Our fair correspondent has exalted the attractions of her heroine 'to a degree,' as the English cockney novelists have it: 'Every look of her beaming eyes penetrated to the heart; every motion of her moist coral lips gave ecstasy; and every variation of her features discovered new and ineffable beauties!' Good 'eavens!—how 'Theodore' must have felt, as he 'gradually recovered from the hurt of his fall,' (was his 'limb' amputated?) and found that angel 'lifting his head from his pillow, and touching his eye-lids with awakening light!' * * * Thanks to the kind 'Incognita,' to whom we are indebted for a beautiful worsted butterfly, destined to a 'literaneous' sort of destiny! Verily, it is a beautiful fabric; so vivid and life-like in its brilliant colors, that it seems, while hanging by the thin ear of our iron gray-hound, as if about to rise and float a living blossom of the air. How deftly the Ettrick Shepherd ('the d—d Hogg!' as Ballantyne called him,) has limned its counterpart: 'Perhaps a bit bonny butterfly is resting wi' folded wings on a gowan, not a yard from your cheek; and now, awakening out of a summer-dream, floats away in its wavering beauty; but as if unwilling to leave the place of its mid-day sleep, comin' back and back, and round and round, on this side and that side, and settling in its capricious happiness to fasten again on some brighter floweret, till the same breath o' wind that lifts up your hair sae refreshingly catches the airy voyager, and wafts her away into some other nook of her ephemeral paradise!' Answer us, all ye that ever saw a summer butterfly in the country, is not that a perfect picture? * * * We have a prospectus of a new series of the 'New Mirror,' which can now be obtained in complete sets, weekly, or in monthly parts, 'with four steel-plates, and sixty-four pages of reading matter.' When we add, that the Mirror has many of its old corps of writers, with several new ones, and that General Morris and N. P. Willis are also diligently laboring at the oars, we have said all that is necessary, to indicate the claims of the work. Success to ye, gentlemen! By the by: the first number of the new series had a full-length portrait, by the Johnston, of the eminent and deeply-lamented painter-poet, Washington Allston. If it is at all like the original, we can well believe the statement of an indignant writer in the 'Boston Post,' who avers that 'the engraving from Brackett's beautiful bust of Mr. Allston, in the last 'Democratic Review,' bears no resemblance whatever to the bust itself, and might as well be called a likeness of one of the numerous John Smiths, as a portrait of the great artist.' Speaking of likenesses: we would venture to ask, what is the thing at the end of the right arm of a figure in one of the Philadelphia 'pictorial' monthlys intended to represent? Is it a hand, (no, that it isn't!) or the end of a tri-pronged beet or radish? It is 'a copy' from the end of some diverse-forked vegetable, that is quite clear. * * * It is a very interesting work, the History of Elizabeth of England, recently published by Messrs. Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia. Proud, powerful, and haughty as that imperial potentate finally became, her infancy was distinguished by the want of even comfortable clothing. An uncommon intellect she certainly possessed, and she had her wrongs, no doubt; but who can think of her without at once reverting to poor Mary of Scotland? After an imprisonment of nineteen years, that unhappy Queen was left alone, without counsel and without friends; betrayed by those in whom she had trusted, and confronted by the representatives of the power and majesty of England. 'But she evinced in the last sad scene of her mournful life the spirit of the daughter of a long line of kings, and exposed to the wondering world the spectacle of a helpless woman, enfeebled by long confinement, 'gray in her prime,' and broken down by sickness and sorrow, contending single-handed against the sovereign of a mighty realm, who sought her blood, and had predetermined her death.' * * * Our entertaining correspondent, the 'American Antiquary,' has given elsewhere some account of the stalwart citizens of a portion of New-Hampshire. They are 'good men,' no doubt, and 'honest as the skin atween their brows;' but 'where two men ride a horse, one must go before.' Our friend should see a specimen or two of our western and southwestern noblemen of nature. We should like to place his hand in that of Albert Pike, for example, the Arkansas poet, politician, and lawyer. His first impression