'Who suffers?' You know the Didlerian term, reader; and here is an unintentional illustration of it: 'Poor woman!' said an apothecary, on returning from a patient to whom he had applied thirty leeches, at a quarter of a dollar each; 'poor woman! didn't she suffer!' It strikes us as rather possible that she might have 'suffered,' at least in one way.... We shall have two capital works from the American press in a few days. Kendall, the 'great American Captive,' who came near being lost to liberty, the 'Picayune,' and 'troops of friends,' is nearly out with his volumes; and that they will be rich and racy, few are sufficiently verdant to doubt. (Marryat approves of Kendall's writings, at all events; else why should he purloin them?) Brantz Mayer, Esq., also, whose letters in the 'New World' were so widely admired, has nearly ready for publication an elaborate work upon Mexico, profusely illustrated with engravings, and written in a very attractive style. It will create a decided sensation.... We cannot accept the excuse of 'M.' You must let us hear from you for the first or second number of our new volume. 'Arouse thee, mon!' Remember that 'to will is to do,' in more than a Mesmeric sense; and forget not, also, that 'sloth covers youthful ambition with the blue mould of morbidity.' ... Will our friends of 'The Cultivator' and 'Farmer's Museum' favor us with the prospectuses of both these excellent periodicals, when issued? We shall be glad to promote the circulation of publications of so great value, in many important ways, to the American farmer.... Read 'The Venus of Ille,' in preceding pages, translated by the friend who rendered into such attractive English the thrilling story of 'The Innocence of a Galley-Slave.' The present tale is scarcely less striking than its predecessor. What a sweeping convergence of natural incident there is toward the terrific dénouement!—and how admirably the minor accessories harmonize with the main design! Peruse it, and justify our enthusiastic admiration of the original, and this most faithful and spirited translation.... We instanced in our last 'Gossip' two or three amusing specimens of the lack of clearness of expression, arising from a species of unconscious inversion of language. Something akin to the examples cited, is a case mentioned by a London wag, who speaks of 'a hen belonging to a stone-mason that lays bricks!' ...

'If you love us,' good reader, and your other friends as well, tell them that our next issue begins a New Volume—the Twenty-Third! Have we ever deceived you, in our promises for the future? (A unanimous 'No!' from all parts of the Union and the Canadas, with scattering echoes from sundry portions of Europe.) Then believe us when we tell you, that although we have every year appeared before you—like the tree 'bearing twelve manner of fruits, and yielding its fruit every month'—we have never been able to announce a better volume than the one whose advent you shall hail with acclamations in January next. Let every true friend of the 'Old Knick.' therefore make one friend as happy as himself, and his friend the Editor as happy as 'the pair of ye's!' ... Let no one who wishes to select books, in any or every department of literature, fail to possess himself of Wiley and Putnam's late catalogue of English, French, and American works, in the various departments of knowledge; science, natural history, useful and fine arts; history, biography, and general literature; Greek and Latin classics, philology, etc.; and theological and medical literature, with appendices, etc.; the whole classified in subjects, and with prices affixed. The catalogue is full, yet concise as clear; and will be sent gratis to any address. Messrs. Bartlett and Welford, under the Astor-House, issued some time since, a similar catalogue, which proved of great convenience to the public, and was no doubt a source of ultimate profit to that well-known house.... The following articles are either filed for insertion, or awaiting 'hopeful' advisement: 'A Night on the Prairie;' 'A Piscatory Eclogue,' by Peter Von Geist; 'My Leg: a Sketch;' 'The Fratricide's Death,' by the 'American Opium-Eater;' 'The Death-Bed, a Stray Leaf from the Country Doctor;' 'The Painted Rock,' 'Mary May, the Newfoundland Indian;' 'The Spirit-Land;' Lines by 'G. H. H.;' 'Scene in a Studio;' 'Translation from Catullus,' by 'G. W. B.;' with many other papers heretofore alluded to, and more to which we have neither leisure nor space to advert, or even to name.

[LITERARY RECORD.]

