Visitors at the 'Home Department.'—'I cannot make a speech myself,' said a wag, when suddenly called upon to address a political assemblage, 'but if any body else wants to speak, I'll hold his hat!' This was an obliging person; and we here ask leave in some sort to imitate his example. While we are making out the Index to the twenty-second volume of the Knickerbocker, our readers will permit us to introduce to their acquaintance our thoughtful friend 'Hans Von Spiegel,' and our imaginative and mercurial correspondent 'Julian,' whose 'Top of New York' in our last number, by the by, we placed to the credit of a new contributor to this Magazine, whose hand-writing greatly resembles his own. These gentlemen came too late to sit at the regular board; so an' please you, reader, make them welcome, as we do, to our round-table. We have 'taken their hats;' and while the one addresses you, upon a theme seasonable at this present, and fraught with reminiscences of golden days, and the other enlightens unwedded people on the subject of 'matrimonial gettings-up of a morning,' permit us to accomplish our ungrateful task of composing a 'curtailed abbreviation compressing all the particulars' of the various matters contained in the last six numbers of the Knickerbocker. Ladies and gentlemen, 'Herr Von Spiegel,' in an 'Epistleized Reverie:'

'While I mused, the fire burned.'

'The gorgeous autumnal sun had just sunk behind the line of the Jersey shore as Hans, an hour since, turned homeward. He had it in his thoughts, dear Editor, to give thee a desultory train of reflections which the quiet loveliness of the scene suggested: the hills of Long Island stretching away to the eastward, with their wooded sides yet mantled with the many-colored foliage, that brightened in the evening glory of the sun; the radiant surface of the Narrows, dotted here and there with sails, their swelling bosoms spread to the land breeze; the white gulls returning in many a gyration to find their resting-places among the rocks on the beach; as they had done ages before; when the red man, who harmed them not, alone and happy, paddled his canoe around the head-lands which now are crowned with the tasteful dwellings of civilization; the gray sky bending over all, and arching in the landscape. He thought to discourse with thee of these; but now, seated before a coal-grate, all a-blaze and cheerful, he has changed his mind. Through the window-blinds of his chamber he can see the cold twinklings of the Northern Bear; and, if he would, the star that looks so brightly down on the Arctic Sea. There, now he does gaze upon it—sadly though, and tearful. Thou mayest not know why that star makes him sad. Again his eyes are turned away from his window, and his heart from sad thoughts. He pusheth the table a hair's breadth farther from the fire; presseth the cushion of a comfortable chair with a pair of curious slippers, in which his feet are encased; adjusteth himself at an easy angle; droppeth his head upon his breast, and wooeth the enchantress Fancy, lustrous-eyed and beautiful.* * * Hast thou never felt, gentle reader, while enjoying the first cold evening of the season, beside thy glowing hearth, a sudden influx of fresh life; a flow of quiet joyousness, as mysterious as pleasant; the melancholy gloominess with which thou beheldest the approach of winter, all at once disappearing to trouble thee no more for a whole year?—the dread of snow-tempests, and keen winds, and hurrying, gray clouds, on the instant giving place to a longing love for merry sleigh-bells, jingling in the frosty air? Well! Hans thought he was not the only one who experienceth the like.