would be, that in his Blackwood 'Hymn to the Gods' he had been lauding his own kith and kin. We consider it a great pleasure to have encountered so fine an illustration of the 'mens sana incorpore sano.' Having seen him once, one could not soon forget him. We should know him now, if we were to 'come across his hide in a tan-yard!' * * * Our Salem (Mass.) friend, who complains that we 'are leagued with the Quakers against the memory of the pious Puritans,' is 'hereby respectfully invited to attend' to the following hit at old Cotton Mather and his fellow-persecutors of that era, from the pen of a true 'Son of New-England:' 'We can laugh now at the Doctor and his demons: but little matter of laughter was it to the victims on Salem hill; to the prisoners in the jails; to poor Giles Corey, tortured with planks upon his breast, which forced the tongue from his mouth, and his life from his old palsied body; to bereaved and quaking families; to a whole community priest-ridden and spectre-smitten; gasping in the sick dream of a spiritual night-mare, and given over to believe a lie. We may laugh, for the grotesque is blended with the horrible, but we must also pity and shudder. God be thanked that the delusion has measurably vanished; and they who confronted that delusion in its own age, disenchanting with strong, clear sense, and sharp ridicule, their spell-bound generation, deserve high honors as the benefactors of their race. They were indeed branded through life as infidels and 'damnable Sadducees,' by a corrupt priesthood, who ministered to a credulity which could be so well turned to their advantage; but the truth which they uttered lived after them, and wrought out its appointed work, for it had a divine commission and God-speed.' * * * To 'X. L.' of Hudson we say, 'By no means!' He is another 'rusty, fusty, musty old bachelor,' who lacks that 'company' which Misery is said to love. 'If love,' he commences, 'were not beneath a man, he couldn't 'fall into it,' as he is so often said to do. Borrowed, dear Sir, 'to begin with!' Learn wisdom of one of your aged fraternity, whom we have the pleasure to know, who was married within a twelvemonth, in the fiftieth year of his age. He has lately been heard to observe: 'If I had known as much about matrimony twelve years ago as I do now, I should just as lieve have been married then as not!' * * * Wherever you are, reader, if you have an opportunity to see Macready in Byron's 'Werner,' fail not to enjoy that rich intellectual repast. It is a matchless piece of acting. A friend of ours, whose experience in dramatic excellence embraces all the great standards usually referred to, tells us that Edmund Kean's 'Othello,' John Kemble's 'Coriolanus,' Talma's 'Britanicus,' and Macready's 'Werner,' in their several styles of merit, are the most admirable performances he ever beheld. * * * A correspondent inquires if there is 'any more of such charming scenes' as the one we quoted from the 'Mysteries of Paris,' in our last number. 'It was very beautiful,' she adds. Yes; there is an account of a joyous country excursion made by Rodolphe and 'Fleur-de-Marie' in the Autumn, from which we take a short passage:
'Oh! I am very happy, it is such a long time since I have been out of Paris! When I saw the country before, it was spring; but now, although we are almost into winter, it gives me just as much pleasure. What a fine sunny day! Only look at those little rosy clouds, there—there! And that hill! with its pretty white houses gleaming among the trees. How many leaves remain! It is astonishing, in the month of November, is it not, Monsieur? But in Paris the leaves fall so soon. * * * And down there—that flight of pigeons! Look! look! they are settling down on the roof of the mill! In the country, one is never tired of looking; every thing is attractive.'
'It is a pleasure, Fleur-de-Marie,' said Rodolphe, 'to see you so delighted with these nothings which make the charm of the country.' The young girl, contemplated the peaceful and smiling landscape which was spread out before her, and once more her face assumed its soft, pensive expression.'
'There!' she exclaimed; 'that fire from the stubble in those fields; see how the beautiful white smoke ascends to heaven! And this cart, with its two fat grays! If I were a man, how I should love to be a farmer!—to be in the midst of a large field, following the plough, and seeing at a great distance immense woods. Just such a day as to-day, for instance! Enough to make one sing songs, melancholy songs, to bring tears into the eyes, like 'Genevieve de Brabant.'
