'No, nothing; nothing but the dry leaves of my withered

rose-bush; it is on this account I prize it so much.'

'At each word the astonishment of Rodolphe was redoubled. He

could not comprehend this frightful slavery, this horrible sale

of soul and body for a wretched shelter, a few tattered clothes,

and impure nourishment.

'They arrived at the '_Quai aux Fleurs_.' A carriage was in

waiting. Rodolphe assisted his companion to get in, and after

placing himself at her side, said to the coachman:

'To Saint-Denis; I will tell you directly which road to take.'

'The horses started; the sun was radiant; the sky without a

cloud; but the cold was a little sharp, and the air circulated

briskly through the open windows of the carriage.

* * * * *

'AT this moment they drew near to Saint-Ouen, at the juncture of

the road to Saint-Denis and the Chemin de la Revolte.

'Notwithstanding the monotonous appearance of the country,

Fleur-de-Marie was so delighted at seeing the fields, that

forgetting the thoughts which sad recollections had awakened in

her mind, her charming face brightened up; she leaned out of the

window, and cried:

'Monsieur Rodolphe! what delight!... Fields! and thickets! If

you would only let me alight! The weather is so fine! I would

like so much to run in the meadows!'

'We will take a run, my child. Coachman, stop!'

'How! _you_ also, Monsieur Rodolphe?'

'I also! yes, we will make it a holiday.'

'What happiness! Monsieur Rodolphe!'

'And Rodolphe and Fleur-de-Marie, hand in hand, ran over the

new-mown field until they were out of breath.

'To attempt to describe the little gambols, the joyous shouts,

the fresh delight of Fleur-de-Marie would be impossible.

Poor gazelle! for so long time a prisoner, she breathed the

pure air with intoxication. She came, she went, she ran, she

stopped, always with new transports. At the sight of several

tufts of daisies, and some marigolds, spread by the first

frosts of approaching winter, she could not refrain from fresh

exclamations of delight. She did not leave a single flower,

but gleaned the whole meadow. After having thus ran over the

fields--soon tired, being unaccustomed to so much exercise--the

young girl, pausing to take breath, seated herself on the

trunk of a tree, which lay prostrate near a deep ditch. The

fair and transparent complexion of Fleur-de-Marie, ordinarily

too pale, was now shaded with the most lively color. Her large

blue eyes shone sweetly; her rosy mouth, half open, disclosed

her pearl-like teeth; and her heart throbbing under the little

orange shawl, she kept one hand on her bosom as if to compress

its pulsations, while with the other she extended to Rodolphe

the flowers she had gathered. Nothing could be more charming

than the innocent, joyous expression which shone in that lovely

face.

'As soon as she could speak, she said to Rodolphe, with touching

_naïveté_:

'How kind is the BON DIEU for having given us such a fine day!'

'A tear came to the eyes of Rodolphe, as he heard this poor

abandoned, despised, lost creature, without home, without bread,

offering thus a cry of joy and thanks to the CREATOR, for the

enjoyment of a ray of sunshine and the sight of a meadow!'

How do you like that, reader? 'Ithn't it thweet?' Excuse the levity;

but we are trying to divert away two or three persevering drops of

salt-water. 'You shall see more anon: 'tis a knavish piece of work.'

* * * * *

REV. JOHN NEWLAND MAFFITT: A LETTER FROM THE 'LITERARY EMPORIUM.'--A

friend of tried taste in matters literary, and a good judge of

_style_, both in matter and manner, whether out of the pulpit or in

it, has sent us the following letter, written some months since to a

correspondent in Gotham. The sketch which it gives of the peculiar

eloquence of Rev. JOHN NEWLAND MAFFITT will be found to partake

largely of the qualities of that remarkable declaimer's pulpit

efforts. We have heard Mr. MAFFITT for five minutes perhaps at a

time, when he was _truly_ eloquent; when his action was natural,

his language pure, and his illustrations striking and beautiful.

But a _sustained_ flight seemed beyond his powers. As was forcibly

observed by a country auditor of his on one occasion in our hearing:

'He is like a cow that gives a half-pail of the richest kind o'

milk, and then up's with her foot and kicks it all over!' But we are

keeping the reader from our friend's epistle:

_'Boston, Sunday Night._

'DEAR ----: A quiet day has closed at last, with an excitement

so great as to fatigue even _my_ temperament; and being still

too feverish for sleep, I will write you, as it lulls away, the

history of the matter. Fahrenheit has been rounding the hundred

to-day, and this has added not a little to the proverbial quiet

of an Eastern Sabbath. After the afternoon service, Boston

seemed to be taking a profound sleep. The few feeble news-boys

at the old State-House had disappeared; the idlers at the New

Exchange had done wondering; and Long-Wharf was too blistering

hot for any one to attempt a sail. It wouldn't do to venture

into those cool, shady streets, that lead nowhere, without

an object; to be seen to turn and walk back would be wrong,

in Boston. On reaching my room I sank into an easy-chair,

and thought of the prayer for rain and cooling winds, and

whether the hot south wind was made here or at the south side

of Cuba. A boy's whistle, some half a mile over the hill, at

Bowdoin-Square, was the only evidence of life; and it was not a

little provoking, having nothing else to do, to be _obliged_ to

follow the little rascal, as he wound through the 'Cracovienne,'

with occasional snatches from 'Old Hundred' and 'Dundee,' and

worry at the intricate manner in which he combined those rather

different harmonies. Perhaps the lad was executing a refined

torture upon some sober old citizen, _trying_ to sleep after his

long nap just taken at church, and 'not quite prepared to say,'

with his ear, (very puzzling to him,) that that boy was 'doing

a theatrical;' and of course it wouldn't do to take him up for

whistling psalm-tunes. 'Not at all; certainly not; that was

quite proper and praise-worthy. Let the boy whistle.' I varied

my own performances by occasionally leaning from the coolest

window, to see if any body _was_ any where; and deciding in the

negative, in a perfectly clear and distinct manner, waited for

the next voluntary from the whistling boy. A spruce young man,

whom I had never seen before, and who talked of ASHBURTON as

his bosom crony, had called in the morning, offering a seat at

church, and an invitation to dinner with Mrs. ----, of the sunny

land, on the Hill. Well, was there ever such a fool as I, in

lazily declining those invitations, thinking I could do better!

That was in the morning, with the glory of a whole day before

me; but _now_ with only that boy, and all the papers read to

the last accident! So kind in her, too. She had heard I was in

town, and thought I might be happy to see her. _Wouldn't_ I? I

have half a mind now, to send around and say I will be there to

breakfast!

'I smoked out my regret with a cigar that almost crumpled with

the heat; and at last, the tea-clatter at the Tremont roused

me to the mental effort of declaring a Boston Sunday dull,

decidedly dull. About dark I ventured into the street, and all

Boston was astir again; indeed, quite bustling for the sober

city; and every body so clean, so happy, so almost gay, if it

were not Sunday, and so exactly at the touching-off point, that

I fancied they had all been rolling in the surf on the shady

side of Nahant, during the hot hours that I had been 'listlessly

lounging life away.' Whew! I couldn't bear it! I affected a

little smartness, and mingled with the current, trying to be

pleased with, I couldn't say what; but privately in rather a

hopeless humor, till I heard one man say hurriedly, 'You can't

get in;' and another, 'I'll try;' and off he went like a shot.

Thinking I had got hold of something at last, I followed; and

as he had drab-breeches, kept an eye on him, squeezing along up

street and down street, by lane and by alley, till we came to a

great stream going one way, and directly fetched up square upon

some thousand people, filling the whole street, before a church;

from which, above the hum of the crowd, came now and then the

peal of an organ, and a chorus of voices in hallelujahs. Looking

up upon the sea of heads, I plunged in as others plunged out,

and found myself carried to the inner door of the church. The

aisles were so full that half way up men were too tight together

to get their hats off; and the whole crowd, inside and out, was

dotted with women and girls, their bonnets jammed up tight, so

that they could only look the way they happened to face when

stopping, whether desirable or not. All sorts of speeches and

odd remarks were bandied about in a subdued tone; and several

fat men, dripping, were let out to get dry; whereupon a man in

a Roman nose slipped off his coat in a twinkling, and looked

around with immense satisfaction. The abstraction of the fat men

had left him, for the moment, just room to do it.

'Presently, from the far end of the church, the clear voice of

MAFFITT came down upon the ear like a silver bell, and the mass

was still. He began at once, like a man who knew his calling,

and had mastered it. His voice was clear, full, and intelligible

to the farthest ear it reached. He commenced calmly, but with

nerve and strength which took the whole mass with him at the

onset; and after getting fairly under way, he cast about for

argument and illustration. Here began the man's inspiration. His

thoughts, bathed in sun-light, came rushing one upon another,

gem upon gem and crowd upon crowd; each full and bold as the

stars of heaven; moving on like them, separate, but together;

falling into the ranks from all manner of places; throwing light

upon each other, like the spears of an host, and all speeding

onward and upward to their destination. Pausing with his forces

in mid-heaven, he calls out again and again for tribute, and

they glance in, like sunbeams, from the land and the deep, from

earth, and heaven, and the farthest star; till pleased with his

grouping, he sweeps the picture into a higher light, and shadows

forth the Throne of the ALMIGHTY! This, with all variety of

intonation, from clarion to trumpet; every nerve and muscle in

gesticulation; and no wandering, no pausing, but to the _point_,

like a thunder-bolt! My dear ----, where are you? If any where

within hearing, I beg leave to say 'Good night!' I'm tired, and

presume you are.'

