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!'