There is in this artless description a fine love and perception of the beautiful in nature. * * * 'Absence of Mind' is too scrappy. Its 'examples' seem collated from sundry files of old newspapers, of various dates. The man however who, in his hurry (at a late hour on a rainy day) to pay a note, took up in place of an umbrella an old broom, and rushed through Wall-street to the bank, with the besom over his head, reminds us of the 'absent' clergyman, who started one winter-Sunday for his church; and having nearly reached it, the wind blew his cloak open; upon which he turned about, that it might be blown close around him again: forgetting this fact, however, he continued to travel in the direction which he faced, until he arrived at his own door. Here he inquired for himself; and being told by a waggish servant that he was not in, he departed, with the remark that he should 'call again soon!' * * * 'The Exile's Song,' in the present number, was enclosed in a letter from its author, A. M'Craw, of Scotland, to the late lamented Dr. Timothy Upham of Waterford, by whose wish it is now published. It was written in this country, several years since; and was occasioned by the statement that two persons had been found in a cave in a forest on the bank of the Kennebeck river, who had sought seclusion and safety in that wild retreat. Dr. Upham was a gentleman of a highly distinguished family in New-Hampshire, whose mind led him to appreciate talent whenever and wherever he encountered it. Scientific and literary honors were tendered him from high sources, previous to his demise; but it pleased God to summon him to that heaven which is constantly enriching itself with the spoils of earth:
'Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus
Tam cari capitis.'
There is just now quite a passion for French Literature in this country, and translations have not only become frequent, but very indiscriminate. Much that we see is not amiss in its moral tendency, but more is positively pernicious in its effect upon society. 'What a strange opinion the world will have of French Society a hundred years from now! 'Did all married people,' they will say, 'break a certain commandment? They all do in the novels. Was French society composed of murderers, of forgers, of children without parents, of men consequently running the daily risk of marrying their grandmothers by mistake; of disguised princes, who lived in the friendship of amiable cut-throats and spotless prostitutes; who gave up the sceptre for the savate, and the stars and pigtails of the court for the chains and wooden shoes of the galleys?' It has been well said of Bernard, (author of 'The Innocence of a Galley-Slave,' in our last two numbers,) that 'he is full of fine observation and gentle feeling; has a gallant sense of the absurd; and writes in a gentlemanlike style.' * * * Here is a clever and characteristic anecdote of 'Randolph of Roanoke,' related by Mr. Harvey, a spirited (and he must allow us to add improved) racconteur: Robert Owen told John Randolph that he should live to see the day when mankind would discover the principle of vitality, and of course learn to live for ever. 'Are you not aware,' said he, 'that in Egypt, by artificial heat, the people create thousands of chickens?' 'Yes,' replied Randolph; 'but you forget to tell us who furnishes the eggs. Show me the man who can lay an egg, and I'll agree to your 'parallel case.' The proposition was a poser! * * * Mr. Peabody, in his excellent Address at Dartmouth College, speaks of the tendency of our lighter literature to 'aim primarily at impression,' without much reference to the means adopted to secure that end. What must he think of Mr. J. H. Ingraham's last infliction upon the public?—his 'Frank Rivers, or the Dangers of the Town,' the hero and heroine of which are Richard P. Robinson and Ellen Jewett? How captivating to tastes kindred with the author's, will be the headings of the different chapters: 'The two fine gentlemen; the Meeting with Ellen; the Consequences;' or, 'The Naval Officer; the Kept Mistress,' etc. Can there be but one opinion concerning such shameless 'literary' expositions as this, among all right-minded persons? * * * Many a reader of the Knickerbocker, residing in the smaller villages of our country, will recognize 'The Influential Man' among their 'fellow-citizens.' Our friend at Tinnecum has drawn from life the sketch in preceding pages, and with all his accustomed faithfulness. 