'Yours, ---- ----.'

* * * * *

POEMS BY PERCIVAL.--Mr. PERCIVAL has recently put forth an

exceedingly beautiful volume, of some two hundred and fifty pages,

entitled 'The Dream of a Day, and other Poems.' The book is composed

for the most part of a series of shorter pieces, part of which have

been published in a fugitive form, at different intervals since the

publication of his last volume, in 1827, while part have until now

remained in manuscript. The longer piece, and one of the latest,

which opens and gives the title to the volume, takes its name partly

from its subject and partly from the time in which it was written.

More than one hundred and fifty different forms or modifications

of stanza are introduced in the course of the volume, much of which

is borrowed from the verse of other languages, particularly of

the German. The imitations of different classic measures, as well

as the songs for national airs, are particularly explained in the

introduction to each. We remark numerous gems in this collection

which were written by Mr. PERCIVAL for the KNICKERBOCKER; a fact

which we cannot doubt will secure the patronage of our readers

for the tasteful and most matter-full volume before us. We are

not advised by whom the work is for sale in New-York, but Mr. S.

BABCOCK, New-Haven, is the publisher; and it is but just to add,

that it reflects great credit upon his liberality and good taste.

* * * * *

'THE ATTACHE:' BY SAM SLICK.--The clock-maker has lost none of his

shrewdness, his acute observation, nor his sparkling humor. To be

sure, many of his so-called _Yankeeisms_ are only specimens of

cockney dialect; yet he has more genuine wit than is to be found

in all the 'down-east' letters which have been inflicted upon the

public _ad nauseam_ any time these three years. 'Sumtotalize' these

tiresome epistles, as Mr. SLICK would say, and see what nine in ten

of them amount to. Bad spelling, devoid of the ludicrous ellipses

which characterize the orthographical errors of Mr. YELLOWPLUSH,

constitutes the principal attraction of their _style_; while their

_staple_ is derived from the worn-out jokes of HACKETT'S 'Solomon

Swop' or 'Joe Bunker.' But to 'The Attaché;' to portions of which,

with but slight comment, we propose to introduce the reader. Mr.

SLICK'S originality is the originality of _thought_, less than of

_manner_. He is no copyist; and while he equals LACON in saying

'many things in a few words,' he never sacrifices truth to the

mere external form of sententiousness. In his descriptions he is

never striking at the expense of verisimilitude; nor does he permit

his observation of character to be diverted from its naturalness

by over-cumulative features in his picture, which destroy so many

otherwise clever limnings. Not inappropriate to this illustration,

by the by, is this brief but graphic description of one of a great

number of old family pictures which the 'Attaché' encounters in

the baronial hall of a purse-proud JOHN BULL 'of family,' in one

of the shires of England: 'Here now is an old aunty that a forten

come from. She looks like a bale o' cotton, fust screwed as tight as

possible, and then corded hard. Lord! if they had only a given her a

pinch of snuff when she was full dressed and trussed, and sot her a

sneezin', she'd a blowed up, and the forten would have come twenty

years sooner! Yes, it's a family pictur; indeed, they're all family

picturs. They are all fine animals, but over-fed and under-worked.'

Observe the wisdom of the ensuing sentence, illustrating that sort

of brain-picking which some persons resort to, while themselves are

mum as oysters, upon subjects on which noncommitalism is desirable:

'If I can see both eends of a rope, and only one man has hold of one

eend, and me of the t'other, why I know what I am about; but if I

can only see my own eend, I don't know who I am a pullin' agin.'

One of the most amusing sketches in Mr. SLICK'S volume is an account

of a 'pious creeter,' a deacon, who exchanged an old worn-out and

vicious horse for one which he 'considered worth six of it,' and

which he thought gave him 'the best of the bargain, and no mistake.'

It turns out quite the other way, however, the good deacon's

boasting to the contrary notwithstanding:

'THIS is as smart a little hoss,' says he, 'as ever I see. I

know where I can put him off to a great advantage. I shall make

a good day's work of this. It is about as good a hoss-trade as

I ever made. The French don't know nothin' about hosses; they

are a simple people; their priests keep 'em in ignorance on

purpose, and they don't know nothin'.' 'He cracked and bragged

considerable, and as we progressed we came to Montagon Bridge.

The moment pony sot foot on it, he stopped short, pricked up

the latter eends of his ears, snorted, squealed, and refused to

budge an inch. The elder got mad. He first coaxed and patted,

and soft-sawdered him, and then whipped, and spurred, and

thrashed him like anything. Pony got mad too, for hosses has

tempers as well as elders; so he turned to, and kicked right

straight up on eend, like Old Scratch, and kept on without

stoppin' till he sent the elder right slap over his head

slantendicularly, on the broad of his back into the river, and

he floated down through the bridge and scrambled out o t'other

side.

'Creation! how he looked! He was so mad, he was ready to bile

over; and as it was, he smoked in the sun like a tea-kettle.

His clothes stuck close down to him, as a cat's fur does to her

skin when she's out in the rain; and every step he took his

boots went squish, squash, like an old woman churnin' butter;

and his wet trousers chafed with a noise like a wet flappin'

sail. He was a show; and when he got up to his hoss, and held on

to his mane, and first lifted up one leg, and then the other,

to let the water run out of his boots, I couldn't hold in no

longer, but laid back, and larfed till I thought, on my soul,

I'd fall off into the river too.'

The elder is decidedly taken in. His new steed is as blind as a

bat, and a member of the '_opposition_ party.' After a series of

provoking annoyances, the new owner of the beast finally succeeds

in getting him on board a steam-boat; but on nearing the shore the

perverse animal jumps overboard:

'THE captain havin' his boat histed, and thinkin' the hoss would

swim ashore of himself, kept right strait on; and the hoss

swam this way, and that way, and every way but the right road,

jist as the eddies took him. At last he got into the ripps off

Johnston's Pint, and they wheeled him right round and round like

a whip-top. Poor pony! he got his match at last. He struggled,

and jumpt, and plunged, and fort, like a man, for dear life.

Fust went up his knowin' little head, that had no ears; and he

tried to jump up, and rear out of it, as he used to did out of a

mire-hole ashore; but there was no bottom there; nothin' for his

hind foot to spring from; so down he went agin, ever so deep;

and then he tried t'other eend, and up went his broad rump, that

had no tail; but, there was nothin' for the fore feet to rest

on nother; so he made a summerset, and as he went over he gave

out a great, long, eendwise kick, to the full stretch of his

hind legs. Poor feller! it was the last kick he ever gave in

this world; he sent his heels straight up on eend, like a pair

of kitchen tongs, and the last I see of him was a bright dazzle,

as the sun shined on his iron shoes, afore the water closed over

him forever.'

Take in all the accessories of the above picture, reader, and you

cannot fail to laugh as heartily at the discomfiture of the pious

but 'cunning' elder, as we ourselves did on its first perusal. There

is a fine touch of natural description, and not a little philosophy,

in the following sketch of a dinner at an English gentleman's

country residence:

'FOLKS are up to the notch here when dinner is in question,

that's a fact; fat, gouty, broken-winded, and foundered as they

be. It's rap! rap! rap! for twenty minutes at the door; and in

they come, one arter the other, as fast as the sarvants can

carry up their names. Cuss them sarvants! it takes seven or

eight of 'em to carry a man's name up stairs, they are so awful

lazy, and so shockin' full of porter. Well, you go in along with

your name, walk up to old aunty, and make a scrape, and the same

to old uncle, and then fall back. This is done as solemn as if

a feller's name was called out to take his place in a funeral;

that and the mistakes is the fun of it. * * * Company are all

come, and now they have to be marshalled two and two, lock and

lock, and go into the dinin'-room to feed. When I first came I

was dreadful proud of that title, 'the Attaché;' now I am glad

it's nothin' but 'only an Attaché,' and I'll tell you why. The

great guns and big bugs have to take in each other's ladies,

so these old ones have to herd together. Well, the nobodies go

together too, and sit together; and I've observed that these

nobodies are the pleasantest people at table, and they have the

pleasantest places, because they sit down with each other, and

are jist like yourself, plaguy glad to get some one to talk to.

Somebody can only visit somebody, but nobody can go any where;

and therefore nobody sees and knows twice as much as somebody

does. Somebodies must be axed, if they are as stupid as a pump;

but nobodies needn't, and never are, unless they are spicy sort

o' folks; so you are sure of them, and they have all the fun and

wit of the table at their eend, and no mistake. I wouldn't take

a title if they would give it to me, for if I had one, I should

have a fat old parblind dowager detailed on to me to take in to

dinner; and what the plague is her jewels and laces, and silks

and satins, and wigs to me? As it is, I have a chance to have

a gal to take in that's a jewel herself; one that don't want

no settin' off, and carries her diamonds in her eyes, and so

on. I've told our minister not to introduce me as an Attaché no

more, but as Mr. Nobody, from the state of Nothin', in America.'

