There is, in the fourth place, the value of the national Constitution as

THE GRAND CONSERVATOR OF ALL LOWER LAW, and of all lower political rights

whatever. No law of the State, of the city, of the family, of the school,

no contract between man and man, no prescriptive right, no title to

property, no exclusive domain in land, no authority over persons, could

fail to be weakened by a wound inflicted on the all-conserving law of our

higher nationality. There are none of these but what are even now

demoralized, and seriously affected in their most inner sanctions, by the

increasing practice of speaking lightly of a bond so sacred. What right

has he to the possession of his acres who counsels resistance to one law

of the land, and, in so doing, strikes at the very life of the authority

by which he holds all he calls his own? It must be true of human, as well

as of the Divine law, that he who offends in one point is guilty of all.

The severence of one link breaks the whole chain. There is no medium

between complete submission to every constitutional ordinance, or rightful

and violent revolution against the whole political system. But if such

inconsistency can be charged on him who claims the right of property in

land, although that, too, is beginning to be disputed, with how much more

force does it press on the man who asserts property, or—if a less odious

term is preferred—authority, in persons? We do not dispute his claim. It

comes from the common source of all human authority, whether of man over

man, or of man to the exclusion of man from a challenged domain. But

certainly _his_ title can have no other foundation than the political

institutions of the country maintained in all their coherent integrity;

and, therefore, he who asserts it should be very conservative, he should

be very reverent of law in all its departments, he should be very tender

of breaking Constitutions, he should hold in the highest honor the

decisions of an interpreting judiciary. He should, in short, be the very

last man ever to talk of revolution, or nullification, or secession, or of

any thing else that may in the least impair the sacredness or stability of

constitutional law.

Call government, then, what we will, social compact, divine institution,

natural growth of time and circumstances—conceive of it under any

form—still there is ever the same essential idea. It is ever one absolute,

earthly, sovereign power, acting, within a certain territory, as the

sanction and guaranty of all civil or political rights, in other words, of

all rights that can not exist without it. There may be many intermediate

links in the chain, but it is only by virtue of this, in the last appeal,

that one man has the exclusive right to the house in which he lives, or to

the land which he occupies. Hence alone, too, are all the _civil_ rights

of marriage and the domestic relations. The family is born of the state.

On this account, says Socrates, may it be held that _the law has begotten

us_, and we may be justly called its sons. There is the same idea in the

maxim of Cicero, _In aris et focis est respublica_; and in this thought we

find the peculiar malignity of that awful crime of treason. It is a

_breach of trust_, and, in respect to government, of the most sacred

trust. It is the foulest parricide. It is aiming a dagger at that civic

life from which flows all the social and domestic vitality. The notion, in

feudal times, had for its outward type the relation of lord and

dependent—of service and obedience on the one hand, and protection on the

other. The form has changed, but the essential idea remains, and ever must

remain, while human government exists on earth. He who breaks this vital

bond, he who would seek to have the protection to his person and his

property, while he forfeits the tenure of citizenship, he is the

_traitor_. And hence arises the essential difference between treason and

mobbism. The man who is guilty of the former not only commits violence,

but means by that violence to assail the very existence through which

alone he himself may be said to exist as a citizen, or member of a living

political organism. There is no more alarming feature of the times than

the indifference with which men begin to look upon this foul, unnatural

crime, and even to palliate it under the softened title of “political

offenses,” or a mere difference in political opinions. To punish it is

thought to savor only of barbarism and a barbarous age. If we judge,

however, from the tremendous consequences which must result from its

impunity, ordinary murder can not be named in the comparison. If he who

takes a single life deserves the gallows, of how much sorer punishment

shall he be thought worthy who aims at the life of a nation—a nation, too,

like our own, the world’s last hope, the preservation of whose political

integrity is the most effectual means of INTERVENTION we can employ in

favor of true freedom in every other part of the globe.

And this brings us to our fifth measure of value, but we can only briefly

state it. The world has seen enough of despotism. It is probable, too,

that there will be no lack of lawless popular anarchy. In this view of

things, how precious is every element of constitutional liberty! How

important to have its lamp ever trimmed and burning, as a guide to the

lost, a bright consolation of hope to the despairing! Only keep this light

steadily shining out on the dark sea of despotism, and it will do more for

the tossing and foundering nations than any rash means of help that,

without any avail for good, may only draw down our own noble vessel into

the angry breakers, and engulfing billows of the same shipwreck.

EDITOR’S EASY CHAIR.

Even yet the talk of LOUIS NAPOLEON, and of that audacious action which in

a day transmuted our thriving sister republic, with her regularly-elected

President, and her regularly-made—though somewhat tattered—Constitution,

into a kind of anomalous empire, with only an army, and a Bonaparte to

hold it together—is loud, in every corner of the country. It has seemed

not a little strange, that the man, at whom, three years ago, every one

thought it worth his while to fling a sneer, should have gathered into his

hands, with such deft management, the reins of power, and absolutely

out-manœuvred the bustling little THIERS, and the bold-acting CAVAIGNAC.

Old travelers are recalling their recollection of the spruce looking

gentleman, in white kids, and with unexceptionable beaver, who used to

saunter with one or two mustached companions along Pall-Mall; and who,

some three months after, in even more _recherche_ costume, used to take

his morning drive, with four-in-hand, upon the asphalte surface of the

Paris avenues. There seemed really nothing under cover of his finesse in

air and garb which could work out such long-reaching strategy as he has

just now shown us.

Belabor him as we will, with our honest republican anathemas, there must

yet have been no small degree of long-sightedness belonging to the man who

could transform a government in a day; and who could have laid such finger

to the pulse of a whole army of Frenchmen, as to know their heart-bound to

a very fraction.

The truth is, the French, with the impulse of a quick-blooded race, admire

audacity of any sort; and what will call a shout, will, in nine cases out

of ten, call a welcome. It is not a little hard for a plain,

matter-of-fact American to conceive of the readiness with which the French

army, and all the myrmidons of that glowing republican power, shift their

allegiance—as obedient as an opera chorus to the wink of the _maestro_.

We can ourselves recall the memory of a time when that CHANGARNIER, who is

now a lion in fetters, held such rule over Paris military and Paris

constabulary, that a toss of his thumb would send half the representatives

to prison; and now, there is not so much as a regiment who would venture a

wail for his losses. This offers sad comment on the “thinking capacity” of

bayonets!

What shall we suppose of these hundred thousand scene-shifters in the red

pantaloons? Are they worked upon merely by the Napoleonic champagne to a

change of views; or are they tired of a sham Republic, and willing to take

instead a sham Empire; or have they grown political economists, with new

appreciation of government stability, and a long-sighted eagerness to

secure tranquillity? Or, is not the humbler truth too patent, that their

opinions herd together by a kind of brute sympathy, and are acted upon by

splendor—whether of crime or of munificence; and, moreover, is it not too

clear that those five hundred thousand men who prop the new dynasty with

bayonets, are without any sort of what we call moral education, and rush

to every issue like herds of wild bison—guided solely by instinct?

And would not a little of that sort of education which sets up

school-houses, and spreads newspapers, and books, and Harper’s Magazines

like dew over the length and the breadth of our land, do more toward the

healing of that sick French nation, than the prettiest device of

Constitution, or the hugest five-sous bath-house? Ah, well-a-day, we shall

have little hope for _la belle France_, UNTIL HER ARMY SHOWS INTELLIGENCE,

and HER STATESMEN HONESTY.

We can hardly give this current topic the go-by, without bringing to our

reader’s eye a happy summing up of suppositions in the columns of Punch,

and if our listener will only read Congressional for Parliamentary, and

the _Bentons_ and the _Casses_ for the _Grahames_ and the _Gladstones_, he

may form a very accurate idea of a _Napoleon-Mr.-Fillmore_.

Suppose the head of the Executive, or the Minister for the time being,

were to take it into his head one morning to abolish the Houses of

Parliament.—Suppose some of the members elected by large constituencies

were to think it a duty to go and take their seats, and were to be met at

the doors by swords and bayonets, and were to be wounded and taken off to

prison for the attempt.—Suppose the Minister, having been harassed by a

few Parliamentary debates and discussions, were to send off to Newgate or

the House of Correction a few of the most eminent members of the

Opposition, such as the Disraelis, the Grahames, the Gladstones, the

Barings, and a sprinkling of the Humes, the Wakleys, the Walmsleys, the

Cobdens, and the Brights.—Suppose the press having been found not to agree

with the policy of the Minister, he were to peremptorily stop the

publication of the _Times_, _Herald_, _Chronicle_, _Post_, _Advertiser_,

_Daily News_, _Globe_, &c., &c., and limit the organs of intelligence to

the Government _Gazette_, or one or two other prints that would write or

omit just what he, the Minister, might please.—Suppose, when it occurred

to the public that these measures were not exactly in conformity with the

law, the Minister were to go or send some soldiers down to Westminster

Hall, shut up the Courts, send the Lord Chancellor about his business, and

tell Lords Campbell, Cranworth, and all the rest of the high judicial

authorities, to make the best of their way home.—Suppose a few Members of

Parliament were to sign a protest against these proceedings; and suppose

the documents were to be torn down by soldiers, and the persons signing

them packed off to Coldbath Fields or Pentonville.—Suppose all these

things were to happen with a Parliament elected by Universal Suffrage, and

under a Republican form of Government[.]—And lastly—Suppose we were to be

told that this sort of thing is liberty, and what we ought to endeavor to

get for our own country;—Should we look upon the person telling us so, as

a madman, or a knave, or both? and should we not be justified in putting

him as speedily, and as unceremoniously as possible—outside our doors?

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In our last EASY chat with our readers, we sketched in an off-hand way the

current of the KOSSUTH talk; and we hinted that our enthusiasm had its

fevers and chills; so far as the talk goes, a chilliness has come over the

town since the date of our writing—an unworthy and ungracious chill—but

yet the natural result of a little over-idolatry. As for Congressional

action, no apology can be found, either in moderation or good sense, for

the doubtful and halting welcome which has been shown the great Hungarian.