'Uncle Billy Pine' reminds us of the 'influential man' who, when Rip Vanwinkle came back from the mountains, after his twenty years' sleep, made his way through a wondering crowd of his Dutch neighbors, with his arms akimbo, and after gazing at him for a moment, shook his head; 'whereat,' says our renowned historian, 'there was a general shaking of the head throughout the whole assemblage.' * * * Paris has always borne away the palm in cosmetics, perfumery, fancy toilet-soaps, etc.; but we suspect that Mr. Eugene Roussel, late of the French metropolis, but now of Philadelphia, has the means, by importation and manufacture, to bring 'nigh us, even to our doors,' the best specimens in this kind to be found in the gay capital. His stores, at the late fair of the American Institute, were the admiration of visitors; and almost outvied the collections of our own artizan, Mr. Lloyd, of Prince-street, near the Bowery, whose perfumery, for excellence and cheapness combined, has 'won all suffrages' from the ladies. * * * We are glad to learn that the 'American Athenæum' at Paris is so well appreciated. Its condition is already flourishing, and its usefulness and popularity gradually increasing. American books, newspapers, etc., may be sent free of expense, through the care of Mr. R. Draper, Number fifty-one, Beaver-street, New-York. * * * Just one word to 'F.' Do you remember the lord-mayor, who when told at his first hunting that the hare was coming, exclaimed: 'Let it come, in Heaven's name!—I'm not afraid on 't?' Have the goodness to make the application. * * * It was our intention to have offered a few remarks upon 'The Embarkation of the Pilgrims,' the great national picture, by that distinguished American artist, Weir, which is now open for exhibition at the Gallery of the Academy of Fine Arts, corner of Broadway and Leonard-street. We are compelled, however, to forego this duty, until another occasion. Meanwhile, we invite the attention of our metropolitan readers to the exhibition, as one well calculated to repay the most careful examination. * * * We receive at a late hour, from a friend in the French capital, the 'Proceedings of a Meeting of the Citizens of the United States in Paris, at the Royal Athenæum, in March last; embracing an Address upon the Literary Exchanges recently made between France and America, by Alexander Vattemare.' We shall probably have occasion to allude more particularly to this pamphlet hereafter. * * * Cricket, one of the fine manly games of Old England, is getting quite in vogue in this country, and excites not a little emulation between several antagonistic cities and towns. At a dinner which closed a recent spirited match in Philadelphia, our contemporary, Mr. Paterson, of the 'Anglo-American' weekly journal, gave the following felicitous 'sentiment:'
'The bat and the wicket,
And the good game of cricket
Till we come to the bucket.
When all must kick it!'
We find on our table a fervent, heart-full 'Discourse, preached before the Second Church and Society in Boston, in Commemoration of the Life and Character of their former Pastor, Rev. Henry Ware, Jr., D. D.; by their Minister, Chandler Robbins.' We shall share with our readers, in our next issue, the enjoyment we have derived from contemplating, with our friend and correspondent, the many virtues whose memory his predecessor has left in vivid greenness and freshness behind him. * * * We have lost the letter of our New-Orleans correspondent, who asked certain questions touching a foreign correspondence with the Knickerbocker. We liked the tone of his epistle very much. Write us again. Who are you? what are you? whence are you? whither are you going? and what have you got to say for yourself? * * * We hope our readers will appreciate the motives, not vain-glorious altogether, we suspect, which impel us to announce that our Twenty-Third Volume will eclipse any previous volume of the series, we think. Looking at our literary stores, (embodying papers from all our old and favorite contributors, and embracing articles, beside, from the Dutch and the Turkish, by our correspondents at Constantinople and Rotterdam,) we acknowledge a glow of satisfaction, which we hope in due time to transfer to our readers. As for matter, we were never more abundantly prepared; and for the manner, that is to be 'in keeping.' The work is to be presented upon entirely new type, in all its departments; and some of the very fine type heretofore employed in the editor's portion of the work will give place to characters more easily perused by old and young. But 'enough said.' Wait; and 'you shall see what you shall see.' * * * Among many other articles filed for insertion, or awaiting examination, are the following: 'The White-House, or the Money-Ghost; a Tale told in the Chimney-corner of a Village Public-House,' from the Dutch; 'Imaginary Conversations,' by Peter Von Geist; 'Mind vs. Instinct in Animals,' Number Two; 'Ninah and Numan,' from the Turkish, etc. 'P. G.'s favor is reserved for publication, when we can find a place for it. We shall appreciate his communications. * * * Several notices of new publications, (including 'The Rose of Sharon,' a beautiful and interesting annual, Barry Cornwall's Poems, 'Nature and Revelation,' 'The Mysteries of Paris,' and 'The Professor and his Favorites,') omitted from the present number, will appear in our next.