Mr. SLICK'S ideas of what is facetiously termed 'music' is quite

coincident with our own. No 'difficult execution' and 'intricate

passages' for him:

'WHAT'S that? It's music. Well, that's artificial too; it's

scientific, they say; it's done by rule. Jist look at that gal

to the piany: first comes a little Garman thunder. Good airth

and seas, what a crash! It seems as if she'd bang the instrument

all to a thousand pieces. I guess she's vexed at some body

and is a-peggn' it into the piany out of spite. Now comes the

singin'; see what faces she makes; how she stretches her mouth

open, like a barn-door, and turns up the white of her eyes, like

a duck in a thunder-storm. She is in a musical ecstasy; she

feels good all over; her soul is a-goin' out along with that

'ere music. Oh, it's divine; and she is an angel, ain't she?

Yes, I guess she is; and when I'm an angel, I will fall in love

with her: but as I'm a man, at least what's left of me, I'd jist

as soon fall in love with one that was a leetle more of a woman,

and a leetle less of an angel. But hello! what onder the sun is

she about! Why, her voice is goin' down her own throat, to gain

strength, and here it comes out ag'in as deep-toned as a man's;

while that dandy feller alongside of her is a-singin' what they

call falsetter. They've actilly changed voices! The gal sings

like a man, and that screamer like a woman! This is science:

this is taste: this is fashion: but hang me if it's natur'. I'm

tired to death of it; but one good thing is, you needn't listen

without you like, for every body is talking as loud as ever.'

We are compelled to close our extracts with the subjoined capital

hit at the naked meeting-houses which 'obtain' in so many quarters

of our goodly land, and the still more naked 'doctrines' that

constitute the weekly attractions which many of them present to

church-goers:

'THE meetin'-houses our side of the water, no matter where, but

away up in the back country, how teetotally different they be

from 'em this side! A great big handsome wooden house, chock

full of winders, painted so white as to put your eyes out, and

so full of light within that inside seems all out-doors, and

no tree nor bush, nor nothin' near it but the road fence, with

a man to preach in it that is so strict and straight-laced he

will do _any thing_ of a week day, and _nothin'_ of a Sunday. *

* * Preacher there don't preach morals, because that's churchy,

and he don't like neither the church nor it's morals; but he

preaches doctrine, which doctrine is, there's no Christians but

themselves. Well, the fences outside of the meetin'-house, for

a quarter of a mile or so, each side of the house, and each

side of the road, ain't to be seen for hosses and wagons, and

gigs hitched there; poor devils of hosses that have ploughed,

or hauled, or harrowed, or logged, or snaked, or somethin' or

nother all the week, and rest on a Sunday by alterin' their

gait, as a man rests on a journey by alterin' of his stirrup a

hole higher or a hole lower.'

This episode is concluded with some remarks upon the 'clerical

twang' which distinguishes some of the divines of our country: 'Good

men always speak through the nose. It's what comes out of the mouth

that defiles a man; but there is no mistake in the nose; it's the

porch of the temple!' We are pleased to learn that another volume

of 'The Attaché' will ere long be given to the public. We await its

publication with impatient interest.

* * * * *

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--'What is the man driving

at' who sends us the following? Does he intend a satire upon the

peculiar style of Mr. WILLIS, who 'skims the superfices' of society

with more ease and grace than any magazine-writer of this era?

Or is our correspondent in love, and desirous of walking under

a cloud while he reveals his passion? Let him answer: 'The top

of the morning to you, my dear EDITOR; and as your sun goes up

the meridian, may your shadow be longer! I can wish you nothing

more improbable; but in wishes not to be granted, I will have

the satisfaction of wishing to the outside of my desire. Coming

home last evening, I called on a pretty woman, for a half-hour's

oblivion of matter-of-fact. A few weeks since she had seen WILLIS

and a very charming damsel at Saratoga Springs, and had noticed

them occasionally at a delightful spot in the neighborhood, which I

shall not indicate; a retreat such as a poet would choose in parting

with his best thoughts, and far holier than the parting of mere

lips would need; for I take it, this good-by, this farewell to the

pets of the heart; this sense of lost identity gone to the public;

the loosing of the dove that may no where find a spot to rest amid

the waters; the spring of the falcon that _will_ away; I say, Mr.

EDITOR, these things are sometimes very solemn and affecting. Well,

upon that spot was found a crumpled paper, scrawled over with the

goose-tracks of genius, and signed 'N. P. WILLIS, Junior.' The

product of WILLIS by his _match_ should be something brilliant,

to be sure; but the Junior is evidently still young in years. His

opening phrase, (more applicable in these times to a bank-note than

any other mistress,) and several other naïve spots, indicate the

come-over-ativeness and allowable tenderness of a first passion. It

is written in a kind of halting verse, that might easily be done

into _blank_, I should say. It is crowned with stars, signifying I

suppose that this world has nothing left worth looking at, and this

beautiful motto, from Keats:

'A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER.'

BY N. P. WILLIS, JUN.

'DEAREST! I thank thee, bless thee, pray the highest God

to bless thee evermore, thou charm of the world to me! And

now how beautiful the world again! The glorious sunlight,

the waving trees, and faces of familiar friends, before so

common-place--all now how beautiful! for thou hast smiled on

them! A rush of joy is at my heart again, as if my pulse at each

throb ran kisses from thy lips. Ah' could I take thy breath in

one long kiss, and give thee Heaven, which were happier?--thou

with the stars above, or I with mine and thy dear heart forever?

How fast the time goes on! The world that lagged but yesterday,

and seemed about to stop for very dullness, seems an express,

as though the stars were nearing us, and GOD were coming down,

and we were hastening to the embrace of Heaven. How my spirits

mount again! I look into the heavens, face to face, and angels

bending down, are whispering that I may yet be happy. Poor,

poor fool! Happy for another hour, perhaps another day, and

then----Why, then the sun will rise again, and all the world

be glad, but I shall not know it; and every tone that to the

common world is sweetest music, and every look and smile that

are unlike thee; the song not thine; the book not read by thee;

and every beautiful and lovely thing, that hath not caught some

parted grace of thine, shall be to me a half-formed thing,

lacking the tint that's loveliest, the form that's dearest to

my heart; a thing unfinished, as Heaven were interrupted in the

making, or lost the trick, not having thee to copy! But now,

the dashing of my heart is like the seas that clap their hands

in gladness. My GOD, I thank Thee for that 'joy forever!' Those

words have mingled with my spirit, quickening it to lightning;

and if I get a home above, and have a power in Heaven, I'll

build a world whose sky shall light it with those burning words!

Ah, how the time goes on! I miss it not, for I am happy, and

it brings no change. The sun has set, and night has come with

countless stars, as glowing, beautiful, and bright, as each

one were a separate joy of mine; a heaven all full, as is my

brimming heart. Well; you will laugh at all this rhapsody, and

chide me for a foolish boy. I only say, 'My HEART is talking to

you, not my HEAD.' * * * But we must part; and then, if angels,

strayed from home, may note that scene, touched by the love of

one so beautiful, it will be written down in Heaven, that two

souls made to match, have gone apart forever. Farewell! I only

ask of you, that when a warm thought flutters at your heart,

just fancy ('t will be true) that I have come to nestle there,

and give it welcome. And when the night comes, and you rest

alone with your own beauty and the sentinel stars, oh, clasp the

little rascal to your heart, and----think of your dream in the

morning!'

Our impression is--'we may be wrong, but that is our opinion'--that

the young gentleman who penned the foregoing rhapsody is hankering

after some young woman. Ah! well; though his style is not

over-pellucid, there is much truth in his sentences. There is a

communion between the heart of Nature and the hearts of lovers;

and with gentle affections and pure thoughts, her face is always

beautiful. With the same mail which brought us the 'Thing of

Beauty' aforesaid, came the following, copied in the neatest of

all crow-quill chirography, bearing the Saratoga post-mark, and a

French-gray seal, with two loving doves. It struck us, on a first

perusal, that possibly it might proceed from some young lady in love

with some young gentleman! 'It has that look:'

'WHAT IS LOVE?'

'IT is to dwell within

A world of the young heart's creation, bright

And brilliant as 'tis false and fleeting, where

All seems a beauteous fairy-land; to mark

No varied season and no flight of time,

Save in the weary absence of the loved one;

To live but in the atmosphere he breathes.

To gaze upon his eyes as on the light

That beacons us to bliss, the only sun

Of our unreal world; in the sad hours

Of absence to be filled with thousand thoughts

Of tenderness, that to repeat we deem

Will make the hours of meeting more delicious;

Yet when that time is come, to feel they are

Unutterable; then to count the moments,

And watch his coming as the early dawn

Of an untried existence; (is not love

A new existence?) yet when he is come,

To feel that deep, oppressive sense of bliss

Weighing upon the heart, that we could wish

To find our joy less perfect. This is love!'