The question of Government interference in his national quarrel was one

thing; but the question of a welcome to a distinguished and suffering

stranger was quite another. The two, however, have been unfortunately

mingled; and a rude and vulgar effort has been made to prejudge his

mission, by affronting him as a guest. We may be strong enough to brave

Russia, and its hordes of Cossacks; but no country is strong enough to

trample on the laws of hospitality We see the hint thrown out in some

paper of the day, that the slackened sympathy for KOSSUTH, in Washington,

is attributable mainly to the influence of the diplomatic circles of that

city. We fear there may be a great deal of truth in this hint: our

enthusiasm finds volume in every-day chit-chat, and dinner-table talk; it

lives by such fat feeding as gossip supplies; and gossip finds its

direction in the salons of the most popular of entertainers.

Washington has a peculiar and shifting social character—made up in its

winter elements of every variety of manner and of opinion. This manner and

these opinions, however, are very apt to revolve agreeably to what is

fixed at the metropolis; and since the diplomatic circles of the capital

are almost the only permanent social foci of habit and gossip, it is but

natural there should be a convergence toward their action. The fact is by

no means flattering; but we greatly fear that it is pointed with a great

deal of truth.

Our readers will observe, however, that we account in this way only for

the slackened tone of talk, and of salon enthusiasm; nor do we imagine

that any parlor influences whatever of the capital can modify to any

considerable degree, either legislative, or moral action.

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Of Paris, now that she has fallen again into one, of her political

paroxysms, there is little gayety to be noted. And yet it is most

surprising how that swift-blooded people will play the fiddle on the

barricades! Never—the papers tell us—were the receptions at the Elysée

more numerously attended, and never were the dresses richer, or the jewels

more ostentatiously displayed.

Some half dozen brilliant _soirées_ were, it seems, on the _tapis_ at the

date of Louis Napoleon’s manœuvre; the invitations had been sent, and upon

the evenings appointed—a week or more subsequent to the turn of the magic

lantern—the guests presented themselves before closed doors. The occupants

and intended hosts were, it seems, of that timid class living along the

Faubourg St. Honoré and the Faubourg St. Germain, who imagined themselves,

their titles, and their wealth, safer under the wing of King Leopold of

Belgium, than under the shadow of the new-feathered eagle. A thriving

romance or two, they say, belonged to the quiet movements of the Republic.

Thus, the papers make us a pleasant story out of CAVAIGNAC and his

prospective bride, Mademoiselle ODIER. And if we furbish up for the

reading of our country clients, we venture to say that we shall keep as

near the truth as one half of the letter-writers.

For two or three years, it seems that General Cavaignac has been a

constant visitor at the house of the rich banker, M. ODIER, He was

regarded as a friend of the family, and wore the honors of a friend; that

is to say, he had such opportunities of conversation, and for attention in

respect to the daughter of the house, as is rarely accorded to Paris

ladies in their teens. The General looks a man of fifty—he may be less;

but he has a noble carriage, a fine face, and a manner full of dignity and

gentleness. The pretty blonde (for Mlle. Odier is so described), was not

slow to appreciate the captivating qualities of the General. Moreover,

there belonged to her character a romantic tinge, which was lighted up by

the story of the General’s bravery, and of the dauntless way in which he

bore himself through the murderous days of June. In short, she liked him

better than she thought.

The General, on the other hand, somewhat fixed in his bachelor habitude,

and counting himself only a fatherly friend, who could not hope, if he

dared, to quicken any livelier interest—wore imperturbably the dignity and

familiarity of his first manner.

One day—so the story runs—conversation turned upon a recent marriage, in

which the bridegroom was some thirty years the lady’s senior. The General

in round, honest way, inveighed against the man as a deceiver of

innocence, and avowed strongly his belief that such inequality of age was

not only preposterous, but wicked.

Poor Mademoiselle Odier!—her fond heart feeding so long blindly on hope,

lighted by romance and love, could not bear the sudden shock. She grew

pale—paler still, and, to the surprise of the few friends who were

present—fainted.

Even yet the General lived in ignorance; and would perhaps have died in

ignorance, had not some kind friend made known to him the state of Mlle[.]

Odier’s feelings. The General was too gallant a man to be conquered in

loving; and the issue was, in a week, an acknowledged troth of the

banker’s daughter with the General Cavaignac.

Upon the evening preceding the change of the Republic, they were

together—father, daughter, and lover—at the first presentation of a new

play. The marriage was fixed for the week to come. But in view of the

unsettled state of affairs, the General advised a postponement. The next

morning he was a prisoner, on his way to Ham.

He wrote—the gossips tell us—a touching letter to Mademoiselle Odier,

giving up all claim upon her, as a prisoner, which he had so proudly

boasted while free, and assuring her of his unabated devotion.

She wrote—the gossips tell us—that he was dearer to her now than ever.

So the matter stands; with the exception that Cavaignac has been freed,

and that the day of marriage is again a matter of consultation.

May they have a long life, and a happy one—longer and happier than the

life of the Republic!

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The drawing of the “Lottery of Gold” was _the event_ of Paris which

preceded the _coup-d’état_. Some seven millions of tickets had been sold

at a franc each; and the highest prize was, if we mistake not, a sum equal

to a hundred thousand dollars. Interest was of course intense; and the

National Circus, where the lots were drawn, was crowded to its utmost

capacity. The papers give varying accounts as to the fortunate holder of

the ticket drawing the first prize, one account represents her as a poor

washerwoman, and another, as a street porter. A story is told of one poor

fellow who, by a mistaken reading of one figure, imagined himself the

fortunate possessor of the fortune. He invited his friends to a feast, and

indulged in all sorts of joyous folly. The quick revulsion of feeling,

when the truth appeared, was too much for the poor fellow’s brain, and he

is now in the mad-house.

Another equally unfortunate issue is reported of a poor seamstress, who

had spent the earnings of years, amounting to six or seven hundred francs,

upon the chance of a prize, and drew—nothing. She, too, has lost both

money and mind. The affair, however, has had the fortunate result of

taming down wild expectancies, and of destroying the taste for such labor

hating schemes of profit. It were devoutly to be hoped, that a little of

the distaste for moneyed lotteries, would breed a distaste in the French

mind for political lotteries.

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As for affairs at home, they budge on in much the old fashion. The town is

not over-gay—partly through fatigues of last winter, which are not yet

wholly forgotten—partly through a little Wall-street depletion, and partly

through the ugly weather, which has sown catarrhs and coughs with a very

liberal hand.

Poor Jenny Lind—true to her native tenderness of heart, has yielded up the

closing scenes of what would have been a glorious triumph, to the grief at

a mother’s death. She goes away from us mourning, and she leaves behind

her a nation of mourners!

The opera is to tinkle in our ears again—with the symphony of Steffanone,

Benedetti, and the rest. The town takes music quietly this winter, and the

old fashion of listening has almost grown into a habit of appreciation.

The town is building up into a Paris-sided company of streets; and the

seven stories of freestone and marble will soon darken down Broadway into

a European duskiness of hue. The street lights glimmer on such nights as

the almanac tells no story of the moon; and on other nights we draggle as

we may, between clouds and rain—consoling ourselves with the rich city

economy, and hopeful of some future and freer dispensation—of gas.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

For want of some piquancy, which our eye does not catch in the French

journals, we sum up our chit-chat with this pleasant whim-wham of English

flavor:

My man Davis is a bit of a character. If he’s not up to a thing or two, I

should like to know who is. I am often puzzled to know how a man who has

seen so much of life as he has should condescend to have “no objection to

the country,” and to take service with a retired linen-draper, which I am.

I keep a dog-cart, and, not being much of a whip, Davis generally drives.

He has some capital stories; at least I think so; but perhaps it is his

manner of telling them; or perhaps I’m very easily pleased. However,

here’s one of them.

HOW MR. COPER SOLD A HORSE.

“Mr. Coper, as kept the Red Lion Yard, in —— street, was the best to sell

a horse I ever know’d, sir; and I know’d some good ’uns, I have; but he

_was_ the best. He’d look at you as tho’ butter wouldn’t melt in his

mouth, and his small wall-eyes seemed to have no more life in ’em than a

dead whiting’s. My master, Capt. ——, stood his hosses there, and, o’

course, I saw a good deal of Mr. Coper. One day a gent came to look at the

stable, and see if he could buy a hoss. Coper saw in a minute that he knew

nothing about horseflesh, and so was uncommon civil. The first thing he

showed him was a great gray coach-hoss, about seventeen hands and a inch,

with a shoulder like a Erkilus.”

“I suppose you mean Hercules?”

“I suppose I do, sir. The gent was a little man so, o’ course, the gray

was taken in agen, and a Suffolk Punch cob, that ’ud a done for a bishop,

was then run up the yard. But, lor! the little gent’s legs ’ud never have

been of any use to him; they’d a’ stuck out on each side like a

curricle-bar—so he wouldn’t do. Coper showed him three or four others—good

things in their way, but not at all suited to the gent. At last Coper says

to him, with a sort of sigh, ‘Well, sir, I’m afear’d we shan’t make a deal

of it to-day, sir; you’re very particular, as you’ve a right to be, and

I’ll look about, and if I can find one that I think ’ll do, I’ll call on

you.’ By this time he had walked the gent down the stable to opposite a

stall where was a brown hoss, fifteen hands or about, ‘Now there ’ud be

the thing to suit you, sir,’ says he, ‘and I only wish I could find one

like him.’ ‘Why can’t I have him?’ says the gent. ‘Impossible,’ says

Coper. ‘Why impossible?’ says the gent. ‘Because he’s Mrs. Coper’s hoss,

and money wouldn’t buy him of her; he’s perfect, and she knows it.’