Give us thy hand, Old Winter! Thou art welcome! Thou awakenest visions of other days, when Hans, in the simplicity of his childhood, believed that 'Thanksgiving' and 'Christmas,' some how or other, came into town in an old-fashioned double-seated sleigh, with racing gray horses and cracking whip, wielded by an invisible Jehu. How the idea got into his head, is more than he can tell. Exquisitely happy were those days of uncareful childhood; when the winter school called scores of rosy-cheeked urchins, hallooing on the morning air, through the snow to the old red school-house in the village of Hans's nativity. The larger boys all with their sleds, on which sat their sisters, with the 'dinner-basket' in their laps; and their smaller brothers floundering through the drifts which they sought, contrary to the last injunctions of their mothers, along the fences. The huge box-stove roared a 'good morning' to them, as the boys stamped off the ice from their shoes, and the girls untied the strings which kept down their pantalettes. As there were no unlucky flies to inter and imprison in transparent quills, nor coke-berries wherewith to paint the sides of their noses farthest from the master's eye, the boys, perforce, studied their tasks; and the girls, as girls always are, were equally the objects of pedagogical favor. Was the day 'thawy,' the noon-time witnessed magic castles erected; and the numberless streaks of bare turf showed where the huge balls of snow of which they were constructed had been rolled into unwieldy masses; and the wet mittens under the stove in the afternoon amply compensated for the want of water in the iron basin on the top of it. Shouting when four o'clock released them, they hurried home, only to prepare for the evening's sport of 'riding down hill.' Hans would give worlds to be a boy again, and for one single moonlight evening slide down 'Furnace-hill,' as of yore! * * * When a few winters had passed over your boyish head, beloved reader, and you first knew that magnetic feeling which told you what gave the charm to rosy lips, and you guessed what kissing was, did you not feel all ecstasy while the bell-bedizzened horses and the belle-enlivened sleigh scoured with half a score of you over hill and through dale; the thick hood of the maiden next you being excuse unquestionable for telling her pretty lips what her ear could not so well apprehend? You needn't be ashamed to confess it; for those were, let Hans tell you, the golden days of your life. Before the wide fire-place of thy father's kitchen, thou hast, days long gone by, arranged the pippins just outside the andirons, and placed the gallon-pitcher of good brisk October on the coals, and cracked hickory nuts, (yes, and the more accessible butternut,) for thy semi-circle of smiling, grown-up sisters and sweet blooming cousins, until the apples were roasted and the cider warmed. Then, when nine o'clock came, and thy spectacled and pious grandmother had read a chapter in the Holy Book, and thy father had knelt in prayer, didst thou not, as Hans does now, while thou laidst thy head upon thy pillow, and heard the whistling wind shaking thy window, bless Old Winter for making you so happy? * * * Courteous reader, Hans, while he draweth up the bed-clothes, biddeth thee 'Good Night!'

It is not possible that the foregoing can be read by any one who has enjoyed the blessed privilege of passing his early years in the country, without 'kindling the flame of memory,' and placing before him, as in a backward-moving panorama, the hallowed associations of childhood and youth. Listen now to 'Julian.' He keeps a late appointment with a friend, with whom he is once more to look down upon 'the top of New-York.' He is certainly highly colloquial, and very familiar; but you'll find thought enough in him, expressed and suggestive, albeit at the first glance he may seem rambling and desultory:

'My dear Sir, how are you now? Hope you haven't been waiting. Possible? Been here all the morning under an umbrella! You must have breakfasted very badly. I should have been up sooner, but my wife——Ugh! how the wind blows! Won't you have part of my cloak? There goes your umbrella inside out. Ah, well; it's better than a collapse. This 'falling inward,' as the women call it, is frightful. This, then, is December. Chimney-tops pirouetting, tiles on the wing, and clouds pouring out of the North, legion upon legion, as though all the winds of Heaven had been gathering them for the last month, and were now bound to the tropics with the momentum of the world's motion. The top of New-York, Sir, is very well of a warm day; but allow me to say that there is air below, now—plenty of it. Suppose we step down and look out of the window? * * * Well, Sir, how have you been? Down in the mouth again! Ah, Sir, you have been looking at something too long. Never should do that. In a world that's whirling a thousand miles an hour, every thing should be taken at a glance. Get the wit of a thing, and have done with it. I give you five minutes every day to look at the stars, but don't particularize; for some in those far-off places send their light down long after they have been knocked out of existence, and you may be looking at a blank. Look out for such delusions, and act, remembering that the poetry of the hour, like the cream of your coffee, should be fresh every morning. Oh, Sir! in a world that never halts for a single moment in its everlasting round of changing amusement, your small agony is unpardonable. Why, the clouds and darkness are part of the play. Certainly—part of the play. Rain and snow, and chilling winds, pain, trouble, and torment—these are the variations for which you may thank God. If there were not plainer faces and worse figures, your little wife would soon be a fright to you—a perfect fright. Find your bubble and blow, but never stop to look at the colors. Let them burst; no matter for that, while your wind lasts. Blow away; there's nothing like it. If you are tired, like myself, and would like to look on, I can only say that the moralities of such speculation are hazardous; and if you have any wind left, it's better to die with a round cheek than a hollow one. A man without a bubble is flatulent; and a woman without one—but that's impossible. Take my advice, Sir, and let the world wag. If it choose to run off the track, let it, and if any comet is amind to take us en route to the sun, why, blaze away! There are thousands of better dots in creation than this old concern; and whether we go up, down, or sideways—rocket, earthquake, or thirty-two pounder—we shall land somewhere; can't get lost. In short, Sir, you have no right to grumble, unless you are——But that's my secret. Shall I confess it? Mind, a secret; for if my wife should hear of it, she would tease me to death. Of course you will dine with me to-day; beg you wouldn't hint this in the remotest manner; not a whisper. * * * Sir, I am nervous—a solemn truth. Been examined by a double-combined microscope, and found to have two sets of nerves. I can see double, hear double, think double, and sleep double; and yet with such nerves, I have this very day been outwitted by a woman with only a common set. 'Nothing remarkable about that,' you say. Perhaps not; we shall see. * * * Speaking of nerves; now a day like this is endurable. People, you observe, are in earnest. There is what the new school would call a 'oneness' in the public mind to get out of the rain; and cloaks, handkerchiefs, umbrellas and skirts are used for the temporary shelter, because one can't stop to be nice. But of a warm day, when people can afford to dally and act their part, my nerves are troublesome, and I mount to the top of New-York. Did you ever look at a crowd of faces, when, under some dull lecture or sermon, the mind is comparatively at rest, and the character stands out upon the countenance? the smile, and all the other acted poetry of the face, gone for the moment, leaving only the impress of the slow march of years, the crows'-feet, the hieroglyphic, the line upon line of the devil's own hand-writing? If you could forget that you have looked at such things for a life-time; say for instance, you were a modest individual, just dropped from the moon, or any star that may be a part of Heaven; what would be your first impression? Why, Sir, you can't make your own dog look you in the face. There are different ways of viewing things, and in this light, one would be disposed to say that if the sun is the bad place that some people think, why, the farther planets may not, after all, be such outside barbarians as we generally imagine. There may be a reason, a very convenient reason, why we are not farther off.

'But, Sir, I was speaking of my wife. As you are a man of family, and I am only experimenting a little, nervously so to speak, return the compliment by giving me a little advice upon a matter of my own. How is it, Sir, about getting up first? We can't agree. She insists (my wife) that the man should rise first, as the sun before the moon, the useful before the ornamental, etc. Now, if I am gifted in any one thing, it is the half-hour dream after the first rouse in the morning; but my wife, Sir, in that particular is a perfect genius. Talk about sympathies! Let me tell you that people must not count upon married happiness from unanimous likenesses. The likes may be too like, and they may like too well. They may. I have decided that point. Well; this morning I was roused from the half-hour dream by the breakfast-call, and was provoked to find my wife still asleep; that is, she pretended to sleep; and I must confess that she had studied her attitude, so far as longitudinal position would admit, with no little skill. Having this important engagement with you, I gave her a little shake. 'Fanny! Fanny!' said I; but she didn't move a dimple. So I gave another shake. 'Eh?' said she; 'what's that? mercy! how you frightened me!' and then dropped away again. 'I say, Fanny,' accenting it a little. 'Ah, don't, dear, you are so rude!' She opened her eyes the merest trifle, and then lapsed away again into perfect oblivion as any one would suppose, who didn't know all about it. Putting on another emphasis, I sung out again, 'Are you going to get up?' She raised her eye-brows a trifle: 'Why, my dear child, you know it's your turn this morning.' My turn! and 'my dear child!' I knew from the manner of her saying that, that she would lie there all day before getting up first; but as I was determined to give her a trial, and am always easy at a nap, I thought of my interrupted dream, and sliding gently into the continuation, was soon fast asleep. When I woke again, it was twelve o'clock, but there was Fanny, just as before, the arm perhaps a little more À la Grecque, and a tinge on her cheek that looked a little saucy; but that might be the thought of her dream; the fit of a cap, or a new bonnet, any of those innocent little things that make up the burden of women's night-thoughts in the way of dreams. Any one would have sworn it was sleep, deep and profound; a child asleep after a day's frolic would not have been more perfect in the 'doing' of it. By this time, people were beginning their morning visits; but of course, Mrs. Julian was 'not at home.' People came and went for an hour; and I was about despairing of my breakfast, when the sleeping wife sprang suddenly from the bed and ran out of the room.