No sneers, if you please, gentlemen bachelors of the incorrigible

class; no 'pshaws!' ye 'paired but not matched' people, at

encountering here these tender tributes of the heart; for the lover,

where is he not? 'Wherever parents look round upon their children,

there he has been; wherever children are at play together, there

he soon will be; wherever there are roofs under which men dwell,

wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human voices,

there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on. True

love continues and will continue to send up its homage amidst the

meditations of every eventide, and the busy hum of noon, and 'the

song of the morning stars.' . . . If the unhappy young man who has

recently filled the journals of the metropolis with the details

of his folly and crime could, before yielding to temptation,

have looked in upon the state-prisoners at Sing-Sing, as we did

the other day, surely he would have shrunk back from the vortex

before him. Poor wretches, in their best estate! How narrow their

cells; how ceaseless their toil; what a negation of comfort their

whole condition! It was a sweltering August day, breathless and

oppressive; but there was no rest for the eight hundred unhappy

convicts who plied their never-ending tasks within those walls.

Stealthy glances from half-raised eyes; pale countenances, stamped

with meek submission, or gleaming with powerless hate or impotent

malignity; and 'hard labor' in the fullest sense, were the main

features of the still-life scene, as we passed through the several

work-shops. But what a picture was presented as their occupants came

swarming into the open court-yard at sound of the bell, to proceed

to their cells with their dinner! From the thick atmosphere of the

carpet and rug-shops, leaving the clack of shuttles, the dull thump

of the 'weaver's beam,' and the long, confused perspective of cords,

and pullies, and patterns, and multitudinous 'harness,' they poured

forth; from murky smithys, streamed the imps of VULCAN, grim as the

dark recesses from which they emerged; from doors which open upon

interminable rows of close-set benches burst forth the knights of

the awl and hammer; the rub-a-dub of the cooper's mallet, the creak

of his shaving-knife, were still; the stone-hammer was silent; and

the court-yard was full of that striped crew! God of compassion!

what a sight it was, to see that motley multitude take up, in gangs,

their humiliating march! Huge negroes, weltering in the heat, were

interspersed among 'the lines;' hands crimson with murder rested

upon the shoulders of beings young alike in years and crime; the

victim of bestiality pressed against the heart-broken tool of the

scathless villain; and _all_ were blended in one revolting mass of

trained soldiers of guilt; their thousand legs moving as the leg

of one man: all in silence, save the peculiar sound of the sliding

tread, grating not less upon the ear than the ground. One by one,

they took their wooden pails of dingy and amphibious-looking 'grub,'

and passed on, winding up the stairs of the different stories, and

streaming along the narrow corridors to their solitary cells. It was

too much for the tender heart of poor E., this long procession of

the gangs. As they passed on in slow succession, her lip began to

quiver; and one after another drops of pity rolled down her cheek.

'All these,' said she to the keeper, 'had a mother, who looked

upon their childhood, and blessed their innocence! Ah! how many

infant feet, softer than velvet to the touch, have been pressed

to maternal lips, that now shuffle along these prison-isles!'

There spoke 'the mother;' and with her 'gentle words of pity' we

take our leave of the State's-prison and its unhappy inmates. *

* * THE love of literature is a beneficial and noble propensity

of soul. 'It cannot be doubted,' writes the accomplished MARY

CLAVERS, 'that every accession of intellectual light carries with

it an increase of happiness; happiness which depends not in any

great degree upon the course of public events, and not, beyond a

certain limited extent, upon the smiles of fortune. Those debasing

and embittering prejudices which must ever wait upon ignorance,

melt away in the rays of mental illumination, and every departed

prejudice leaves open a new inlet for happiness. I may be considered

an enthusiast, but it is my deliberate conviction that next to

religion--heart-felt, operative religion--a true love of reading is

the best softener of the asperities of life, the best consoler under

its inevitable ills.' HOOD, writing recently 'from his bed' to the

Secretary of a provincial Athenæum, of which he had been elected a

'patron,' deposes to the comfort and 'blessing that literature can

prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow; how generous mental food

can atone for a meagre diet; 'rich fare on paper, for short commons

on the cloth.' Although ill, and condemned to lenten fare, animal

food being strictly interdicted, yet the 'feast of reason and the

flow of soul' were still his. 'Denied beef, I had _Bul_-wer and

_Cow_-per; forbidden mutton, there was _Lamb_; and in lieu of pork,

_Bacon_ or _Hogg_.' Eschewing wine, he had still his _Butler_; and

in the absence of liquor, all the _choice spirits_, from TOM BROWN

to TOM MOORE. Confined physically to water, he had yet not only

the best of 'home-made' but the champaigne of MOLIERE, the hock of

SCHILLER, and the sherry of CERVANTES:

'DEPRESSED bodily by the fluid that damps every thing, I got

intellectually elevated with MILTON, a little merry with SWIFT,

or rather jolly with RABELAIS, whose Pantagruel, by the way,

is quite equal to the best gruel with rum in it. So far can

literature palliate or compensate for gastronomical privations.

But there are other evils, great and small, in this world,

which try the stomach less than the head, and the temper, and

ill winds that blow with the pertinacity of monsoon. Of these,

Providence has allotted me a full share; but still, paradoxical

as it may sound, my burthen has been greatly lightened by a load

of books. Many, many a dreary, weary hour have I got over; many

a mental or bodily annoyance forgotten, by help of the tragedies

and comedies of our dramatists and novelists! Many a trouble has

been soothed by the still small voice of the moral philosopher;

many a dragon-like care charmed to sleep by the sweet song of

the poet! For all which I cry incessantly, not aloud, but in my

heart. 'Thanks and honor to the glorious masters of the pen, and

the great inventors of the press!'

ISN'T _Law_ a very curious thing, take it altogether? An adept in it

must needs know all the precedents, all the legal discussions and

litigations; must read innumerable volumes, filled with innumerable

subtleties and cohesions, and written in an unintelligible jargon;

must study rules by which a certain class of future events shall

be judged, when those events can only be partially and imperfectly

foreseen; a rule which never varies, while the cases never agree;

a law which is general while the cases are individual; a law where

the penalty is uniform, while the justice or injustice of the case

is continually different. Who 'in view of these things' can wonder

that the worse is often made to appear the better reason? Does not a

lawyer triumph most, and acquire most fame, when he can gain a cause

in the very teeth of the law he professes to support and revere?

Who is the greatest lawyer? Not he who can most enlighten, but he

who can most perplex and confound the understanding and embroil

and mislead the intellect of judge and jury. We have before us a

striking illustration of these remarks, in an unsettled case in the

Court of Errors, on an appeal from a decree of the chancellor. A

wife and mother, well stricken in years, leaves the bed and board

of her husband, in consequence of long-continued ill treatment, and

by 'her next friend' sues for alimony. Her husband, it appears in

evidence, is an 'unclean beast' personally; moreover, he throws his

tea-cup at her at the table; will not permit her to have a fire in

the room in which she is ill, though it is in the depth of winter,

but opens doors and windows to freeze her out; orders all the beds

taken down, that she may not sleep; goes himself about the house at

times _in puris naturalibus_; threatens to throw his wife into the

well; when she is seated on a chair, pushes her out of it, and when

she takes another, pushes her out of that also, and so forth. Now

reader, it would amuse you to look over the 'Points on the part of

the Apellant' in this case. By _his_ 'next friend,' the attorney,

he complains that vice-chancellors are exceeding their credentials

in assuming to be 'Chesterfieldian censors of the lesser morals.'

He admits indeed that the husband was '_uncourteous_, in rudely

throwing his tea-cup instead of handing it respectfully to the

lady-in-waiting,' meaning the wife aforesaid; that he was guilty of

'_impoliteness_, in capriciously commanding a change of chairs;'

that he certainly did use 'an _inconsiderate expression_ concerning

the well;' but that in driving his wife out of her sick room, by

opening all the doors and windows on a cold winter-day, he was

only 'enforcing wholesome exercise as a substitute for prejudicial

inaction!' All these examples, let us add, are of the _lesser_

abuses and grievances which the unhappy woman suffered, year after

year; yet the 'deeds without a name' are softened or defended with

equal plausibility and ingenuity. The counsel for the appellant

objects to the interference of the law-officers with such matters.