‘Well,’ says the gent, getting his steam up, ‘I don’t mind price’ ‘What’s

money to peace of mind?’ says Coper. ‘If I was to sell that hoss, my

missis would worry my life out.’ Well, sir, the more Coper made a

difficulty of selling the hoss, the more the gent wanted to buy, till at

last Coper took him to a coach-hus, as tho’ to be private, and said to him

in a whisper, ‘Well, tell you what I’ll do: I’ll take ninety pounds for

him; perhaps he’s not worth that to every body, but I think he is to you,

who wants a perfect thing, and ready-made for you.’ ‘You’re very kind,’

said the gent, ‘and I’ll give you a check at once.’ ‘But, mind,’ says

Coper, ‘you must fetch him away at night; for if my missus saw him going

out of the yard, I do believe she’d pull a life-guardsman off him. How I

shall pacify her I don’t know! Ninety pounds! why, ninety pounds won’t pay

me for the rows; leave alone the hoss!’

“The gent quite thought Coper was repenting of the bargain, and so walked

away to the little countin’-house, and drew a check for the money. When he

was gone, I burst out a-laughin’; because I know’d Mrs. Coper was as mild

as a bran-mash, and ’ud never a’ dared to blow up her husband; but Coper

wouldn’t have it—he looked as solemn as truth. Well, sir, the horse was

fetched away that night.”

“But why at night, Davis?”

“Because they shouldn’t see his good qualities all at once, I suppose,

sir; for he’d got the Devonshire coat-of-arms on his off knee.”

“Devonshire coat-of-arms?”

“Yes, sir; you see Devonshire’s a very hilly country, and most of the

hosses down there has broken knees, so they calls a speck the Devonshire

coat-of-arms. Well, sir, as Mrs. Coper’s pet shied at every thing and

nothing, and bolted when he warn’t a-shieing, the gent came back in about

a week to Coper.

“ ‘Mr. Coper,’ says he, ‘I can’t get on with that hoss at all—perhaps I

don’t know how to manage him; he goes on so odd that I’am afraid to ride

him; so I thought, as he was such a favorite with Mrs. Coper, you should

have him back again.’

“ ‘Not if you’d give me ninety pounds to do it,’ says Coper, looking as

tho’ he was a-going to bite the gent.

“ ‘Why not?’ says the gent.

“ ‘I wouldn’t go through what I have gone through,’ says Coper, hitting

the stable-door with his fist enough to split it, ‘not for twice the

money. Mrs. Coper never left off rowing for two days and nights, and how I

should a’ stopped her, I don’t know, if luck hadn’t stood my friend; but I

happened to meet with a hoss the very moral of the one you’ve got, only

perhaps just a leetle better, and Mrs. C. took to him wonderful. I

wouldn’t disturb our domestic harmony by having that hoss of yourn back

again, not for half the Bank of England.’ Now the gent was a very

tender-hearted man, and believed all that Coper told him, and kept the

hoss; but what he did with him I can’t think, for he was the wiciousest

screw as ever put his nose in a manger.”

EDITOR’S DRAWER.

We placed on record, not long since in the “Drawer,” two or three

anecdotes of the pomposity and copied manners of New England negroes, in

the olden time. Here is another one, that seems to us quite as laughable

as the specimens to which we have alluded. It is not quite certain, but

rather more than probable, that the minister who takes a part in the story

was the same clergyman who said, in conversation with a distinguished

Puritan divine, that he could “write six sermons a week and make nothing

of it.” “Precisely!” responded the other; “you _would_ make _just_ nothing

of your sermons!” But to the story.

There were a good many colored people in Massachusetts many years ago, and

one of them, an old and favorite servant, was held by a clergyman in one

of the easternmost counties of the State. His name was Cuffee; and he was

as pompous and imitative as the CÆSAR, whose master “libbed wid him down

on de Plains,” in Connecticut. He presumed a good deal upon his age and

consequence, and had as much liberty to do as he pleased as any body in

the house. On the Sabbath he was always in the minister’s pew, looking

around with a grand air, and, so far as appearances went or indicated,

profiting as much by his master’s rather dull preaching as any of the

congregation around him who were pretending to listen.

One Sunday morning Cuffee noticed that several gentlemen in the

neighborhood of his master’s pew had taken out their pencils, and were

taking notes of the discourse; either because it was more than usually

interesting, or because they wished it to be seen by the parson that they

_thought_ it was. Cuffee determined that he would follow the example thus

set him; so in the afternoon he brought a sheet of paper and pen and

ink-horn to church with him. His master, looking down from his pulpit into

his pew, could hardly maintain his gravity, as he saw his servant “spread

out” to his task, his great red tongue out, and one side of his face

nearly touching the paper. Cufee applied himself vigorously to his notes,

until his master had come to his “sixteenth and lastly,” and “in view of

this subject we remark, in the eighth and last place,” &c., knowing

nothing all the while, and caring just as little, about the wonderment of

his master, who was occasionally looking down upon him.

When the minister reached home, he sent for Cufee to come into his study.

“Well, Cuffee,” said he, “what was that I saw you doing in meeting this

afternoon?”

“Me, massa?—w’at was _I_ a-doin?”

“Yes, Cuffee; what was that you were about, in stead of listening to the

sermon?”

“I was a-listenin’ _hard_, massa, and I was _takin’ notes_.”

“You taking notes!” exclaimed the minister.

“Sartain, massa; all de oder gem’men take notes too.”

“Well, Cuffee, let us _see_ your notes,” said his master.

Hereupon Cuffee produced his sheet of paper. It was scrawled all over with

all sorts of marks and lines; worse than if a dozen spiders, escaped from

an ink-bottle, had kept up a day’s march over it. It would have puzzled

Champollion himself to have unraveled its mysteries.

The minister looked over the notes, as if with great attention, and at

length said,

“Why, Cuffee, this is all nonsense!”

“E’yah! e’yah!” replied Cuffee; “I t’ought so myse’f, all de time you was

a-preachin’! Dat’s a fac’! E’yah! e’yah!”

The minister didn’t tell the story himself, being rather shy about the

conclusion. It leaked out, however, through Cuffee, one day, and his

master “never heard the last of it.”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

In a play which we once read, there is a physician introduced, who comes

to prescribe to a querulous, nervous old gentleman. His advice and

directions as to what he is to do, &c., greatly annoy the excitable old

man; but his _prescriptions_ set him half crazy. He calls to the servant

in a voice like a Stentor—although a moment before he had described that

organ as “all gone, doctor—a mere penny-whistle”—and ordered him to “kick

the doctor down stairs, and pay him at the street-door!” “Calls himself

one of the ‘_faculty_?’ ” growled the old invalid, after the physician had

left in high dudgeon, and vowing vengeance; “calls himself one of the

faculty; stupid old ass! with his white choker and gold-headed cane, and

shrugs, and sighs, and solemn looks: ‘faculty!’—why he hasn’t _got_ a

faculty! never _had_ a faculty!” We thought, at the time of reading this,

of an anecdote which had lain for years in our “Drawer,” of the British

actress, in one of the provincial towns of England, who was preparing to

enact the solemnly tragic character of “Jane Shore,” in the historical and

instructive drama of that name, which is richly worth perusal, for the

lesson which it teaches of the ultimate punishment of vice, even in its

most seductive form. The actress was in her dressing-room, preparing for

the part, when her attendant, an ignorant country girl, informed her that

a woman had called to request of her two orders for admission, to witness

the performance of the play, her daughter and herself having walked four

miles on purpose to see it.

“Does she _know_ me?” inquired the lady.

“Not at all; leastways she _said_ she didn’t,” replied the girl.

“It is very strange!” said the lady—“a most extraordinary request! Has the

good woman got her _faculties_ about her?”

“I think she _have_, ma’am,” responded the girl, “for I see her have

summat tied up in a red silk handkercher!”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

One seldom meets with a truer thing than the following observations by a

quaint and witty author upon what are termed, less by way of “eminence,”

perhaps, rather than “notoriety,” _Great Talkers_:—“Great Talkers not only

do the least, but generally _say_ the least, if their words be weighed

instead of reckoned.” He who labors under an incontinence of speech seldom

gets the better of his complaint; for he must prescribe for himself, and

is very sure of having a fool for his physician. Many a chatterbox might

pass for a shrewd man, if he would keep his own secret, and put a

drag-chain now and then upon his tongue. The largest minds have the

smallest opinion of themselves; for their knowledge impresses them with

humility, by showing them the extent of their ignorance, and the discovery

makes them taciturn. Deep waters are still. Wise men generally talk

little, because they think much. Feeling the annoyance of idle loquacity

in others, they are cautious of falling into the same error, and keep

their mouths shut when they can not open them to the purpose. The smaller

the _calibre_ of the mind, the greater the _bore_ of a perpetually open

mouth. Human heads are like hogsheads—the emptier they are, the louder

report they give of themselves. I know human specimens who never think;

they only _think_ they think. The clack of their word-mill is heard, even

when there is no wind to set it going, and no grist to come from it. A

distinguished Frenchman, of the time of Cardinal Richelieu, being in the

antechamber of that wily statesman, on one occasion, at the time that a

great talker was loudly and incessantly babbling, entreated him to be

silent, lest he might annoy the cardinal.

“Why do you wish me not to speak?” asked the chatterbox; “I talk a good

deal, certainly, but then I talk well.”

“_Half_ of that is true!” retorted the sarcastic Frenchman.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

It is getting to be a rather serious business for a man to stand up, in

these modern days, in a court of justice as a witness. What with

impertinent questions of all sorts, and the impudent “bullyragging” of

counsel, he is a fortunate and self-possessed man if he is not nearly at

his wits’ end before he comes off from that place of torture, a

witness-stand. “Moreover, and which is more,” as Dogberry would say, when

he _comes_ off, he has not escaped; for now the reporters take him up; and

in a little paragraph, inclosed in brackets, we hear somewhat of his

character, personal appearance, &c., something after the following

fashion:

“[Mr. Jenkins is a small, restless, fidgety man, with little black eyes,

one of which has a remarkable inward inclination toward the nose, which

latter feature of his face turns up slightly, and indicates, by its color,

the influence upon it of alcoholic fluids. He is lame of one leg, and wore

a drab roundabout. As he left the stand, we observed a patch on the north

side of his pantaloons, which evidenced ‘premeditated poverty.’ Mr.