'Wanderings on the Seas and Shores of Africa.'—The first part of this serial work has at least the effective merit of making us earnestly desire its successor. The author, Dr. Bacon, a brother as we learn of Rev. Leonard Bacon, New-Haven, Conn., has embodied in it his observations and adventures, during a residence of seven months at Monrovia, Liberia, of nine or ten months at Cape Palmas, two months at Sierra Leone, two months on the River Gambia, nearly two months on the Senegal, and numerous voyages along the coast of Senegambia and Guinea, from the Great Desert of Sahara to the Gold Coast; with visits to various missionary stations, slave factories, trading places, and native towns before undescribed. 'It presents a large mass of entirely new facts, of the most valuable and important character on the subjects of the slave-trade, colonization, Christian missions, African commerce, etc. It furnishes, also, the results of considerable experience and medical practice in the peculiar diseases of the coast, with various observations on the topography, geology, natural history, and ethnography of extensive regions hitherto scarcely known by name. These facts are given precisely in the order in which they came to the voyager's knowledge, in connection with a personal narrative replete with adventures of a remarkable kind, detailing wanderings, sufferings, and dangers among savage tribes, and extreme exposures to storms and shipwreck.' With the exception perhaps of 'Two Years before the Mast,' we remember no work which affords so vivid a description of the sea, and the astronomical wonders of the Southern heavens, as these 'Wanderings.' They possess great merit, and afford promise of various excellence in future numbers.

Since the foregoing was 'committed to types,' we have received a second number of the work; and find the promise of the first more than redeemed. We foresee that the plain-speaking of the writer bodes no good to the cause of Liberian colonization. He tells us only what he has seen, and what he knows to be true. Arrived at Monrovia, we find him at board with the black governor, whose 'lady' is his laundress, although belonging of course to the 'berry fust circles of good siety.' We derive some curious facts from Dr. Bacon, connected with colonization matters: for example; that in the main the colonists, from the highest to the lowest, are a hypocritical, ungrateful, and frequently dishonest people; that the books (the refuse, too often, of the libraries of those among us who claim to be 'benefactors' of Liberia) which are sent from America, are not read but are torn up, eaten by cockroaches, or otherwise destroyed; that our Bibles and Tracts are as useless to the ignorant natives as if they were in Hebrew; that fruitful as the country has been represented to be, the dependence for even the necessaries of life is on foreign supplies, the flour and a large proportion of the meat being imported; the writer 'never saw fifty stalks of sugar-cane in the fields of the colonists,' nor could he obtain an ounce of 'Liberian coffee,' the stories which reach us concerning the Liberian 'coffee plantations' being wholly humbugeous, and intended only for effect here. Among the writer's colonial patients, was 'a daughter of Thomas Jefferson, who had with her a niece, the grand-daughter of the great American President and apostle of democracy, who bore a most striking resemblance to his common portraits!' This is not pleasant to think of. The American opinion of 'the venerated Ashmun' it appears greatly needs revision. He is proved to have been 'an unworthy man and a deceiver;' so much so, indeed, that the writer freely expresses his 'contempt and abhorrence of his character,' which were so great as to cause the Doctor, on his return to America, to cause the name, which had been placed in a stereotype work, 'at the end of such a catalogue of saints as 'Brainard, Mills, Martyn, Parsons, Fiske, Milne,' to be beaten into the solid metal page, that it might no longer disgrace its association!' These facts may be unpalatable to the American Colonization Society, but that they are facts, there can be little doubt; since they proceed from the mouth of the Society's accredited agent, under whose auspices he repaired to and resided at Liberia.

Mr. Lunt's Poem on Culture.—A neatly-printed little volume, in dress of modest drab, lies before us, containing 'Culture; a poem delivered before the Boston Mercantile Library Association,' in October last, by George Lunt, Esq., an honorary member of the institution. The first glance made us reluct at encountering in the outset the writer's formidable-looking preface. 'If this,' thought we, 'be what the Italians term la salsa del libro, 'the sauce of the book,' there is much more of the condiment than of the meat.' We were gratified to find however in this mere 'preface' an able essay upon a theme which has more than once been discussed in these pages; namely, the true philosophy of poetry, and its influence, actual and collateral, upon society, in contradistinction to utilitarianism, and those principles of expediency, which 'repudiate' imagination, and vitiate our perception of truth. The poem itself abounds in good thoughts, vented with much music of expression; all which we could abundantly prove, had we space for extracts. As it is, we must ask such of our readers as may have at command the volume before us, to turn to the twenty-fourth page of the poem, and admire with us the illustration of 'Mind,' in more senses than one, which may there be found; and when they have exhausted that admirable passage, let them turn to another, which we had also marked for insertion, commencing on the thirty-fourth and ending on the thirty-sixth page. Next to presenting good things, perhaps some kind reader may admit, is the pointing them out. 'And here, may it please the court, we rest.'