'Courts of chancery,' says he, with true Johnsonian grandiloquence,

'cannot, like ecclesiastical tribunals or inquisitions, regulate, by

means of auricular confession and domiciliary visitation, connubial

rights and duties! The chancellor's doctrine would perpetuate wordy

wars and family feuds, and impart to conjugal caterwauling more than

feline vitality!' But hold; we are 'interfering between man and

wife,' an injudicious act, as 'tis said. * * * 'D. G.'s '_Height

of Impudence_' (it is _not_ 'new') reminds us of an incident which

occurred in the hearing of a friend at one of our cheap metropolitan

eating-houses last winter. A tall, raw boned Hibernian called for

a dish of pork-and-beans. 'Let it be 'most all pork, and plenty of

beans,' said he; and a liberal supply was placed smoking before

him. Before he had gorged his fill, he called for more bread; it

was given him, and soon disappeared, with the remainder of his

dish. He then called for another slice, and was piling the butter

in pyramids upon small pieces of the same, when the waiter, who had

been eyeing him closely, and who thought the repast 'rather too

much for a shilling,' addressed him with: 'Mister, that butter cost

two shillings and sixpence a pound.' The huge feeder said nothing,

but proceeded to pile about a quarter of a pound of it on a small

crust of bread, placed it in his mouth, rolled it for a time 'as a

sweet morsel under his tongue,' and then remarked: 'Well, I should

say 'twas _well wor-r-th it_!' His main anxiety appeared to be, to

convince the waiter that his principal had not been 'taken in' by

the vender. * * * WE promised that our readers should renew their

acquaintance with '_Hugh Trevor_;' accordingly we condense a scene

or two from that remarkable work. Going down St. James'-street,

London, one evening, with a person who has treated him with much

civility, our hero is run violently against by an accomplice of his

companion, knocked down, and robbed of all his money. His 'civil'

friend leaves him in the lurch, and he seeks his lodgings, there

being no remedy for his loss. To divert his mind, he repairs to the

theatre, and takes his stand among the crowd which surround the

entrance. He observes that the people about him seem watchful of

each other; and presently the cry of 'Take care of your pockets!'

renews his fears; and putting his hand to his fob, he misses his

watch! Looking eagerly around, he fixes his eyes upon his quondam

friend, who had aided in robbing him:

'THE blood mantled in my face. 'You have stolen my watch,'

said I. He could not immediately escape, and made no reply,

but turned pale, looked at me as if entreating silence and

commiseration, and put a watch into my hand. I felt a momentary

compassion, and he presently made his retreat. His retiring did

but increase the press of the crowd, so that it was impossible

for me so much as to lift up my arm: I therefore continued, as

the safest way, to hold the watch in my hand. Soon afterward

the door opened, and I hurried it into my waistcoat pocket:

for I was obliged to make the best use of all my limbs, that

I might not be thrown down and trodden underfoot. At length,

after very uncommon struggles, I made my way to the money door,

paid, and entered the pit. After taking breath and gazing around

me, I sat down and inquired of my neighbors how soon the play

would begin? I was told in an hour. This new delay occasioned

me to put my hand in my pocket and take out my watch, which as

I supposed had been returned by the thief. But, good Heavens!

what was my surprise when in lieu of my own plain watch, in a

green chagrin-case, the one I was now possessed of was set round

with diamonds! And, instead of ordinary steel and brass, its

appendages were a weighty gold chain and seals! My astonishment

was great beyond expression! I opened it to examine the

work, and found it was capped. I pressed upon the nut and it

immediately struck the hour. It was a repeater!'

It will not greatly puzzle the reader, we may presume, to conjecture

what this adroit movement on the part of the pick-pocket ultimately

led to; nor will he fail to recognize in the following limning a

portrait of more than one character of these times. Mr. GLIBLY is

entertaining Mr. TREVOR with a running commentary upon some of the

prominent personages who enter the theatre:

'THERE,' said he pointing, is a Mr. MIGRATE; a famous clerical

character, and as strange an original as any this metropolis

affords. He is not entitled to make a figure in the world either

by his riches, rank, or understanding; but with an effrontery

peculiar to himself he will knock at any man's door, though

a perfect stranger, ask him questions, give him advice, and

tell him he will call again to give him more on the first

opportunity. By this means he is acquainted with every body,

but knows nobody; is always talking, yet never says any thing;

is perpetually putting some absurd interrogation, but before

it is possible he should understand the answer, puts another.

His desire to be informed torments himself and every man of his

acquaintance, which is almost every man he meets: yet, though he

lives inquiring, he will die consummately ignorant. His brain

is a kind of rag shop, receiving and returning nothing but

rubbish. It is as difficult to affront as to get rid of him: and

though you fairly bid him begone to-day, he will knock at your

door, march into your house, and if possible keep you answering

his unconnected, fifty times answered queries to-morrow. He is

the friend and the enemy of all theories and of all parties:

and tortures you to decide for him which he ought to choose.

As far as he can be said to have opinions, they are crude and

contradictory in the extreme; so that in the same breath he

will defend and oppose the same system. With all this confusion

of intellect, there is no man so wise but he will prescribe to

him how he ought to act. He has been a great traveller, and

continually abuses his own countrymen for not adopting the

manners and policy of other nations. He pretends to be the

universal friend of man, a philanthropist on the largest scale,

yet is so selfish that he would willingly see the world perish,

if he could but secure paradise to himself. This is the only

consistent trait in his character. In the same sentence, he

frequently joins the most fulsome flattery and some insidious

question, that asks the person whom he addresses if he do not

confess himself to be both knave and fool. Delicacy of sentiment

is one of his pretensions, though his tongue is licentious,

his language coarse, and he is occasionally seized with fits

of the most vulgar abuse. He declaims against dissimulation,

yet will smilingly accost the man whom----'Ha! MIGRATE! How do

you do? Give me leave to introduce you to Mr. TREVOR, a friend

of mine, a gentleman and a scholar; just come from Oxford.

Your range of knowledge and universal intimacy with men and

things, may be useful to him; and his erudite acquisitions, and

philosophical research, will be highly gratifying to an inquirer

like you. An intercourse between you must be mutually pleasing

and beneficial, and I am happy to bring you acquainted.' This,

addressed to the man whom he had been satirizing so unsparingly,

was inconceivable! The unabashed facility with which he veered

from calumny to compliment, and that too after he had accused

the man whom he accosted of dissimulation, struck me dumb. I

had perhaps seen something like it before, but nothing half so

perfect in its kind. It doubly increased my stock of knowledge;

it afforded a new instance of what the world is, and a new

incitement to ask how it became so?'

A single passage more, which will have especial interest for the

correspondent to whom we are indebted for the capital sketch of

'_Love-Making in Boarding-Houses_,' must close our excerpts. A

maiden of an uncertain age is making a 'dead set' at our hero:

'SHE was sure I must find myself a great favorite; I was a

favorite with every body; and, for her part, she did not wonder

at it. 'Not but it is a great pity,' added she, aside, 'that you

are such a rake, Mr. TREVOR.' This repeated charge very justly

alarmed my morality, and I very seriously began a refutation.

But in vain. 'I might say what I would; she could see very

plainly I was a prodigious rake, and nothing could convince her

to the contrary. Though she had heard that your greatest rakes

make the best husbands. Perhaps it might be true, but she did

not think she could be persuaded to make the venture. She did

not know what might happen, to be sure; though she really did

not think she could. She could not conceive how it was, but

some how or another she always found something agreeable about

rakes. It was a great pity they should be rakes, but she verily

believed the women loved them, and encouraged them in their

seducing arts. For her part, she would keep her fingers out of

the fire as long as she could: but, if it were her destiny to

love a rake, what could she do? Nobody could help being in love,

and it would be very hard indeed to call what one cannot help, a

crime.'

WE must commend the cogent arguments in favor of national theft,

contained in the article on '_International Copy-right_' in

preceding pages, to the attention of the reader. It strikes us

as one of the most tenable positions yet taken by the opponents

of an exceedingly 'impolitic' literary measure. By the by; a new

'_American Copy-right Club_' has been recently established, with

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT and GULIAN C. VERPLANCK, Esquires, for its

president and vice-president; and for its secretaries and executive

committee, several of the most prominent advocates of the proposed

law to be found in our midst; including, we are glad to perceive,

Mr. PUFFER HOPKINS MATHEWS, who has labored more abundantly than

they all in the good cause, but with little success hitherto, we

regret to be obliged to add. His metropolitan lecture last winter

could scarcely have realized his own expectations; though it was not

difficult to meet those of the public. A friend of ours who repaired

early to the Tabernacle, with a ticket bearing a number above twelve

hundred, found not three-score auditors in that capacious edifice.

It is equally certain, that the following 'unkindest cut of all' at

Mr. MATHEWS'S international copy-right _essays_, which reaches us

in the last number of the '_Dublin University Magazine_,' embodies

the opinion generally entertained of those efforts on this side the

Atlantic: 'While on the subject of America, we would wish to add

a line of a certain CORNELIUS MATHEWS, who writes pamphlets and

delivers lectures in New-York, on the subject of an international

copy-right law. Such is the complex involution of his style; such

the headlong impetuosity with which tropes, figures, and metaphors

run down, jostle, and overturn each other, that we have puzzled

ourselves in vain to detect his meaning or the gist of his argument.

Giants, elephants, '_tiger-mothers_,' and curricles; angels,

frigates, baronial castles, and fish-ponds, 'dance through his

writings in all the mazes of metaphorical confusion;' and however

desirous we may feel that a law of copy-right might protect British

authors from American piracy, yet as one of the craft we boldly

say: '_Non defensoribus istis! non tali auxilio!_' Let the question

be put forward manfully and intelligibly; let it not be a piece of

Indian jugglery, performed by CORNELIUS MATHEWS, but the plain and

simple acknowledgement that literary property is property, and as

such has its rights, sacred and inviolable.' We have quoted this

passage for the purpose of showing that our own opinion of Mr.

MATHEWS'S rambling thoughts and disjointed style finds abundant

confirmation wherever his 'writings' are forced into temporary

notice. * * * 'SERVED you right!' Carelessness like your's deserved

just such a result. You'll not be guilty of a similar act of folly

very soon, ''tan't likely:'

I AM down in the mouth, I am out at the pockets!

Ah, me! I've no pockets at all;

And all I have left, is a braid and a locket;

That's all!

It was rather solemn; quite touching, alas!