Jenkins was an extremely willing witness.”]

If the witness is so fortunate as to escape the foregoing species of

counsel, he may fall into the hands of _another_ description; namely, the

ambitious young advocate, who, as “the _learned_ counsel,” considers it

incumbent upon him to use high-sounding words, in order to impress both

the jury and the witness with the extent of his legal acquirements, and

the depth of his erudition generally.

Such a “counsel” it was, who, some years ago, in Albany, had assumed the

management of the defense in a case of assault and battery which had

occurred in that good old Dutch city. The witness, a not over-clear-headed

Irishman, was placed upon the stand, where he was thus interrogated:

“Your name, you say, is Maloney?”

“Yes, Si-r-r; Maloney is me name, and me mother’s name that bore me; long

life to her in the owld counthry!”

“We don’t wish to hear any thing of the ‘ould counthry,’ Mr. Maloney,”

said the “witty” counsel “Mr. Maloney, do you know my client?”

“Sir?” asked Mr. Maloney, in a monosyllable.

“Do you know _this_ man?” pointing to his client[.]

“Yes, Sir-r-r, I seen him wance-t.”

“Well, Mr. Maloney, did you see that man, that individual sitting at your

right hand, did you see him raise his muscular arm, and endeavor to arouse

the passions and excite the fears of my client?”

“Sir?” again asked the witness.

“The Court will please note the hesitancy of the witness. Let me ask you

the _second_ time, Mr. Maloney, did you have an uninterrupted view, were

your optics undimmed, when the plaintiff by your side, the individual in

question, raised his muscular arm, and with malice prepense and murder

aforethought, assaulted the person of my client, in violation of the laws

of the country _and_ of the State of New York?”

“Sir?” said the witness, inquiringly, for the third time.

“Would it not be well, Mr. ——,” suggested the justice upon the bench to

the “learned counsel,” “to put your question to the witness in simpler and

more direct terms?”

“_Perhaps_ so, your honor. The witness is either very stupid or very

designing. Well then, Mr Maloney, you see that man, the plaintiff there,

don’t you?”

“Sure, I sees that man plain enough foreaninst me here, but I didn’t know

he was a _plaintiff_. He might ha’ been a tinker, for all _I_ knew about

it.”

“Well, Mr. Maloney, you see him _now_, at least. Now, sir, do you see

_this_ man, my client?” laying his hand upon the defendant’s shoulder.

“Bedad I _do_, yer honor; I’m not a mole nor a bat, yer honor.”

“Very well, Mr. Maloney. Now, Mr. Maloney, did you see _that_ man strike

_this_ man?”

“I _did_, yer honor, and knock him flat. Faix! but ’twas a big blow! ’Twas

like the kick ov a horse!”

“Your question is answered, Mr. Counsel,” said the magistrate, “and your

testimony is now in.”

Dryden’s lesson, that “it needs all we know to make things _plain_,” is

somewhat illustrated by this actual occurrence.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Many a disciple of Lavater and of Spurzheim will tell you that physiology

and phrenology are each, and of themselves, infallible tests of character.

But, as Robert Burns sings:

“The best-laid schemes of mice and men

Gang aft aglee:”

a fact which was very humorously illustrated at the recent trial of the

Michigan railroad conspirators. A man entered the crowded court-room one

day, during the progress of the long-protracted trial, and looking eagerly

around, asked of a by-stander which were the prisoners? A wag, without

moving a muscle, pointed to the jury-box, and said.

“_There_ they are, in that box!”

“I _thought_ so!” said the inquirer, in a whisper. “What a set of

gallows-looking wretches they are! If there’s any thing in physiology and

phrenology, they _deserve_ hanging, any how!”

The jury were all “picked men” of that region!

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

It is a good many years ago now, since we laughed a good hour by

“Shrewsbury Clock” at the following description, by the hero of a native

romance bearing his name, of the manner and bearing of New York Dry Goods

“Drummers.” The scene succeeds the history of the hero’s first

acquaintance with a “drummer;” who, mistaking him for a country “dealer,”

had given him his card on board of a steamboat, taken him to his hotel in

town, sent him his wine, given him tickets to the theatre, and requested

him to call at his store in Hanover-square, where it was his intention to

turn these courtesies to profitable account. On a bright pleasant morning,

accordingly, our hero visits the store, where Mr. Lummocks, the drummer,

receives him with open arms, and introduces him to his employer. But we

will now let him tell the story in his own words; and DICKENS has seldom

excelled the picture:

“He shook me heartily by the hand, and said he was really delighted to see

me. He asked me how the times were, and offered me a cigar, which I took,

for fear of giving offense, but which I threw away the very first

opportunity I got.

“ ‘Buy for cash, or on time?’ he asked.

“I was a little startled at the question, it was so abrupt; but I replied,

‘For cash.’

“ ‘Would you like to look at some prints, major?’ he inquired.

“ ‘I am made obliged to you,’ I answered; ‘I am very fond of seeing

prints.’

“With that he commenced turning over one piece of calico after another,

with amazing rapidity.

“ ‘There, major—very desirable article—splendid style—only two-and-six:

cheapest goods in the street.’

“Before I could make any reply, or even guess at his meaning, he was

called away, and Mr. Lummocks stepped up and supplied his place.

“ ‘You had better buy ’em, colonel,’ said Mr. Lummocks; ‘they will sell

like hot cakes. Did you say you bought for cash?’

“ ‘Of _course_,’ I said, ‘if I buy at all.’

“He took a memorandum out of his pocket, and looked in it for a moment.

“ ‘Let me see,’ said he, ‘Franco, Franco—what did you say your firm was?

Something and Franco, or Franco and Somebody? The name has escaped me.’

“ ‘I have no firm,’ I replied.

“ ‘O, you haven’t, hain’t ye? all alone, eh? But I don’t see that I’ve got

your first name down in my “tickler.” ’

“ ‘My first name is Harry,’ said I.

“ ‘Right—yes—I remember,’ said Mr. Lummocks, making a memorandum; ‘and

your references, colonel, who did you say were your references?’

“ ‘I have no reference,’ I replied; ‘indeed I know of no one to whom I

could refer, except my father.’

“ ‘What—the old boy in the country, eh?’

“ ‘My father is in the country,’ I answered, seriously, not very well

pleased to hear my parent called the ‘Old Boy.’

“ ‘Then you have no _city_ references, eh?’

“ ‘None at all: I have no friends here, except yourself.’

“ ‘Me!’ exclaimed Mr. Lummocks, apparently in great amazement. ‘Oh,

oh!—but how much of a bill do you mean to make with us, captain?’

“ ‘Perhaps I may buy a vest-pattern,’ I replied, ‘if you have got some

genteel patterns.’

“ ‘_A vest-pattern!_’ exclaimed Mr. Lummocks; ‘what! haven’t you come down

for the purpose of buying goods?’

“ ‘No, sir,’ I replied: ‘I came to New York to seek for employment; and as

you had shown me so many kind attentions, I thought you would be glad to

assist me in finding a situation.’

“Mr. Lummock’s countenance underwent a very singular change when I

announced my reasons for calling on him.

“ ‘Do you see any thing that looks _green_ in there?’ he asked, pulling

down his eyelid with his forefinger.

“ ‘No, sir, I do not,’ I replied, looking very earnestly into his eye.

“ ‘Nor in _there_, either?’ said he, pulling open his other eye.

“ ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ I replied, after a minute examination.

“ ‘I guess _not!_’ said Mr. Lummocks; and without making any other answer,

he turned on his heel and left me.

“ ‘Regularly sucked, eh, Jack?’ asked a young man who had been listening

to our conversation.

“ ‘Don’t mention it!’ said Mr. Lummocks; ‘the man is a fool.’ ”

Our friend was about to demand an explanation of this strange conduct,

when the proprietor came forward and told him that he was not a retailer

but a _jobber_, and advised him, “if he wanted a vest-pattern, to go into

Chatham-street!”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

He must have been a good deal of an observer, and something of a

philosopher also, who wrote as follows, in a unique paper, some fifteen

years ago:

“Man is never contented. He is the fretful baby of trouble and care, and

he will continue to worry and fret, no matter how pretty are the

playthings that are laid before him to please him. He will sometimes fret

because he can _find nothing to fret about_. I’ve known just such men

myself. If he were bound to live in this world forever, he would fret

because he couldn’t leave and go to another, ‘just for a change;’ and now,

seeing that sooner or later he _must_ go, and no mistake, he frets like a

caged porcupine, and thinks he would like to live here always. The fact

is, he don’t know _what_ he wants.

“I’ve seen about enough of this world myself. For forty years I’ve been

searching every nook and corner for some pleasant spring of happiness,

instead of which I have only found a few flood-swollen streams, bearing

upon their surface innumerable bubbles of vanity, _and all along by their

margins nests of young humbugs are continually being hatched_. I have

drunk of these waters nigh unto bursting, and have always departed as dry

as a cork.

“In fact, I’ve been kicked about like an old hat, nearly used up by the

flagellations of Old Time, and am now feeling the way with my cane down to

the silent valley. But, yet, I’m happy—‘happy as a clam at high water.’ I

sleep like a top, but I don’t eat as much as I used to. Oh! it is a

blessed thing to lie down at night with a light stomach, and a lighter

conscience! You ought to _see_ me sleep sometimes! The way I ‘take it easy

is a caution to children!’ ”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

It may not be new, but whether new or not, it is worthy of being repeated

to our readers, the beautiful reply of a little lad to an English bishop,

who said to him, one day, “If you will tell me where GOD is, I’ll give you

an orange.” “If you will tell me where HE is _not_,” promptly responded

the little fellow, “I will give you _two!_” Better than all earthly logic

was the simple faith of this trusting child.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Here is an awful “fixed fact” for snuff-takers! Perhaps the “Statistics of

Snuff and Sneezing” may yet form a part of some remote census of these

United States:

“It has been very exactly calculated, that in forty years, two entire

years of the snuff-taker’s life are devoted to tickling his nose, and two

more to the sonorous and agreeable processes of blowing and wiping it,

with other incidental circumstances!”