'The Opal: a pure Gift for the Holydays.'—This is an exceedingly pretty moral and religious annual, edited by N. P. Willis, illustrated by J. G. Chapman, and published by John C. Riker, Number Fifteen Ann-street. The illustrations, nine in number, are mainly in the light and pleasing style of etching, which Mr. Chapman has rendered so popular, and in subject alternate with Scripture scenes and fancy-sketches of a domestic or religious character. The literary articles are from the pens of well-known American writers, including, beside the Editor's, those of Wilde, Herbert, Aldrich, Benjamin, Hoffman, Cheever, Robert Morris, Palmer, Tuckerman, Mrs. Embury, Mrs. Seba Smith, W. H. Burleigh, etc. We commend the work cordially to our readers, regretting that we can find no space for extracts, at the late hour at which the volume reaches us; save only the following explanatory passage from the preface: 'Religious books, devoted solely to the inculcation of the precepts of piety, are all-important as one branch of instruction and reading. But God, who made all things for his creatures, and gave them taste, fancy, and a sense exquisitely alive to the beautiful, intended no ascetic privation of the innocent objects which minister to these faculties. The mirth, and the playful elegances of poetry and descriptive writing are as truly within the paths of religious reading as any thing else which shows the fullness and variety of the provision made for our happiness, when at peace with ourselves. Nothing gay, if innocent, is out of place in an annual intended to be used as a tribute of affection by the good.' The work is 'opal-hued, reflecting all the bright lights and colors which the prodigality of God's open hand has poured upon the pathway of life.'

'Jeanie Morrison.'—This beautiful and touching ballad of the gentle Motherwell has been set to music by 'Dempster, the true-blue Scot,' as Burns called his namesake, and dedicated to his friend James T. Fields, Esq., Boston. The music, as we gather from capable judges, is in good keeping with the feeling and sweet simplicity of the verse; and surely higher praise need not be awarded to it. The poem itself would have done honor to Burns, and a nearer approach to his style we scarcely remember ever to have seen. How fervent, how natural, this retrospect of a first, fresh boyish love:

'My head runs round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As one by one the thoughts rush back
O' spring-time and o' thee.
O morning life! O morning love!
O lightsome days and lang.
When honied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!
O, mind ye, love, how oft we left
The deavin,' dinsome town.
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung o'er our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throstle whistled sweet.'

The publisher of 'Jeanie Morrison' is Mr. Oliver Ditson, Boston; but we infer that it is also for sale at the principal music-stores in this city.

Poems by Barry Cornwall.—Messrs. William D. Ticknor and Company, Boston, have just given to the public a neatly-executed volume, containing 'English Songs and other Poems,' by Barry Cornwall. It will be an acceptable offering to American readers. Procter is a very charming, heart-full writer. To adopt the language of another, there is an intense and passionate beauty, a depth of affection, in his little dramatic poems, which appear even in the affectionate triflings of his gentle characters. 'He illustrates that holiest of human emotions, which, while it will twine itself with the frailest twig, or dally with the most evanescent shadow of creation, wasting its excess of kindliness on all around it, is yet able to 'look on tempests and be never shaken.' Love is gently omnipotent in his poems; accident and death itself are but passing clouds, which scarcely vex and which cannot harm it. The lover seems to breathe out his life in the arms of his mistress, as calmly as the infant sinks into its softest slumber. The fair blossoms of his genius, though light and trembling at the breeze, spring from a wide, and deep, and robust stock, which will sustain far taller branches without being exhausted.'

'The Wrongs of Woman.'—'The forsaken Home' is the sub-title of the second part of this series by Charlotte Elizabeth, whose English fame is not greater than her reputation in America. Here now is a picture of domestic struggles and privations; of female suffering and sorrow; of a deserted home and hopeless, ill-requited toil; which bears incontestable evidence of being but too faithful to its original; and it is so affecting, we may add revolting, that we marvel somewhat that those doughty philanthropists who manifest so much sympathy for the 'neglected and the down-trodden' on this side the Atlantic do not lessen the radius of their humane telescopes, and 'take a short look about home' for objects of commiseration and charity. That our readers may see how much this is needed, we commend them to a perusal of the volume before us, which may be found at M. W. Dodd's book-store, Brick-church Chapel.