As she got on a stool to be higher,

I acted, no doubt, the entire jack-ass--

Yes, entire!

Arms and lips came together, and staid, as I reckon,

With as much as you please of a linger,

Till a finger was seen at the window to beckon,

A finger!

We'd forgotten the shutters!--the world was forgot,

Till we saw that sign, from her father,

Which was rather a poser, just then, was it not?

'Twas, rather!

He knew I was ruined--all gone to smash!

And he was a man of that stamp,

Would call you a scamp if you hadn't the cash--

Ay, a scamp!

His bonds and investments--not in such brains

As a poet makes up into verses;

His remarks--upon never so beautiful strains,

Were curses!

I called the next day, but the stool was removed,

And the delicate foot, with a twirl,

Walked off somewhere with the girl that I loved--

The girl!

Hang her! hang him! hang the whole planet!

The stars!--they do hang--well, hang every body,

And hang me, if I ain't a noddy --d ----n it!

A noddy!

'THE blank-verse _halts_ for it' in the lines entitled '_Mournful

Memories_.' Beside, the tendency of the sentiment is not, we think,

a useful one. Were all the dangers or ills of life to present

themselves to the imagination in a body, drawn up in battle array,

the prospect would indeed be dreadful; but coming individually,

they are far less formidable, and successively as they occur

are conquered. Foreboded, their aspect is terrific; but seen in

retrospect, they frequently excite present satisfaction and future

fortitude. 'It is with human life as with the phases of nature,

whose regular course is calm and orderly; tempests and troubles

being but lapses from the accustomed sobriety with which Providence

works out the destined end of all things.' * * * MUCH is said of

the 'freedom' or 'licentiousness' of our public press; but we are

far behind the press of London in this regard. Look for example

at the comments in some of the London journals upon the recent

marriage of the Hereditary Duke of Mecklenburg, a 'royal pensioner,'

with the Princess AUGUSTA of Cambridge. The produce of his dukedom

is described by the '_Charivari_' as consisting of 'nothing in

particular; its revenue purely nominal.' The wedding is turned

into the broadest ridicule. The Duke had an audience of himself in

the morning in the glass of his dressing-case; his 'master of the

wardrobe, who was also comptroller of the leather portmanteau and

groom of the hat-box,' being the only person in attendance. 'He wore

the _white seam_ of the German order of princes, and was looking

remarkably well--as all the annuitants of England contrive generally

to look.' The ceremony was performed in the usual style of royalty.

And when the prelate who performed the office came to the words

'With all my worldly goods I thee endow,' the Duke of Cambridge,

who always thinks out loud, kept up a running accompaniment: 'Well,

that's capital! worldly goods, indeed! I should like to see some

of 'em!' and other pleasant observations; all which were taken to

be a gush of fervent ejaculations from the father of the bride,

invoking the happiness of the newly-married couple. The happy pair

set out for Kew, to which place the Duke's Lord of the Luggage had

already conveyed his carpet-bag! The _trousseau_ of the Princess

had been laid out at Cambridge House for the inspection of the

bride's friends; 'but the illustrious bridegroom, with more modesty,

laid out _his_ trousseau on the bed in his private apartment,

previous to packing.' Various articles are enumerated; among the

rest, 'a splendid uniform for state occasions, consisting of the

superb coat of an officer of the Blues, with Grenadier trowsers

and a Lifeguards-man's helmet;' 'twelve false collars; nine pairs

of cotton socks; two stocks, with long ends,' etc., etc. Such an

invasion of aristocratic privacy may be termed 'licentiousness of

the press' with as much truth, we conceive, as any of the gossipry

of the American newspapers. * * * IN looking lately over the

'_Souvenirs Historiques_' of NAPOLEON and MARIA LOUISA, by the Baron

MENEVAL, his 'ancient secretary,' we were forcibly impressed with a

passage which depicts the love of the Great Captain for his infant

son. The child was brought every morning to his apartment:

'YES: that cabinet, which saw the origin of so many mighty

plans, so many vast and generous schemes of administration,

was also witness to the effusions of a father's tenderness.

How often have I seen the emperor keeping his son by him as if

he were impatient to teach him the art of governing! Whether,

seated by the chimney on his favorite sofa, he was engaged in

reading an important document, or whether he went to his bureau

to sign a despatch, every word of which required to be weighed,

his son, seated on his knees, or pressed to his breast, was

never a moment away from him. Sometimes, throwing aside the

thoughts which occupied his mind, he would lie down on floor

beside his beloved boy, playing with him like another child,

attentive to every thing that could please or amuse him. The

emperor had a sort of apparatus for trying military manoeuvres:

it consisted of plates of wood fashioned to represent

battalions, regiments, and divisions. When he wanted to try

some new combinations of troops, or some new evolution, he used

to arrange these pieces on the carpet. While he was seriously

occupied with the disposition of these pieces, working out some

skilful manoeuvre which might ensure the success of a battle,

the child, lying at his side, would often overthrow his troops,

and put into confusion his order of battle, perhaps at the most

critical moment. But the emperor would recommence arranging his

men with the utmost good humor.'

How different the scene with these mimic troops, from that presented

by his human legions! No long columns of smoke streamed up from

_their_ line of march, indicating burning villages and fields

trampled in the dust; no explosions of artillery; no thundering of

cavalry; no steel clanging with steel in the desperate conflict of

life for life; no smoke, nor darkness, nor infernal din; no groans

of the dying; no piercing shouts, revealing the last fierce efforts

of human nature, wrought up to the infuriated recklessness of

revenge and despair. None of these! Not greater was the difference

between that infant and his sire! Yet it _is_ a pleasant feature

in the character of NAPOLEON, his love of children. 'He entered,'

says Miss BALCOMBE, who knew him so intimately at St. Helena, 'into

all the feelings of young people, and when with them was a mere

child, and a most amusing one. I think his love of children, and

the delight he felt in their society; and that too at the most

calamitous period of his life, when a cold and unattachable nature

would have been abandoned to the indulgence of selfish misery; in

itself speaks volumes for his goodness of heart.' * * * AH! yes;

we understand your insinuation, dear Sir, and 'possibly _may_ wish

that we had let you alone.' And yet, here is your letter before

us, _requesting_ 'an opinion of the merits of your piece, in the

entertaining gossip of the Editor's Table!' How does _that_ read?

Our correspondent, if his ability were equal to his inclination,

would doubtless make us feel the truth of this scrap of advice

from one who was a judge of human nature: 'Let no man despise the

opinion of _blockheads_. In every society they form the majority,

and are generally the most powerful and influential. Laugh not at

their laborious disquisitions on the weather, and their wonderful

discoveries of things which every one knows. If you offend a

fool, you turn the whole muddy port of his composition into

rancid vinegar, and not all the efforts you can make will abate

its sourness.' One word here to correspondents generally. We have

no pleasure in rejecting a communication, privately or publicly.

Often have we sat, with a 'dubious' paper in hand, hesitating

for an hour whether to 'print or burn;' thinking of the fervent

wishes of the writer, and the labor that he had bestowed upon his

production. Every part, every period, had perhaps been considered

and re-considered, with unremitting anxiety. He had revised,

corrected, expunged, again produced and again erased, with endless

iteration. Points and commas themselves perhaps had been settled

with repeated and jealous solicitude. All this may be, and yet one's

article be indifferent, or unsuited to our pages. Give us credit for

candor, gentlemen, as well as for plain-speaking * * * HERE are two

clever epigrams; the first from a contributor to whom the reader

has heretofore been indebted for several caustic _tersities_ in its

kind; the second from a friend who does not 'confess the cape' of

authorship:

'WHY is a belle, attired for public gaze,

Like to a ship? She 'goes about' in stays.'

We can enlighten the ignorance of our Port-Chester friend. Ladies in

this meridian eschew 'stays,' as he calls them. They are _passée_,

out of date, 'things that were.' 'Hence we view the gr-e-ät

necessity there is' of being _au fait_ to the latest fashion. The

ensuing purports to have been written on a '_Yankee Belle_.' 'Guess

_not_,' though; 'tisn't the way of Yankee belles:

'SHE'S dressed so neatly for the ball,

In truth, she's scarcely dressed at all;

A fact to Yankees quite distressing,

It leaves so little room for guessing!'

'Oh! go 'long, you p'ison critter, you! What d'you mean?' * * *

WE should have published the lines entitled '_What is our Life?_'

but for some _forty lines_, the thoughts of which are 'conveyed'

entire from CARLYLE. Looking down upon the wilderness of London,

the thoughtful TEUFELSDRÖCKH exclaims: 'There in that old city

was a live ember of culinary fire put down, say only two thousand

years ago; and there, burning more or less triumphantly, with such

fuel as the region yielded, it has burnt, and still burns, and

thou thyself seest the very smoke thereof. _Ah! and the far more

mysterious live ember of Vital Fire was then also put down there,

and still miraculously burns and spreads._' * * * THE DRAMA is once

more in the ascendant. The PARK THEATRE, our 'Old Drury,' is a

personification of 'The Deformed Transformed.' Externally, it has

assumed the aspect of a fine granite temple, in the Doric style of

architecture, with a noble statue of SHAKSPEARE lording it over

the pile; while internally, from pit to ceiling; boxes, walls,

proscenium, stage; _every thing_, in short, is new and beautiful.