How about “Statistics of Chewing?”—the time employed in selecting,

inserting, rolling, and ejecting the quid?—the length of the yellow lines

at the corners of the mouth, in the aggregate?—the lakes of saliva,

spirted, squirted, spit, sprinkled, and drizzled? We commend the pregnant

theme to some clever American statist. Ah! well would it be if we be

stowed half the time in making ourselves agreeable, that we waste in

rendering ourselves offensive to our friends!

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

The late lamented JOHN SANDERSON, the witty author of “The American in

Paris,” speaking of Père La Chaise, says: “A Frenchman, who enjoys life so

well, is, of all creatures, the least concerned at leaving it. He only

wishes to be buried in the great Parisian burying-ground; and often

selects his marble of the finest tints for his monument, and has his

coffin made, and his grave dug in advance.” A lady told the author, with

great _empressement_, that she had rather _not die at all_, than to die

and be buried any where except in Père La Chaise!

LITERARY NOTICES

Harper and Brothers have published an edition of LAYARD’s _Popular Account

of Discoveries at Nineveh_, being an abridgment of his large work on the

same subject, by the author himself. In this edition, the principal

Biblical and historical illustrations are introduced into the narrative.

No changes on any material points of opinion or fact are made in the

narrative, as more recent discoveries have confirmed the original

statements of the author. The present form of the work will no doubt be

highly acceptable to the public. With as much condensation as was admitted

by the nature of the subject, and at a very moderate expense, the curious

researches of Mr. Layard are here set forth, throwing an interesting light

on numerous topics of Biblical antiquity, and Oriental customs in general.

_Memoirs of the Great Metropolis_, by F. SAUNDERS (published by G. P.

Putnam), is not only a convenient and instructive guide-book for the

traveler in England, but contains numerous literary allusions and

reminiscences, illustrating the haunts of celebrated authors. The writer

is evidently familiar with his subject from personal observation; he is at

home in the antique nooks and corners of the British capital; and, at the

same time, making a judicious use of the best authorities, he has produced

a volume filled with valuable information, and a variety of amusing

matter. We advise our friends who are about packing up for a European tour

to remember this pleasant book, and if it should not be able to alleviate

the misery of sea-sickness, it will at least prepare them for an

intelligent examination of the curiosities of London.

_Dream Life: A Fable of the Seasons_, by IK. MARVEL. (Published by Charles

Scribner.) A new volume in the same vein of meditative pathos, and quaint,

gentle humor as the delightful “Reveries of a Bachelor,”—perhaps, indeed,

bearing too great an affinity with that unique volume to follow it in such

rapid succession. The daintiest cates most readily produce a surfeit, and

it is not strange that the pure Hyblæan sweetness of these delicious

compositions should pall upon the sense by a too luxurious indulgence.

With a writer of less variety of resource than Ik. Marvel, it would not be

worth while to advance such a criticism; but we are perverse enough to

demand of him not only pre-eminence in a favorite sphere, but a more

liberal taste of other qualities, of which we have often had such pleasant

inklings.

In this volume we have the “Dreams” of the Four Seasons, Boyhood, Youth,

Manhood, and Age, in which the experience of those epochs is set forth in

a soft, imaginative twilight, diversified with passages of felicitous

description, and with genuine strains of tender, pathetic beauty, which

could come only from the heart of genius. His home-life in the country is

a perpetual source of inspiration to Ik. Marvel, in his highest and best

creations. He describes rural scenes with a freshness and veracity, which

is the exclusive privilege of early recollections. In this respect, “the

child is father to the man.” His pages are fragrant with the clover-fields

and new hay, in which he sported when a child. With feelings unworn by the

world, he lives over again the “dreams of his youth,” which are so richly

peopled with fair and sad visions, drawing an abundant supply of materials

for his exquisite imagination to shape, and reproducing them in forms that

are equally admirable for their tenderness and their truth. What a

striking contrast does he present to those writers who trust merely to

fancy without the experience of life—whose rural pictures remind you of

nature as much as the green and red paint of an artificial flower reminds

you of a rose.

In the Dedication of this volume to Washington Irving, the author

gracefully alludes to the influence of that consummate master in enabling

him to attain the “facility in the use of language, and the fitness of

expression in which to dress his thoughts,” which any may suppose to be

found in his writings. This is a beautiful testimony, alike honorable to

the giver and the receiver. The frankness with which the acknowledgment is

made, shows a true simplicity of purpose, altogether above the sphere of a

weak personal vanity. And the contagious action of Mr. Irving’s literary

example on susceptible, generous minds can scarcely be overrated. The

writers now on the stage are more indebted to that noble veteran than they

are apt to remember, for the polished refinement of expression which he

was the first to make the fashion in this country. They may indeed

discover no more resemblance between Mr. Irving’s style and their own,

than there is between that of Mr. Irving and Ik. Marvel. In this case, we

confess, we should not have suspected the relation alluded to by the

latter. We trace other and stronger influences in the formation of his

style than the example of Mr. Irving. But the beneficial effect of a great

master of composition is not to be estimated by the resemblance which it

produces to himself. The artist does not study the works of Raphael or

Michael Angelo in order to imitate their characteristics. His purpose is

rather to catch the spirit of beauty which pervades their productions, and

to learn the secret of method by which it was embodied. In like manner,

the young writer can not yield himself to the seductive charm of Mr.

Irving’s golden periods, and follow the liquid, melodious flow of his

enchanting sentences, without a revelation of the beautiful mysteries of

expression, and a new sense of the sweetness and harmony of the language

which he is to make his instrument. He may be entirely free from conscious

imitation, but he has received a virtue which can not fail to be

manifested in his own endeavors. If he be a man of original genius, like

Ik. Marvel, he may not indicate the source from which his mind has derived

such vigorous impulses; but his obligation is no less real; though instead

of reproducing the wholesome leaves on which his spirit has fed, he weaves

them into the shining and comely robes that are at once the dress and the

adornment of his own thoughts.

_Florence Sackville_ (Harper and Brothers), is the title of a highly

successful English novel, dedicated to the poet Rogers. In the form of an

autobiography, the heroine relates the incidents of her life, which are

marked by a great variety of experience, including many passages of

terrible suffering and tragic pathos. The story is sustained with uncommon

power; the characters in the plot are admirably individualized; showing a

deep insight into human nature, and a rare talent for depicting the

recondite workings of passion. A lofty and pure religious sentiment

pervades the volume, and deepens the effect of the thrilling narrative.

_Clovernook_, by ALICE CAREY. (Published by Red field). The author of this

series of rural sketches enjoys a well-earned reputation as a poet of

uncommon imaginative power, with a choice and expressive diction. Her

specimens of prose-writing in this beautiful volume will serve to enhance

her literary fame. They consist of recollections of Western life,

described with great accuracy of detail, and embellished with the natural

coloring of a picturesque fancy. Few more characteristic or charming books

have recently issued from the American press.

A new edition of that quaint, ingenious allegory, _Salander and the

Dragon_, by FREDERIC WILLIAM SHELTON, has been published by John S.

Taylor. We are glad to find that the originality and fine moral painting

of this remarkable work have found such just appreciation.

_The First Woman_ is the title of an instructive essay on the female

character, by Rev. GARDINER SPRING. It is written with clearness and

strength, and contains several passages of chaste eloquence. The author

would establish the position of woman on the old platform, without

yielding to the modern outcry for the extension of her rights. (Published

by M. W. Dodd).

A volume of _Select Poetry for Children and Youth_, with an Introduction,

by TRYON EDWARDS, D.D., is published by M. W. Dodd. It is based upon an

English selection of acknowledged merit, but with important additions and

improvements by the American editor. Excellent taste is shown in its

preparation, and it must prove a welcome resource for the mental

entertainment of the family circle.

_The Sovereigns of the Bible_, by ELIZA R. STEELE (published by M. W.

Dodd), describes, in simple narrative style, the influence of monarchy in

the political history of the chosen nation. Closely following the Old

Testament account, it is in a great measure free from the tawdry finery,

gingerbread work, and German-silver splendor which shine with such

dazzling radiance in many modern attempts to improve the style of the

sacred records.

_The Snow-Image and Other Twice-told Tales_, by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

(Boston: Ticknor, Reed, and Fields). This collection of stories is

introduced with a racy preface, giving a bit of the author’s literary

autobiography. The volume is not inferior in interest to its fascinating

predecessors.

_Summerfield; or, Life on a Farm_, by DAY KELLOGG LEE. (Auburn: Derby and

Miller). This volume belongs to an order of composition which requires a

true eye for nature, a genial sympathy with active life, and a happy

command of language for its successful execution. The present author

exhibits no ordinary degree of these qualities. His book is filled with

lively pictures of country life, presented with warmth and earnestness of

feeling, and singularly free from affectation and pretense. It finely

blends the instructive with the amusing, aiming at a high moral purpose,

but without the formality of didactic writing. We give a cordial welcome

to the author, and believe that he will become a favorite in this

department of composition. The volume is issued in excellent style, and

presents a very creditable specimen of careful typography.

_The Podesta’s Daughter and other Poems_, by GEO. H. BOKER. (Philadelphia:

A. Hart). The principal poem in this volume is a dramatic sketch, founded

on Italian life in the Middle Ages. It is written with terseness and

vigor, displaying a chaste and powerful imagination, with an admirable

command of the appropriate language of poetry. The volume contains several

miscellaneous pieces, including snatches of songs and sonnets, which

evince a genuine artistic culture, and give a brilliant promise on the

part of the youthful poet.