'What now?' said I; but I didn't get up, for I knew there was some mischief a-foot; and sure enough, back she came in a jiffy, and got straight into bed, munching a large piece of ginger-bread!

'Now, Sir, what is the law in such a case?

Julian.

Life and Times of the late William Abbott: Second Notice.—This entertaining work, from the MS. of which we quoted several admirable passages in our last number, is now in the hands of the Brothers Harper; and when it shall appear, it will be found to sustain, and more than sustain, the character we have given of it. We annex one or two additional extracts which were prepared for our November issue. In the following incident, we rather incline to the opinion, Mr. Abbott 'had the worst of it;' his evident self-satisfaction to the contrary notwithstanding:

'On my return to London from Paris, the farewell engagement of Mr. Kemble took place; and in the play of 'Cato,' Mr. Young had relinquished the toga of 'Portius,' which fell most unworthily upon my shoulders. A rehearsal was called on my account; but all the adjuncts of trumpets, drums, etc., were not considered necessary. My usual exuberance of spirits would have placed me in a most awkward position, but for the extreme simplicity of the great tragedian. When Cato is seated in council, an announcement is made of ambassadors from the senate, through the medium of a flourish of trumpets. Without a moment's hesitation or thought, I gave an imitation of the required instrument, to the perfect astonishment of all the performers. They looked at me, to see if there was any appearance of sanity left in me. I hung my head in dismay, fully expecting a severe lecture from the chief; the actors of course enjoying the anticipated censure; but to the astonishment of all parties, Mr. Kemble looked up with evident surprise, and said: 'Well, I declare, that is one of the most extraordinary things I ever heard in the whole course of my life. My good boy, do it again.' I naturally felt that this was meant as a kindly reproof, and with some little hesitation, I repeated it. The actors now began to chuckle; but Mr. Kemble retained his gravity, and was again astonished by my performance. He then made an asthmatic attempt to do the same, but his wind would not fill the instrument; and with an effort amounting to 'Pooh! I can't do it!' he said: 'Well, now we will go on with our rehearsal.' It was quite evident, from his general manner, that he really did look upon it as an extraordinary effort. I triumphed, consequently, and had the laugh against those who were exulting in the prospect of congratulating me on the loss of a week's salary.'

The annexed anecdote of 'old Mathews' occurs in a description of the dinner given by John Kemble, soon after his retirement from the stage, to some of the principal actors of Covent-Garden Theatre, at which Talma was present, as already recorded:

'At this dinner but one feeling prevailed; and the only alloy was the thought that perhaps we looked upon our host for the last time; an anticipation soon too painfully realized.[6] The inventive talents of Mathews were of the highest order; nor were they merely confined to the common peculiarities of the individual in whom he took an interest, but he had the art of throwing his whole mind and spirit into the very genius of the man. I had lived on the most intimate terms with that fine-hearted and most eccentric creature; indeed, my acquaintance with him commenced at Bath, and very soon after I entered the profession: I was consequently inducted into all the peculiar bearings of his oddly-constructed mind. In the course of the evening, in the midst of the most social gayety, and flashes of wit that would have enlightened the dullest of mortals, I arose, and asked Mr. Kemble's permission to propose the health of a distinguished friend, which was immediately accorded. In a few brief remarks, I stated how gratifying it must be to the whole party, on such an occasion, to be honored with the presence of the late Master of the Rolls in Ireland, Mr. Curran. This was quite sufficient; for a great majority of persons at the table were aware of the wonderful powers of Mathews, although little prepared for so brilliant an exhibition of them. The extraordinary peculiarities of Mr. Curran were sufficiently characteristic, to give effect even to a common-place imitation; but Mathews was able to enter into the disposition and thoughts of his subject as effectually as if he had been changed into the very man. Burke, speaking of the imitative powers of a person of his acquaintance, said, that whenever he thought proper to penetrate into the inclinations of those with whom he had to deal, he composed his face, his gestures, and his whole body, as nearly as possible into the exact similitude of the person whom he intended to examine, and then carefully observed what turn of mind he seemed to acquire by the change. Such a man was Mathews. He immediately arose, and made a brilliant oration. He scattered the flowers of poesy with the most lavish hand; not a metaphor did he lose, that could in the slightest degree illustrate the departure of Kemble from the stage; the brilliancy of the setting sun, the tears of Melpomene, the joys of Thalia at the prospect of her undivided reign, etc. There was no hesitation, no pause; and he concluded with a peroration which was perfectly electrifying; for he concentrated all his powers, and when he did this, he was irresistible. I scarcely ever witnessed so glowing a scene; and Mr. Kemble seemed lost in utter astonishment. It must be perfectly understood that no previous arrangement had taken place, and that my proposition was made at hazard, and without communicating with an individual.'