Mr. BARRY deserves the highest praise for the good taste, the

liberality, and the untiring industry which he has brought to bear

upon our favorite place of theatrical resort. The house opened with

WALLACK; WALLACK, that 'love of a man,' who can never grow old,

and who has lost no whit of his power to delight his auditors. He

opened in his inimitable 'Rolla' and 'Dashall,' to a house crowded

from proscenium to dome with the élite of the metropolis; and he

has since gone through his round of characters, including that

most touching of modern plays, '_The Rent-Day_,' with undiminished

popularity. _Apropos_ of this latter play: a good story is told

of its first production in London. The celebrated FARREN declined

a part in it; remarking, that if the piece ran beyond a single

night, he would eat an old hat for every time it was played. The

play rose to immediate and almost unprecedented popularity. On

arriving at the theatre one evening, Mr. FARREN was informed by

the call-boy that Mr. WALLACK had left something on a side-table

for him, covered with a large white sheet. 'Hum!' grunted FARREN,

'what is it?' The boy lifted the covering; and behold, ranged in

the most exact order, were thirty-six of the dirtiest, shabbiest,

'shocking bad hats' in London! FARREN started, and turned angrily

to the lad. 'Please, Sir,' said the boy, 'Mr. WALLACK says as how

you said, when you refused the part of _Crumbs_ in 'The Rent-Day,'

that if the piece ran beyond a single night, you would eat an old

hat; so as it has now been played thirty-seven times, he thinks it

right to give you something to eat, afore the meal becomes too large

for your digestion!' FARREN said it 'was all right--and left.' *

* * WELL pleased are we to remark the opening of Messrs. COUDERT

AND PORTER's English and Classical Lyceum, at Number ninety-five

Eighth-street, near Tompkins's-Square. The principals have no

superiors; their assistants are of their careful selection, and have

their approval. On _these_ points, therefore, 'enough said.' The

situation is delightful, and the terms consistent with the times.

Let these gentlemen be _patronized_. Ah! that is not the term; but

we have no good synonyme for it. We have always detested the word;

and especially since we encountered Dr. JOHNSON's comment upon it,

in a letter to Lord CHESTERFIELD, soon after finishing his immortal

Dictionary: 'I entertain, Sir, a very strong prejudice against

relying on patrons. Seven years, my Lord, have now passed since I

waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during

which time I have been pushing on my work, through difficulties of

which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to

the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word

of encouragement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not

expect, for I never had a patron before.' * * * OUR friend who

writes us from Florence (his excellent article is filed for our

next) is quite right in his ideas of '_Letters of Introduction_.'

There is much and exaggerated abuse of this courtesy, emanating

from this country. His own case, we can assure him, is by no means

a solitary one. We like the frank reply given by a distinguished

American to a young, conceited whipster, who sought, through the

claims of his father's friendship, to obtain letters to persons of

distinction abroad: 'I want,' said he, 'to get letters to SCOTT, to

MOORE, to SOUTHEY, and to JEFFREY. Father would like to have me see

them.' 'So should _I_,' replied the expected donor, 'but I don't

wish _them_ to see _you_. If _that_ objection could be removed,

perhaps your wish might be gratified.' It 'was stated at the time'

that our young gentleman 'left the presence.' * * * WE are struck

with this remark of Count ROSTOPTCHIN, in his sententious memoirs,

in preceding pages: 'I had an involuntary veneration for the sun,

and his setting always made me sad.' How often, with kindred

emotion, have we stood and gazed at sunset-clouds, with one who now

sleeps in his early grave! Saying little, but thinking much, and

feeling more; and as the day-god sank below the horizon, reflecting

upon the period when all the living world that saw him then, should

roll in unconscious dust around him. Oh! the mystery of nature!--the

mystery of life!... '_The Puritans_ vs. _The Quakers_' is _at_

hand and _on_ hand, and _will be_ for some time, we cal'late.

Couldn't 'approve' the sentiments of our Plymouth correspondent,

'any way 'at he can fix it.' We segregate a joke, however, which

is worth pickling. 'Why are the Quakers always well-to-do in the

world?' asks a Friend of one of the 'world's people.' 'They are

chargeable to no man, and yet are always thrifty.' ''Zactly!' was

the rejoinder; 'and I'll tell you _why_. The Quakers _are_ rich,

that's sartain; and the way of it at first was this: When our

SAVIOUR was took up onto the top of an exceeding high mounting,

the OLD GENTLEMAN offered him all the riches of the world, if

he'd fall down and worship him. 'Twouldn't do: the SAVIOUR said

'No;' but a Quaker who was standing by, took the OLD KNICK up:

'Friend BEELZEBUB,' says he, 'I'll take thy offer!' He did so;

and there's been no scursity of money among your folks sence that

time!' * * * 'HONORS are easy' with sundry of our correspondents.

We perceive that, among others, the '_Mail-Robber_' was elected a

member of the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Cambridge University, at

the late 'commencement' of that institution. 'Served him right;'

he _deserved_ it. We have 'known things of him' that would have

brought this visitation upon him before, had we chosen to mention

them. 'Justice, though slow, always overtakes,' etc. The proverb is

something musty. * * * WE must be permitted to doubt whether

'_bally-ragging_,' as poor POWER used to term scolding, is the

'eftest way' for our New-Haven friend, to whose favor we recently

alluded. 'Many men of many minds.' A spoonful of molasses will catch

more flies than a quart of vinegar; and 'an inch of laugh is worth

an ell of moan, in any state of the market.' 'The vices of the

times, the vices of society, the vices of literature, require rigid

scrutiny and fearless censors.' Very likely; therefore 'Pay away

at them!' say we; but excuse us from monopolizing our pages with

gloom, groutiness, and grumbling. * * * WE have omitted to notice

the superb annual engraving for the subscribers of the '_Apollo

Association_,' recently put forth by that popular institution. The

subject is VANDERLYN's celebrated picture of 'CAIUS MARIUS on the

ruins of Carthage.' The engraving is in line, by S. A. SCHOFF, a

native artist, and forms one of the finest specimens of art in

its kind ever produced in this country. * * * Mr. PRENTICE, the

well-known Louisville Journalist, is 'down upon' a 'gentleman of

some smartness who rejoices in the euphonious name of POE,' (a

correspondent of ours spells it 'Poh!') for terming CARLYLE, in

one of his thousand-and-one MAC-GRAWLER critiques, 'an ass.' The

Kentucky poet and politician thus rejoins: 'We have no more doubt

that Mr. EDGAR A. POE is a very good judge of an ass, than we have

that he is a very poor judge of such a man as THOMAS CARLYLE. He has

no sympathies with the great and wonderful operations of CARLYLE's

mind, and is therefore unable to appreciate him. A blind man can

describe a rainbow as accurately as Mr. POE can CARLYLE's mind.

What Mr. POE lacks in Carlyleism he makes up in jackassism.

It is very likely that Mr. CARLYLE's disciples are as poor judges

of an ass as Mr. POE is of CARLYLE. Let them not abuse each other,

or strive to overcome obstacles which are utterly irremovable.

That Mr. POE has all the native tendencies necessary to qualify

him to be a judge of asses, he has given repeated evidences to the

public.' 'Nervous, but inelegant!' as Mr. ASPEN remarks in 'The

Nervous Man.' * * * CAN any native citizen of '_The Empire State_'

peruse the forceful paper under this title, in preceding pages,

without a feeling of natural and just pride? For ourselves, born,

bred, and educated upon the soil of New-York, we cannot read it

without a thrill of gratification, that our 'lines have been cast

in pleasant places,' and that we have so 'goodly an heritage.' * *

* WE do not know when we have been more 'horrified' than on reading

the following in a London journal: 'Two natives of the cannibal

islands of Marquesas have been carried to France. The story runs,

that on the voyage one of their fellow-passengers asked them which

they liked best, the French or the English? 'The English!' answered

the man, smacking his lips; 'they are the _fattest_.' 'And a great

deal more _tender_,' chimed in the woman, with a grin that exhibited

two rows of pointed teeth as sharp as a crocodile's!' * * * '_The

Exile's Song_,' with the note which accompanied it, came too late

for insertion in the present number. It will appear in our next. *

* * THE story of '_The Tobacco-Quid_' is as old as the seven hills.

What a silly thing it is, to give new names and a new _locale_ to

an 'ancient MILLER,' and at the same time vouch for its entire

authenticity and originality! 'O git eöut!' * * * READER, did you

ever see a small puppy bark at an elephant in a menagerie, whereat

the dignified beast didn't even deign to flap his leather-apron

ears? Did you ever see a stump-tailed ape sporting a Roman toga? And

have you seen the 'Annihilation of DANIEL WEBSTER' by CRAZY NEAL, in

a recent newspaper piece of his? Mr. NEAL thinks the great orator

and statesman a _humbug_! He is a judge of the article. * * * IF the

'_Stanzas to Mary_' are a 'little after the style of WORDSWORTH,' we

can only say that the WORDSWORTH school is not a grammar-school:

----'Upon my brow

Glooms gathers fast and thick,'

is not unlike 'Cats eats mice,' or 'Shads is come!' * * * SEVERAL

communications, among them 'Chronicles of the Past,' Number Two;

'Evening Hymn;' 'The Deity,' etc., will receive attention in our

next.