_What I Saw in New York_, by JOEL H. ROSS, M.D. (Auburn: Derby and

Miller). A series of popular sketches of several of the principal objects

of interest in our “Great Metropolis.” The author has walked about the

streets with his eyes wide open, noticing a multiplicity of things which

are apt to escape the negligent observer, and has described them in a

familiar conversational tone, which is not a little attractive. Strangers

who are visiting New York for the first time will find an abundant store

of convenient information in this well-filled volume—and all the better

for the agreeable manner in which it is conveyed.

A useful volume for the emigrant and traveler, and for the student of

geography as well, has been issued by J.H. Colton, entitled _Western

Portraiture_, by DANIEL S. CURTIS. It contains a description of Wisconsin,

Illinois, and Iowa, with remarks on Minnesota, and other Territories. In

addition to the valuable practical information which it presents in a

lucid manner, it gives several curious pictures of social life and natural

scenery in the West. No one who wishes to obtain a clear idea of the

resources of this country should fail to consult its very readable pages.

One of the most important London publications of the present season,

_Lectures on the History of France_, by Sir JAMES STEPHEN, is just issued

by Harper and Brothers in one elegant octavo volume. They were delivered

before the University of Cambridge, and comprise a series of brilliant,

discursive commentaries on the salient points of French history, from the

time of Charlemagne to that of Louis XIV. Of the twenty-four Lectures

which compose the volume, three are devoted to the “Power of the Pen in

France,” and discuss in a masterly style, the character and influence of

Abeilard, Bernard, Montaigne, Descartes, Pascal, and other eminent French

writers. Apart from its valuable political disquisitions, no recent work

can compare with this volume as a contribution to the history of

literature.

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Among the works in preparation by Messrs. Black is a _Memoir of the late

Lord Jeffrey_, by his friend Lord COCKBURN. This biography will possess

peculiar interest, from Lord Jeffrey’s literary position as one of the

originators, and for so many years editor of the _Edinburgh Review_. His

connection with Byron, originating in fierce hostility, and terminating in

warm friendship, as well as his connection with many other distinguished

men, and the grace of his epistolary style, will also impart an

interesting character to its contents.

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Mr. JERDAN is proceeding rapidly with his _Autobiography and

Reminiscences_, the commencement of which will relate to the youth of some

of the highest dignitaries of the law now living, and the sequel will

illustrate, from forty years of intimacy, the character and acts of George

Canning, and nearly all the leading statesmen, politicians, _literati_,

and artists, who have flourished within that period.

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It is reported that Lord BROUGHAM is beguiling his sick leisure at Cannes,

with the composition of a work to be entitled, _France and England before

Europe in 1851_, a social and political parallel of the two foremost

nations of the world.

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An English _Memoir of the Last Emperor of China_ is announced from the pen

of Dr. GUTZLAFF, the lately-deceased and well-known missionary to that

strange empire, from which intelligent tidings are always welcome.

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A second edition is printing of CARLYLE’S _Life of Sterling_. His first

book the fine _Life of Schiller_, took some five-and-twenty years to

attain the second-editionship, which is bestowed upon his latest book

after as many days.

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A second edition is under way of the Rev. CHARLES KINGSLEY’S glowing

novel, _Yeast_, which is regarded by many as the best of all his books,

dealing as it does with the rural scenes and manners which are familiar to

him at first-hand.

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The last announcement of a new work in the department of history or

biography is that of a forthcoming Life of Admiral BLAKE, “based almost

entirely on original documents,” by Mr. HEPWORTH DIXON, the biographer of

JOHN HOWARD and WILLIAM PENN, and the delineator of London prisons. Mr.

Dixon has a taste for the selection of “safe” subjects, and ROBERT BLAKE

is surely one of the “safest” that could be chosen. The Nelson of the

Commonwealth, without Nelson’s faults and frailties.

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An elegant translation of CHARLES DICKENS’S works, well got up, and well

printed, is being published in Copenhagen. The first part commences with

_David Copperfield_, from the pen of Herr MOLTKE.

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The collected poems of D. M. MOIR, the “Delta” of _Blackwood_, lately

deceased, are announced by the Messrs. Blackwood, with a memoir by THOMAS

AIRD. “Delta” was an amiable and benevolent surgeon, at Musselburgh, a

little fishing village, a few miles east of Edinburgh, and had nothing

about him of the conceit which a little literary fame generally begets in

the member of a trifling provincial circle. Whether his musical and rather

melancholy verses will be long remembered is doubtful; but a tolerably

enduring reputation is probably secured to his _Mansie Wauch_, a genial

portraiture of a Scottish village-original, in its way quite as racy,

though not so caustic, as GALT’S best works in the same line. Mr. Thomas

Aird, his biographer, is the editor of a Dumfries newspaper, and himself a

man of original genius. D. M. Moir, by the way, ought not to be confounded

with his namesake and fellow contributor to _Blackwood_, GEORGE MOIR, the

Edinburgh advocate, a man of much greater accomplishment, the translator

of SCHILLER’S _Wallenstein_, and author of the _Fragments from the History

of John Bull_, a satire on modern reform, in the manner of Dean SWIFT’S

_Tale of a Tub_.

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The Council of King’s College, London, have appointed Mr. JAMES STEPHEN,

son of Sergeant Stephen, author of the _Commentaries_, to the

Professorship of English Law and Jurisprudence, vacant by the resignation

of Mr. Bullock.

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At Belfast, the Chair of Logic and Metaphysics has been, by the Lord

Lieutenant, assigned to Dr. JAMES M’COSH, a minister of the Free Church of

Scotland, author of one of the most profound works that have appeared of

late years—_The Method of the Divine Government, Physical and Moral._

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Mr. HAYWARD, the translator of Faust, has written to _The Morning

Chronicle_ to insist on the improbability that there is any truth in a

paragraph which has been going the round of the papers, and which

described the late convert to Catholicism, the fair and vagrant Ida,

Countess von HAHN-HAHN, as parading herself in the streets of Berlin in

the guise of a haggard penitent, literally clad in sackcloth and ashes!

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Lord MAHON, in the last volume of his _History of England_ that has been

published, has a good deal to say upon Junius, and his decision upon that

vexed topic will be heard with interest: “But who was Junius?... I will

not affect to speak with doubt when no doubt exists in my mind. From the

proofs adduced by others, and on a clear conviction of my own, I affirm

that the author of Junius was no other than Sir Philip Francis.” The

_Literary Gazette_ also says, “We are as much convinced that Sir Philip

Francis was Junius as that George III. was king of Great Britain.”

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In an elaborate article on the intellectual character of KOSSUTH, the

_London Athenæum_ remarks, “Of the minor merits of this remarkable man,

his command of the English language is perhaps that which creates the

largest amount of wonder. With the exception of an occasional want of

idiom, the use of a few words in an obsolete sense, and a habit of

sometimes carrying (German fashion) the infinitive verb to the end of a

sentence—there is little to distinguish M. Kossuth’s English from that of

our great masters of eloquence. Select, yet copious and picturesque, it is

always. The combinations—we speak of his words as distinct from the

thoughts that lie in them—are often very happy. We can even go so far as

to say that he has enriched and utilized our language; the first by using

unusual words with extreme felicity, the latter by proving to the world

how well the pregnant and flexible tongue of Shakspeare adapts itself to

the expression of a genius and a race so remote from the Saxon as the

Magyar.”

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The Chancellorship of the Dublin University, vacant by the death of the

King of Hanover, has been conferred on Lord JOHN GEORGE BERESFORD, the

primate of Ireland.

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The Scotch Journals announce the death of one whose name is familiar to

many of the scholars of this country, Mr. GEORGE DUNBAR, professor of

Greek Literature in the University of Edinburgh.

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The Rev. Dr. SADLEIR, Fellow and Provost of Trinity College, Dublin, died

suddenly on the 14th of December, He was a man of liberal views and

charitable feelings, and although in a society not remarkable for

catholicity of spirit, his advocacy of all measures of progress and

freedom was uniform and zealous. He was appointed to the provostship by

the Crown in 1837.

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Among recent deaths of literary men, we note that of BASIL MONTAGUE, best

known as the editor of the works of Lord Bacon. He was an illegitimate son

of the famous Earl of Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty, by the

unfortunate Miss Reay, who was assassinated in 1779, by the Rev. Mr.

Hackman, her betrothed lover. The tragic story is told in all the London

guide-books, as well as in collections of celebrated trials. Mr. Basil

Montague studied for the law, and rose to a high standing in the

profession. He was called to the bar by the Honorable Society of Gray’s

Inn, in 1798. On the _Law of Bankruptcy_ he published some valuable

treatises, the reputation of which gained him a commissionership. With

Romilly and Mackintosh he worked diligently for the mitigation of the

severity of the penal code. On capital punishments he wrote several

pamphlets, which attracted much public notice. Besides his edition of

_Bacon_, with an original biography, he published _Selections from Taylor,

Hooker, Hall, and Bacon_. He died at Boulogne, on the 27th of November, in

the 82d year of his age.

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From France we can expect no more literature for some time, and we must

think ourselves fortunate that GUIZOT’S two new works reached us before

“society was saved,” as the man says who has earned the execration of the

world. These two works are _Etudes Morales_ and _Etudes sur les Beaux

Arts_. The former contains essays on Immortality, on the state of Religion

in modern society, on Faith, and a lengthy treatise on Education. The

second is interesting, as showing us Guizot criticising Art.

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A curious work, entitled, _Les Murailles Revolutionnaires_ (Revolutionary

Walls), has been published in Paris. It contains the proclamations,

decrees, addresses, appeals, warnings, denunciations, remonstrances,

counsels, professions of faith, plans of political reconstruction, and

schemes of social regeneration, which were stuck on the walls of Paris in

the first few months’ agitated existence of the Revolution of 1848. At

that time the dead walls of _la grande ville_ presented an extraordinary

spectacle. They were literally covered with placards of all sizes, all

shapes, all colors, all sorts of type, and some were even in manuscript.