The 'Mysteries of Paris.'—We little thought, when we presented the first English translation of a scene from this remarkable work, that in less than two months it would be borne on the wings of rival American presses into every nook and corner of this vast republic. But so it is. The MS. of Mr. Charles H. Town, from which we quoted, was seized with such avidity by the Brothers Harper that the translator was left without leisure to smooth over and soften the too literal features of his work, having quite enough to do to finish it in time for the printers. The 'New-World' edition, translated by Mr. Demming, now near its completion, is executed with fidelity and good taste, is well printed, and has been favorably received at the hands of the public. The rival editions will each be entirely exhausted by the current demand; and in view of their cheapness, few will be disposed to invoke 'a plague on both the houses' whence they proceed.

Elements of Natural Philosophy: Silk Culture.—Messrs. Greely and M'Elrath have published, in a cheap but substantial form, for the use of schools and academies, the tenth edition of Gales's 'Elements of Natural Philosophy.' The general plan of Blair's work is preserved in the volume, which embraces the principles of mechanics, hydrostatics, hydraulics, acoustics, optics, electricity, galvanism, magnetism, and astronomy, and is illustrated by several hundred wood-engravings. The same publishers have put forth an illustrated pamphlet upon the culture of silk, with historical sketches of the silk business, in Europe and the United States; the natural history of the silk-worm, mulberry-tree, etc.; a useful work, and one which supplies an important desideratum to silk-growers.

New Publications of the Brothers Harper.—'Woman an Enigma, or Life and its Revelations,' a new production of the author of 'Conquest and Self-Conquest,' is much affected of the ladies; to which fact we are indebted for our inability to speak more at large of its merits. 'The Banker's Wife,' or 'Court and City,' a novel by Mrs. Gore, is also warmly commended by the public press, but we have not found a moment's leisure to devote to its perusal. In the way of Anti-Puseyism, we have 'The True Churchman Warned against the Errors of the Time,' with notes by Dr. Anthon, and 'The True Issue Sustained, or an Exhibit of the Views and Spirit of the Episcopal Press in relation to the recent Ordination of Mr. Cary.' All these publications are characterized by the usual neatness of works from the Harpers' press.

'Nature and Revelation.'—The object of this work is to show the present condition of the churches, and the change now to come upon the world, by the Second Advent, in Spirit, of the Messiah, with interpretations of the Prophecies in Daniel and the Book of Revelation. The different states of the church, under the Apostolic, Roman, Vandal, Reformed, and present eras, are considered, as well as the new order and era of things which is now to succeed, in which the old churches and nations are to pass away, under the influence of the true gospel. The volume is from the pen of H. N. Van Amringe, author of 'The Seals Opened, or a Voice to the Jews,' and is published by R. P. Bixby and Company, Park-Row.

Publications of Messrs. Burgess and Stringer.—These gentlemen are doing good service to the public in the series of useful little books which they are placing before their countrymen. We find on our table neat yet cheap editions of Mrs. Ellis's 'House-Keeping Made Easy,' adapted to our own meridian by an American Lady; a book on 'Knitting, Netting, and Crotchet Work,' revised and enlarged; Abernethy's 'Family Physician, or Ready Prescriber,' an excellent little volume; and a 'Lecture on the Oregon Territory,' by Peter A. Browne, LL. D., of Philadelphia.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Some animals are self-taught. The mocking-bird whistles for the dog; Cæsar starts up and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt chicken, and the hen hurries about with hanging wings and bristling feathers, clucking to protect her injured brood. The barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the creaking of the passing wheel-barrow, follow with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by his master, though of considerable length, fully and faithfully. He runs over the quiverings of the Canary and the clear whistlings of the Virginia nightingale, or red-bird, with such superior execution and effect, that the mortified songsters feel their own inferiority, and become silent, while he seems to triumph in their defeat by redoubling his exertions.—Wilson.

[2] Buff. II., 188.

[3] Ibid. II., 185.

[4] The tribe from which Mohammed descended.

[5] Dr. Arnoult was a Babylonian of those days, who pretended to cure all diseases by means of a bag suspended about the neck of the patient.

[6] Mr. Kemble retired soon after to Lausanne, where, after a short residence, he was seized with an apoplectic fit, which was soon followed by another and fatal attack. By the same malady fell also his friend and fervent admirer, Mr. Abbott.
Ed. Knickerbocker.