* * * * *

THOMSON'S ABRIDGEMENT OF DAY'S ALGEBRA FOR THE USE OF

SCHOOLS.--DAY's Algebra has sustained a high reputation during

a period of fourteen years; a fact sufficiently evinced by the

sale of more than forty large editions. In appropriateness of

arrangement, perspicuity of expression, and adaptation to the

purposes of instruction, whether public or private, it stands, we

believe, unrivalled. The highest praise which can be bestowed on a

school-book is, that 'it is its own teacher.' By commencing with

points so simple that any child of ordinary ability can comprehend

them, and advancing step by step, removing every obstacle when it

first presents itself, and conducting the student gradually into the

more intricate parts of the science, the author makes him master

of the subject while he is yet scarcely aware of its difficulties.

The exactness of definition and clearness of illustration which

characterize Mr. THOMSON's 'Abridgement' together with the exclusion

of the answers to the problems, (a course indispensable to an

independent scholar,) are especially commendable. The method also

of completing the square by multiplying the equation by four times

the coëfficient of the higher power of the unknown quantity, and

adding to both members the square of the coëfficient of the lower

power, avoids the introduction of fractional terms, and strikes

us as an improvement. The most weighty objection to DAY's Algebra

has been its paucity of examples. This defect is remedied in the

'Abridgement,' the number of examples being nearly twice as great as

in the original work.

LITERARY RECORD.

'PRAYERS FOR THE USE OF FAMILIES.'--Here is a volume of some three

hundred pages, containing upward of seventy prayers, designed to

meet all conditions of mankind, and all the wants of humanity. The

author, Rev. WILLIAM JAY, of England, has aimed to be very plain

and simple in his diction, since prayer admits of no brilliance,

and rejects studied ornament. He has not substituted finery for

elegance, nor the affectation of art for the eloquence of feeling;

but has wisely avoided a strained, inflated style, unintelligible to

the ignorant, lamented by the pious, and contemned by the wise. This

is as it should be. It is remarkable that in the Bible no prayer

is recorded, in which the figure employed is not as familiar as

the literal expression. An appendix is added, containing a number

of select and original prayers for particular occasions; short

addresses, applicable to certain events and circumstances, and which

the reader may insert in their proper place in the main prayer, or

use at the end of it. A work like this, from a competent pen, may

supply with many families an important desideratum. The volume is

published by Mr. M. W. DODD, Brick Church Chapel, opposite the Park.

'THE WYANDOTTE, OR THE HUTTED KNOLL,' is the title of Mr. COOPER's

last work, recently published by Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD,

Philadelphia, in two well-executed volumes in the pamphlet-form.

It embodies legends of the sufferings of isolated families during

the troubled scenes of colonial warfare, which are distinctive in

many of their leading facts, if not rigidly true in the details.

We gather from the prefatory remarks of the author, that in these

volumes he has 'aimed at sketching several distinct varieties

of the human race, as true to the governing impulses of their

educations, habits, modes of thinking, and natures.' How this aim

has been accomplished, we are quite unable to say. We trust however

that the friend who transported the work from our table into the

country, will at least repay us for the gratification of which he

has deprived us, by returning it when he is through with it, that we

may be ourselves enlightened, and enabled to enlighten our readers,

concerning the character of the work.

THOMPSON'S HISTORY OF LONG-ISLAND.--A second edition--revised and

greatly enlarged, and included in two handsome volumes--has just

appeared, of Mr. B. F. THOMPSON's history of Long-Island, from its

discovery and settlement to the present time. The work embodies

many interesting and important matters, connected with the first

settlement of our country and its colonial and revolutionary

history; and includes notices of numerous individuals and families,

and a particular account of different churches and ministers.

In short, the indefatigable author has availed himself of every

source of authentic and valuable information which could add to

the interest or usefulness of his work; which we should not omit

to mention embraces two large and well-executed maps, and is

illustrated by numerous lithographic engravings of edifices and

other objects of interest on the island; and including the author's

'counterfeit presentment.' Messrs. GOULD, BANKS AND COMPANY are the

publishers.

'THE KAREN APOSTLE.'--Messrs. GOULD, KENDALL, AND LINCOLN, Boston,

have issued in a handsome little volume, 'The Karen Apostle, or

Memoir of KO-THAH-BYU, the first Karen convert; with Notices

concerning his Nation. By Rev. FRANCIS MASON, Missionary to the

Karens.' The first American edition is revised by Prof. H. J.

RIPLEY, of Newton (Mass.) Theological Seminary. The work is 'sent

forth in the hope that the interest which has been felt in behalf

of the Karens may be deepened, and that the cause of missions to

the heathen in general may be promoted by the striking proof of the

power of the gospel exhibited in its pages.' The work is illustrated

by maps, in part from manuscript, and by one or two well-executed

engravings on wood. The specimens of Karen literature appended to

the volume do not afford a very exalted idea of the writings of

that sect; nevertheless, they possess a certain interest in the

connection which they sustain in the volume.

NEW MUSIC.--We have before us, from the extensive and popular

establishment of Messrs. JAMES L. HEWITT AND COMPANY, Broadway,

'Woodside Waltz,' by Miss MARION S. MCGREGOR; 'Grand Austerlitz

March and Quickstep, arranged as a Duet, for the Piano-forte,' by

GEORGE W. HEWITT; 'The Alpine Horn, a Tyrollean,' by JOHN H. HEWITT;

and 'Robin Buff, a Ballad,' the music by Mr. HENRY RUSSELL.

'WHEN THOU WERT TRUE.'--This is a very charming Song; the words

by F. W. THOMAS, Esq., the music by JOHN H. HEWITT, inscribed

to Mrs. ROBERT TYLER, and just published by JAMES L. HEWITT AND

COMPANY, Broadway. If the noble-looking portrait upon the title-page

represents Mrs. TYLER, she is justly entitled to the praises with

which the journals have teemed, touching the grace and beauty of her

person. The following are the words:

I.

When thou wert true, when thou wert true,

My heart did thy impression take,

As do the depths where skies are blue,

Of some wood-girt and quiet lake,

The image of the moon that gives

The calmness in whose light she lives.

II.

But when doubts came, my troubled breast

Was like that lake when winds do blow;

Her image there, though still impressed,

Beams brokenly in ebb and flow:

Until the storm obscures her sight,

And reigns the ebon-visaged Night.

III.

Again that changing moon shall shine,

When storms are o'er within the lake.

Which, like that wayward heart of thine,

Can any other image take:

Mine, graven like memorial-stone,

Is now a memory alone.

'ALHALLA, OR THE LORD OF TALADEGA: A TALE OF THE CREEK WAR.'--Thus

is entitled a narrative poem by HENRY ROWE COLCRAFT, better known as

HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT, Esq., an old correspondent of this Magazine.

The story turns upon the contests of the Muscogees, their exertions,

their discomfitures, and their final fall. It opens at a distant

northern point, within a short period after the close of the Creek

war, and occupies two days and nights in its action. Its style

is a union of the dramatic with the narrative and descriptive; a

conjunction well adapted to the character of the story and the

nature of its personages. There are appended to the main poem a few

selected miscellanies, among which we recognize three or four clever

effusions, originally given to the public in these pages. Messrs.

WILEY AND PUTNAM are the publishers.

'THE NEW PURCHASE.'--Our task for these departments of the

KNICKERBOCKER was completed, when we received from Messrs. APPLETON

AND COMPANY, a native novel, in two volumes, entitled 'The New

Purchase; or Seven and a half Years in the Far West.' By ROBERT

CARLTON, Esq. We have not found leisure to read one of its pages;

but if we may judge of its merits from the encomiums of two or three

of our contemporaries of the daily press, it should prove a work of

the most sterling attraction. To say that 'MARY CLAVERS' must 'look

to her laurels,' there being an equally gifted laborer in a kindred

field, strikes us as very high praise. We hope, but doubt, to find

_that_ precaution in any degree necessary.

'USURY: THE EVIL AND THE REMEDY.'--The pages of this department of

the KNICKERBOCKER were mainly in the hands of the printers, when

we received the newspaper folio entitled as above. We are left but

space therefore barely to state, that this essay on usury differs

entirely from the usual mode of treating that subject, in that it

does not rely on the _penalties_ for the repression of the evil, but

proposes to root out its existence by a practical, beneficent mode

of removing the temptations to, and occasions for, usury. It is for

sale at BURGESS AND STRINGER'S, corner of Ann-street and Broadway.'

NEW WORKS FROM THE AMERICAN PRESS.--We have before us several

excellent publications, which came too late for _notice_ in the

present number. Among them, we may mention three entertaining

volumes from the press of Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD, Philadelphia,

'_The Court of England_,' from 1688 to GEORGE the THIRD; '_Nature

and Revelation_,' or the Second Advent; the beautiful '_Illustrated

Prayer-Book_' serials of Mr. HEWET; and PEABODY'S _Dartmouth College

Address_. These publications, with others which we lack space even

to mention, will be adverted to in our November number.

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

Minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected

without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have

been retained as printed.

The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the

transcriber and is placed in the public domain.