Several times in the course of a day was the paper renewed; and so

attractive was the reading it offered to every passer-by, that it not only

put an end to the sale of books, but nearly ruined circulating libraries

and _salons de lecture_, in which, for the moderate charge of from two to

five sous, worthy citizens are accustomed to read the journals. LOUIS

NAPOLEON has changed all that. Among other wondrous decrees that have

issued from his barracks, is “Bill-Stickers Beware!” The usurper sees

danger in the very poles and paste of an _afficheur_!

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There is in Paris, under the sole direction of an ecclesiastic, the Abbé

MIGNE, an establishment embracing a printing office, stereotype foundry,

and all other departments of book manufacture, which has in course of

publication a complete series of the chief works of Catholic literature,

amounting to 2000 volumes, and the prices are such that the mass of the

clergy of that faith may possess the whole.

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LAMARTINE has given us the third and fourth volumes of his _Histoire de la

Restauration_; BARANTE, the third volume of his _Histoire de la

Convention_, bringing the narrative down to 1793. THIERRY announces a new

edition of his works; and ALEXANDRE DUMAS has commenced his _Mémoires_ in_

La Presse_.

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The most striking of French novels, or of any novels recently published,

is the _Revenants_ (“Ghosts”), of ALEXANDRE DUMAS the younger, which

exceeds in cleverness, ingenuity, and absurdity all the novels put

together of his prolific parent himself. The heroes and heroines of the

_Revenants_ are those of three of the most celebrated tales of last

century, GOETHE’S _Werther_, BERNARDIN ST. PIERRE’S _Paul and Virginia_,

and the Abbé PREVOST’S _Manon L’Escaut_. The book opens with a description

of a visit paid by MUSTEL, a German professor, to his old pupil BERNARDIN

SAINT-PIERRE, now living at Paris in the sunshine of the fame procured to

him by the publication of _Paul and Virginia_.

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It has been remarked that the name of BONAPARTE is unlucky to literature,

for they do not understand that, to flourish, literature requires freedom.

No king or emperor, if he had all the gold of Peru, could nowadays do as

much for literature as the public; and, to please the public, it must be

completely free. “Now,” writes the Paris correspondent of the _Literary

Gazette_, “if the illustrious Monsieur Bonaparte can make good his

position in France, he _must_ be a despot. On no other ground could he

stand for a week—it is _aut Cæsar aut nullus_ with him. And,

unfortunately, unlike most despots, he has no taste whatever for

literature—he never, it is said, read fifty lines of poetry in his life,

and can not even now wade through half-a-dozen pages of prose without

falling asleep.”

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SILVIO PELLICO, so famous for his works, his imprisonments, and

sufferings, is now in Paris.

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Three novels are announced by a German authoress, CAROLINA VON

GÖHREN—_Ottomar_, _Victor, and Thora_, and _Glieder einer Kelte_. The

authoress (whose real name is Frau von ZÖLLNER) is a lady of noble family,

who has married a man of “no family,” and has _not_ died of the

_mésalliance_. She is well known in the best circles of Dresden, and has

lately taken to fill her leisure with writing novels, which she does with

considerable skill. Her compatriot HAHN-HAHN, by her languid airs of

haughty aristocracy, seems to have roused the scorn of Frau von ZÖLLNER,

who attacks her with great spirit. The new writer commands the sympathy of

English readers by her good, plain common sense, and the moral tendency of

her books.

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The scientific literature both of Germany and England is about to be

enriched by a translation of OERSTED’S chief work, “The Soul in Nature.”

COTTA, of Stuttgard and Tübingen, is to publish the one, and Mr. BOHN the

other.

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A German translation is announced of the lately deceased Danish poet,

OEHLENSCHLAGER’S _Autobiographical Reminiscences_. Oehlenschlager has an

old reputation in this country as the author of the fine-art drama,

“Correggio,” and of a still finer theatrical version of the Arabian

Nights’ tale, “Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp,” both of which were

introduced to the public a quarter of a century ago in _Blackwood’s

Magazine_. During his lifetime, he published a portion of his

autobiography, which was very interesting and unaffected; and we can

predict a fair popularity to the now completed work.

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Of German fictions, the one that has made the most noise lately is the

long-announced novel by WOLFGANG MENZEL, the well-known historian,

journalist, and critic, entitled _Furore: Geschichte eines Mönchs und

einer Nonne aus dem dreissigjährigen Kriege_ (“Story of a Monk and a Nun

from the period of the Thirty Years’ War”), which the German critics

praise as a lively and variegated picture of that period of turmoil and

confusion.

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HEINE’S new work, _Romanzero_, has been prohibited at Berlin, and the

copies in the booksellers, shops confiscated. The sale of eight thousand

copies before it was prohibited is a practical assurance of its brilliant

success. Gay, sarcastic, and poetic, it resembles all his previous works

in spirit, though less finished in form. His _Faust_ turns out to be a

Ballet, with Mephistopheles metamorphosed into a Danseuse! In the letter

which concludes the work there is much interesting matter on the _Faust

Saga_, and its mode of treatment.

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The people of Leipzig have just had their “Schiller-fest,” or Schiller’s

festival, in honor of the great national poet and tragedian. Schiller was,

indeed, a native of Würtemberg, and he lived in Mannheim and Weimar. But

Germany, which has no metropolis, enjoys a great many _capitals_: and as

the ancients had a god of the sun, the moon, and the various

constellations, so do the Germans have a capital of poetic art, another of

music, another of painting, and so on. Leipzig is, or pretends to be, the

great literary metropolis, and in this capacity the good city holds an

annual festival in honor of Schiller. On the present occasion there was a

public dinner, with pompous speeches by Messrs. Gutzkow, Bothe, and Apel,

while in the Leipzig theatre Shakspeare’s “Macbeth” was given in

Schiller’s adaptation to the German stage.

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The Berlin journals announce the arrival in that city of Doctor ZAHN, so

well known for his researches in Pompeii and Herculaneum. His work thereon

is one of the most important archæological productions extant. He has

passed not fewer than twenty-five years of his life among those ancient

ruins.

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The foreign obituary includes the name of Dr. MEINHOLD—a name which will

live in connection with _The Amber Witch_ and with the singular

circumstances attending the reception of that powerful tale.

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The English admirers of HUMBOLDT’S _Kosmos_ will be glad to learn that an

important addition has been made to the commentaries on that great work,

by Herr Bronne’s “Collection of Maps for the Kosmos.” The first series,

containing six plates, has just been published by Krais and Hoffmann, at

Stuttgardt. These six plates are to be followed by thirty-six others, and

contain the planetary, solar, and lunar systems, the plain globes, and the

body of the earth, and the elevations of its surface, with a variety of

diagrams, and a set of explanatory notes.

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An intelligent and appreciative German, SIEGFRIED KUPPER, has been

attracted by the fine simplicities and interests of the popular poetry of

Servia, and has woven together, out of the lays which commemorate the

Achilles-Ulysses-Hercules-Leonidas of Servia, _Lazar, der Serbenczar. Ein

Helden-gedicht_ “Lazar, the Czar of the Serbs. A Heroic poem.” “Among the

earliest announcers of the beauty of the Servian popular poetry,” says the

_London Literary Journal_, “was THERESA JAKOB, the daughter of the

well-known German Professor, and now for many years married to the

American Dr. ROBINSON, the author of _Biblical Researches in Palestine_.

This lady (a translation of whose History of the Colonization of America

we lately reviewed) published, five-and-twenty years ago, some translated

specimens of Servian song, which quite took captive the heart of old

GOETHE, whose praises introduced them to the notice of educated Europe.

Other Germans, and even some Frenchmen, followed in the same direction;

and our own BOWRING’S _Specimens of Servian Poetry_, is probably familiar

to many readers. With the growing importance of the Slavonian tribes, a

new interest attaches to their copious literature; and to any enterprising

young _litterateur_, in quest of an unexplored field of research, we would

recommend the poetry, recent and ancient, of the Slavonic races.”

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The Council of the Shakspeare Society have received a very welcome and

unexpected present, in the shape of a translation of Shakspeare, in twelve

volumes 8vo., into Swedish verse. This laborious work has been

accomplished by Professor HAGBERG, of the University of Lund, and it was

transmitted through the Swedish Minister resident in London.

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A Signor ANTONIO CACCIA, an Italian exile, sends from the freer press of

Leipzig, a book of practical and philosophic travel: _Europa ed America.

Scene della Vita dal 1848 al 1850_ (“Europe and America, Scenes from Life

in both hemispheres during the years 1848-50”), which contains, besides a

notice of California, a good many useful hints to travelers.

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The librarian of the Emperor of Russia has purchased, for the Imperial

Library, a complete collection of all the pamphlets, placards,

caricatures, songs, &c, published at Berlin during the revolutionary

movement of 1848.

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Dr. SMITH, bishop of Victoria, Hong Kong, has sent to the library of the

Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, a Chinese work _On the

Geography and History of Foreign Nations_, by SEU-KE-YU, Governor of the

province of Fokeen. Seu-ke-yu is a man of high official station, a

distinguished scholar, and very liberal in his views. He commences the

geographical part of his book with a statement of the spherical form of

the earth, as opposed to the universal belief in China of its being a vast

level area, of which the Celestial Empire occupies the central and most

considerable part. Numerous maps illustrate the text, being tolerably

correct copies from European atlases, the names given in Chinese

characters. The work is in six volumes, very well printed, and instead of

binding, each part is contained in a wooden case, ingeniously folding, and

fastened with ivory pins.

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When the department of the Ministry of Public Instruction was created some

four or five years ago in Constantinople, it became apparent that there

existed a great desideratum of Moslem civilization, necessary to be

supplied as soon as possible—a Turkish Vocabulary and a Turkish Grammar

compiled according to the high development of philology. The Grammar has

now been published; being compiled by Fuad Effendi, _mustesher_ of the

Grand Vizier, a man known for his high attainments—assisted by Ahmed

Djesvid Effendi, another member of the Council of Instruction. The work

has been printed at Constantinople, and translations will be made into

several languages: the French edition being now in preparation by two

gentlemen belonging to the Foreign Office of the Sublime Porte, who have

obtained a privilege of ten years for its sale.

