We have already solved several weighty mathematical problems in this department of the Knickerbocker; and are glad of an opportunity farther to enlighten our readers with a passage from a 'Lecture on Mechanics' in a late number of the 'London Charivari:' 'If certain weighty things are put upon a body, they will turn the scale, and elevate another body. Thus, if several thousand pounds be added to the weight of an electioneering agent, it will elevate the candidate; though this experiment sometimes fails; which shows us that these grand results are not brought about by any fixed principles!' Under the head of 'Forces applied to a Point,' we have this luminous illustration: 'It sometimes happens that force is applied to produce a point; but all the straining in the world will not obtain the point that is desired. Thus, if you take an ordinary hammer and hammer away at a joke, the result of the experiment will illustrate the position!' * * * Whew! ninety-eight mortal pages, received in the dog-days, containing a 'nouvelette' for the Knickerbocker! 'Somebody take this man away!' The story is in very fine hand-writing, too! 'All things must have an end; even so contemptible a thing as a sausage has two,' says 'The Bedlamite;' yet we have been unable to find but one end to this tale, and that was not the last one. 'Print it?' Couldn't, really! 'C.' holds it for the author, and says he shall charge storage. Apropos: it should be observed, that 'nouvelettes' are generally boreish in their character. Long-winded pen-and-ink writers inflict them upon the public usually, we have remarked. They are a cross between the novel proper and a newspaper tale, requiring little invention, and no talent, to speak of; and are the result of the decadence into which two-volumed romances have fallen. Avoid a 'nouvelette!' * * * We cannot better reply to 'G.,' who complains of 'an excuse' for rejecting a communication of his, than by quoting the words of a time-honored novelist and rare critic: 'There is one best and clearest way of stating a proposition, and that alone ought to be chosen; yet how often do we find the same argument repeated and repeated and repeated, with no variety except in the phraseology? In developing any thought, we ought not to encumber it by trivial circumstances; we ought to say all that is necessary, and not a word more. We ought likewise to say one thing at once; and that concluded, to begin another. We certainly write to be understood, and should therefore never write in a language that is unknown to a majority of our readers. The rule will apply as well to the living languages as to the dead, and its infringement is but in general a display of the author's vanity. Epithets, unless they increase the strength of thought or elucidate the argument, ought not to be admitted. Of similes, metaphors, and figures of every kind, the same may be affirmed; whatever does not enlighten confuses. The difficulties of composition resemble those of geometry; they are the recollection of things so simple and convincing that we imagine we never can forget them; yet they are frequently forgotten at every step and in every sentence.' If these remarks do not confirm the validity of our 'excuse,' we are no judge. * * * Here is a sharp thrust at 'Fashionable Boarding-Schools,' which is all that we can appropriate of the letter of our Cincinnati friend: 'A modern boarding-school is a place where every thing is taught, and nothing understood; where airs, graces, mouth-primming, shoulder-setting, and elbow-holding are studied, and affectation, formality, hypocrisy, and pride are acquired; and where children the most promising are presently transformed into vain, pert misses, who imagine that to jerk up their heads, turn out their toes, and dance and waltz well, is the summit of human perfection.' What a satirical wretch it is! * * * Alison, in his fine description of the French army on the morning before the battle of Waterloo, alludes to the effect of the martial airs upon the soldiers; the 'Marsellois,' the 'Chant du Depart,' etc. This latter we have recently encountered for the first time, in a superbly-illustrated work, entitled 'Chants and Chansons of France.' It is a very stirring effusion; as a few of its opening lines will sufficiently evince:
'La victoire en chantant vous ouvre la barriere,
La liberte guide nos pas,
Et du nord au midi la trompette guerriere
A sonne l'heure des combats.
'Tremblez, ennemis de la France,
Rois ivres de sang et d'orgueil!
Le peuple souverain s'avance,
Tyrans descendez au cercueil,' etc.
The comparison between 'New-England Men and Scotchmen' is in many respects a correct one, but not in all. 'We are not a nation of gentlemen, thank God!' says a plain-speaking Scottish writer, 'but the greater part of our population is vulgar, intelligent, high-cheeked, raw-boned, and religious.' The article, however, will appear so soon as we can find space for it. * * * We are bound to accept the apology of 'M.,' whose 'curt notelet' we adverted to in our last. He trusts that after his explanation we shall 'not think hard of him.' We do not; on the contrary, we think very soft of him. Don't do so again—that's all. * * * The lamented Ollapod, in one of his admirable salmagundis in these pages, once endeavored to represent the sound of a kiss; and it was conceded, we remember, that he was successful in the attempt. Next to that effort, we have seen nothing better than the following transcript of fire-works, by a London wag: 'First of all, the rockets go up. Then something is lighted, and turns slowly round with a whisk!-ish-ish-ish; this increases its time, and changes to oosh-sh-sh; gives a bang, and goes round another way, with an ash-sh-sh! till squibs open all round it in a prolonged phiz-iz-iz-iz! and then it concludes with a phit! crack! bang-bang! bang! and the incandescent centre of the wheel is all that remains, revolving in a dull circle of light upon its axis.' If this be not 'speaking description,' we know not what is. * * * Reader, when in the providence of God it shall be your fate to stand by the cold form of one whom you have loved; to gaze upon lips, oh! how pale and motionless; upon hands thin and wasted, crossed upon the silent breast; upon eye-lids dropped upon cheeks of clay, never to be lifted again; then haply you may think of these beautiful lines of the good Wesley. Amidst remembered hopes that vanished and fears that distracted, weeping in unknown tumults, 'like soft streamings of celestial music' comes to your aching heart this serene Evangel!
How blest is our brother, bereft
Of all that could burthen his mind!
How easy the soul that has left
This wearisome body behind!
Of evil incapable thou,
Whose relics with envy I see;
No longer in misery now,
No longer a sinner, like me.
This dust is affected no more
With sickness, or shaken with pain;
The war in the members is o'er,
And never shall vex him again;
No anger henceforward, or shame
Shall redden his innocent clay;
Extinct is the animal flame,
And passion is vanished away.
The languishing head is at rest.
Its thinking and aching are o'er;
The quiet, immovable breast
Is heaved by affliction no more.
The heart is no longer the seat
Of trouble or torturing pain;
It ceases to flutter and beat,
It never will flutter again!
The lids he so seldom could close,
By sorrow forbidden to sleep,
Sealed up in eternal repose,
Have strangely forgotten to weep,
The fountains can yield no supplies,
The hollows from water are free,
The tears are all wiped from these eyes,
And evil they never shall see.