Yes; I write myself proprietor for the nonce of a London edition. My name is written in 'Lamb's Book of Life;' say rather, in a Book of the Life of Lamb. Most hugeously do I relish his quaint conceits, and those dainty sentences, the fashioning whereof came to him unbidden, from spirits of the olden time, bending from the clouds of fame. (By-the-by, what an unconscionable dog was Ossian! He always kept a score or two of heroes, sitting half-dressed on cold clouds, making speeches. 'Twas most unkind of him. But he lived in a rude age.) Lamb was one of those precious few of whom the world is not worthy. He wrote from the impulses of a noble heart, guided to new expression by a mind clear as the brook of Siloa, that flowed by the oracles of God. He was not one of your persons who are dignified by the phrase 'all heart,' for he had a prolific brain, which all-hearted people generally lack. Of course, he disciplined himself betwixt a desk at the India-House, and his social hours, or studious; but what golden fruitage sprang therefrom! None of your crude sentences, half-formed, unlicked, unpolished; but full of meaning; succinct to the eye, and harmonious to the ear. There is a light from his pen, which can illumine the saddest hour. He went forth to amuse and enlighten, as the sun gets up in the morning to cheer the world, 'with all his fires and travelling glories round him.' Essayist incomparable! How would he have looked writing a prize-tale for the horror-mongers!

In respect of these latter things, how many double-distilled atrocities of that kind are now and then committed at this day! They must be filled with blood and murder; piracy, thieving, villany of all sorts, must be thrown in, to make the mixture 'slab and good.' This is the result of the ten thousand pages of trash, which the want of a copy-right law entails upon us from England. Improbability is the first ingredient, to which assassination, seduction, and all kinds of crime, must approximate. Let me give a specimen:

'THE FATAL VOW.'

'It was late in the fall of 18—, (convenient blank!) when, as the night had come on, on a stormy evening, a dreadful tempest arose in the west. The lightning flashed, the thunder faintly bellowed for a time; but soon the lightning discontinued, though the thunder moaned on. It was pitch dark—darkness Egyptian. The sight was palsied and checked within an inch of the eye. At this juncture, two men on horseback might have been seen, at the distance of half a mile from the river ——, riding through a thick wood. One of them was of sallow complexion, with huge black whiskers; he rode a horse of the color called by rural people 'pumpkin-and-milk,' or cream-color, rather. In his holster were two pistols. He wore a broad slouching hat, apparently unpaid for. A frown, blacker considerably than hell, darkened his brow. Turning to his companion, a weazen-faced man, with a red head, mounted on what is called a 'calico mare,' he said:

'Well, Jakarzil, shall we do the deed to-night?'

'It would ill befit the noble Count d'Urzilio de Belleville,' said the dependant, 'to shoot that ill-fated lady at the present time. It would not look well.'

'I care not for the looks!' replied the count, curling his lip, and placing in his sinister cheek a piece of tobacco, 'I must have vengeance! If the candle is not at the casement, I shall bu'st the door. I want revenge!'

'TO BE CONTINUED.'

This is like the modern tales. Meditated butchery, successful scoundrelism, and other delectables, make up their sum. As the fragment just read may never be concluded, I will mention the fate of the parties. The hero shot his grandmother out of pique, and was hung; Jakarzil, his man, is in the penitentiary for horse-stealing.

Some of my unpoetical friends think I have underrated the Falls at Catskill. Heaven save the mark! They have never seen Niagara, and are therefore contented with a few grim rocks, the gate of a mill-dam, and grandeur by the gallon; for thus, in a manner, is it sold. No! Let these untravelled but clever fellows once hear the roar that shakes Goat-Island, and the region round about; see the river that pours its mile-wide breakers down, and mark the rainbow smile! Ever thereafter will they hold their peace.

One or two credulous persons have fancied that the sketch of 'Smith of Smithopolis' was designed as an imputation upon the name. The said imputation is disdained, by these presents. I have a decided regard for that style and title: companionship, familiarity, personal knowledge, (so grateful to the inquiring mind,) are its synonyms. Beside, I honor the name, for sundry associations. Who has never rode in a rail-car, a steam-boat, or a coach, with a person of the name of Smith? Or heard him speak at a public meeting? Or owed him a trifle? Or had a trifle due from him, the Smith aforesaid? Nemo—'I undertake to say'—(in fact I not only undertake this vocal enterprise, but I accomplish it.) Aside, reader, 'tis a criticism on the phrase; which whoso uses when he knows what he is about to set down in palpable chirography, is a sumph unqualified: Anglice, one of the flat 'uns, named of Stulti.