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Among the new works just out, we notice a Spanish translation of TICKNOR’S

_History of Spanish Literature_, by Don PASCUAL DE GAYANGOS y DON ENRIQUE

DE VEDIA (_con adiciones y notas criticas_), Mr Ticknor having

communicated some notes and corrections to the two translators, who have

added from their own stores.

A LEAF FROM PUNCH

[Illustration.]

A Horrible Business. MASTER BUTCHER.—“Did you take Old Major Dumblebore’s

Ribs to No. 12?” BOY.—“Yes, Sir.” MASTER BUTCHER.—“Then, cut Miss Wiggle’s

Shoulder and Neck, and hang Mr. Foodle’s Legs till they’re quite tender.”

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Rather Too Much Of A Good Thing.

We see advertised some “Crying Dolls.” We must protest against this new

kind of amusement. Just as if the real thing was not enough, but we are to

have an addition to an evil, that is already sufficiently “crying” in

every household. We wish the inventor of this new toy (which might be

called “the Disturber of the Peace of Private Families”) to be woke up

regularly in the middle of the night, for the next twelve months to come,

by one of his own “Crying Dolls,” and then he will be able to see how he

likes it. Let one of the Dolls also be “Teething;” for we should not be

astonished now to hear of “Teething Dolls,” and “Coughing and Choking

Dolls,” with other infantine varieties, and then the punishment of this

“monster in human form” will be complete. Dr. Guillotine perished by the

instrument he invented. The inventor of the “Crying Dolls” deserves a

similar fate. He should be shut up with all his toys in “full cry,” until,

like Niobe, the crying was the death of him, and he was turned, by some

offended mythological deity, into the “great pump,” of which his invention

proclaims him to be the effigy.

Mrs. Baker’s Pet.

[Illustration.]

Mrs. Baker, feeling lonely during her husband’s absence at his business,

has purchased a dog in the streets for a Pet. The animal has been brought

home, and Mrs. BAKER has been for some time anxiously awaiting the arrival

of the husband to dinner, to introduce him to her new favorite. The

gentleman’s latch key has been heard in the door, and Cook has received

orders to dish the dinner. Mr. BAKER, Mrs. BAKER, MARY the Servant, and

SCAMP the Pet meet at the door of the dining-room. SCAMP commences an

infuriated assault of barks and springs, meant for the inoffensive and

astonished BAKER, but which have all the appearance of being directed

against MARY, who is entering at the moment with the dinner-plates. MARY

drops the plates, smashing two, and begins screaming. SCAMP, excited by

the row, redoubles his barks, and bounds to and fro on the door mat. Mr.

BAKER, who has heard nothing of the dog, is naturally indignant at the

reception, and commences an assault upon him with his umbrella. Mrs.

BAKER, who feels that the reputation of her Pet is at stake, endeavors to

soothe him by ordering him to “Lie down, and be a good dog;” but SCAMP is

insensible to the power of moral suasion. A domestic representation of the

old play of “Family Jars,” takes place; the leading parts by Mr. and Mrs.

BAKER “for the first time;” the orchestra under the direction of MARY and

SCAMP. The performance lasts till bed-time; when the gentleman insists

that the dog shall pass the night in the yard. This does not meet SCAMP’S

approbation, and he expresses his discontent, by a serenade under the

windows of Mr. and Mrs. BAKER’S bedroom, which lasts the whole night, and

consists in running up and down the howling scale, winding up with a

prolonged shake in C above the line. The performance is enlivened by the

perpetual raising of the windows from the neighbors’ houses, and an

occasional crash in Mr. BAKER’S yard, which is accounted for the next day

by the appearance of half a score of boot-jacks of various sizes and

patterns.

FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY.

[Illustration.]

FIGURES 1 AND 2.—WALKING AND IN-DOOR DRESSES.

FIGURE 1.—WALKING DRESS.—The bonnet is made of terry velvet; the brim is

very open at the sides, so as to show the face well, and comes forward at

top. The crown is not very deep; it is covered in the first place with a

piece of terry velvet, the shape of which resembles a hood, trimmed with

black lace two and a half inches wide, and hanging over the curtain. The

curtain reaches very high, and falls almost straight, with scarcely any

fullness. It is edged all round with lace about an inch wide. Two felted

feathers spring from between the hood and the crown, one toward the right,

the other toward the left, and entwined together. The inside of the front

is trimmed with narrow velvet ribbons and black lace. The sides at the

cheeks are filled with bunches of pink volubilis, and loops of black

velvet. These bunches of flowers hang down the front with two velvet ends.

Mantle and dress of cloth trimmed with velvet; the mantle is rounded

behind and very full. It belongs to the Talma style. The neck is

terminated by a little upright collar barely an inch in height, which

rises a little on the cravat. The front is closed by three little bands

with two button-holes, which are fastened over velvet buttons. The front

corners are cut square, but rather sloping, so as to form a point. An inch

from the edge a velvet ribbon two inches wide is sewed on flat.

FIGURE 2.—IN-DOOR DRESS.—The head-dress is a Louis XV. puff, made of white

blond, satin and velvet ribbons, set on the head. The top consists of two

cross bands of ribbon. The round part is formed of two rows of blond

flutes. Each of these rows is ornamented with bows of No. 1 velvet. The

first row violet, the second yellow. Large bunches of loops of wide satin

ribbon, violet and yellow, fill the sides and hollows of the bands; on

each side full ribbons which are placed across the head.

Black vest with lappets. This garment sits very close; the skirts are open

at the sides and behind, but lap over each other. Satin piping all round

the edges. The front is trimmed with two small satin pipings, like frogs,

each terminating with a satin button. These sleeves have an elbow, are

short, and end in a cuff, opened up the side, and trimmed with three small

flaps in satin piping.

Waistcoat of yellow valencias buttoning up straight, with small buttons of

the same.

Skirt of silk cloth, is very full, but the plaits are pressed down and

kept flat on the hips so as not to swell out, or raise the lappets. These

last can be made to sit well by making them lie smooth on the hips.

Chemisette composed of two rows of embroidered muslin, fluted and kept up

by a satin cravat, tied like a gentleman’s. Three ample rows of

embroidered muslin, form the trimming of the under-sleeve.

[Illustration.]

FIGURE 3.—EVENING DRESS.

EVENING DRESS.—Head-dress of hair only, with a diamond comb. The hair is

parted down the middle, and drawn back square from the forehead on each

side. One large plat of hair is laid round the top of the head. The back

hair is done up in plats and torsades twisted together. The comb is put in

straight, and stands rather high. A cashmere _Orientale_. This short

garment is cut straight and not hollowed at the waist; it reaches several

inches below the hips; the sides are slit up; the sleeves are wide at

bottom and open in front. A band of gold lace, about an inch wide, is laid

flat all round, about half an inch from the edge, and the same on the

sleeves. Two buttons of silk and gold each fasten a small cord ending in a

handsome tassel, surmounted by small bows of silk and gold of various

sizes. This cord is tied in front. The openings of the sleeves and sides

are trimmed in the same manner. The lining is white satin.

Dress of white lutestring. Body low and square, trimmed with several rows

of white blond. The top of the skirt is plain for a depth of six or seven

inches, and all the lower part is trimmed with vandyked blond flounces.

The flounces are very light.

FULL-DRESS FOR HOME.—The cap is a Louis XV. _fanchon_ of _Alençon_ lace.

There are two tufts of various flowers on each side; they lie on the bands

of hair which are waved and thrown back.

[Illustration.]

FIGURE 4.—FULL-DRESS FOR HOME.

Waistcoat of black watered silk; festooned edges, high behind, open in

front. A row of _Alençon_ lace sewed on flat projects beyond the edge all

round the waistcoat. _Basquine_ of terry velvet, trimmed with a broad

satin ribbon and plaid velvet of bright colors. The sleeve, wide at

bottom, is open behind and trimmed the same. The trimming is drawn in very

fine gathers in the middle; the quilled edges are loose.

The skirt of terry velvet like that of the basquine, is trimmed with five

flounces lying one on the other. On these flounces are sewed satin ribbons

and plaid velvet bands, the top one No. 12, the two others, No. 16, the

bottom one No. 22. These ribbons are sewed flat on the flounce, which is

not gathered in that part; the gathers of the flounces are preserved

between the flat parts. The interval between the ribbons is equal to twice

their width. The under-sleeves follow the shape of the others, and have

two rows of _Alençon_ lace.

We have nothing new to report respecting the Bloomer costume. The

following clever parody of Hamlet’s soliloquy, is quite ingenious:

To wear or not to wear the Bloomer costume, that’s the question.

Whether ’tis nobler in us girls to suffer

The inconveniences of the long-skirt dress,

Or cut it off against these muddy troubles,

And, by the cutting, end them. ’Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To don the pants:—

The pants! perchance the boots! Ay, there’s the rub.

For in those pants and boots what jeers may come,

When we have shuffled off these untold skirts

Must give us pause. There’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long a custom,

For who could bear the scoffs and jeers of boys—

The old maid’s scandal—the young man’s laughter—

The sidelong leers, and derision’s mock,

The insolent press, and all the spurns

We Bloomers of these boobies take!

Who would the old dress wear,

To groan and toil under the weary load,

But that the dread of something after it—

Of ankles large, of crooked leg, from which

Not all escape, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather wear the dress we have

Than turn out Bloomers.

FOOTNOTES

1 Entered according to Act of Congress.

2 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by Harper

and Brothers, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the

Southern District of New York.

3 Concluded from the January Number.

4 Arsenic produces an increased salivation.

5 Continued from the January Number.

6 This is from McCulloch; but the home-consumption duty was lowered in

1842, from 6d. to 3d. per lb., and the consumption is now in all

probability much greater.