Here is a very pleasant anecdote of Le Merceir, the distinguished author of the 'Tableaux de Paris,' a remarkable old man, whose daughter was the wife of Kenney, the author of 'Raising the Wind,' 'The World,' etc.:

'On one occasion, he crossed over from Paris to London to visit his daughter, who a few months previous had given birth to a pair of fine boys. 'On arriving at the house in Bedford-Square, he found, to his great mortification, that she had left that day with her husband for Brompton, leaving behind the nurse and one of the twin-children, to join them on the following day. The old gentleman's distress was extreme, and greatly increased by his slight knowledge of English, and the almost utter impossibility of making himself understood. The servant, with the infant in her arms, came to his relief. She had fortunately been living there during the time of his previous visit. The old gentleman's agitation was intense; and the tears rolling down his time-worn cheeks, made the interview quite affecting. He clasped the unconscious child to his heart; and anxious to see the other, gave vent to his inquiries in the following words: 'Oh, mon petit! my dare!—ah! you littel rog!—where is—ah! yaas, where is—de oder piece belong to dis!' At length with some difficulty he found his way to Brompton; and when he arrived at his daughter's lodgings, the family had retired to rest. After knocking for a long time, a head was thrust out at the window, demanding to know who was there. 'Opane, opane de door! I am de fader of all!' was the comprehensive reply, which of course procured him instant admittance.'

Mr. Gould's Abridgment of Alison's History of Europe.—We have good reason to believe, both from our knowledge of the capacity and industry of Mr. Gould, and an examination, at considerable extent, of the abridged work before us, that the main and important points of Alison's History are here preserved with great care and fidelity; and that as a work of accurate historical record, of wonderful cheapness, it will doubtless command the 'patronage' not only of many general readers, but more especially of colleges, academies, and other seminaries of learning, for which, as we may infer, it is deemed particularly appropriate. The editor claims, and we have no doubt justly, to have 'extracted every material fact from Alison's work, adding nothing of his own in the way of opinion, argument, or assertion, and endeavoring to present the original narrative in the spirit of the author,' but without endeavoring to preserve his language, which a condensation so great rendered quite impossible. The work is presented upon good paper, with a large, clear type, and reflects no little credit upon the 'New-World' press of Mr. J. Winchester.

Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—We have been profoundly impressed by reading in a late English periodical a dissertation on the nature, origin, and destination of the Soul, written in 1793, by the Right Hon. Warren Hastings. He commences with the argument that our attachment to this life is grounded on delusion, to the end that we may be compelled to fulfil our allotted course through it, and that it may serve as a preparative to a better state reserved for us in another. How forceful and philosophical are the following sentences: 'In health all the allurements of sense strongly attach the mind to that state of present existence which furnishes the means of their gratification, and quicken the relish of those enjoyments which are purely intellectual; while, on the other hand, an instinct, infinitely more powerful, imprints on the soul a fixed horror of its dissolution. Without these coÖperative principles, man would give himself no care about his preservation or existence. They were, therefore, ordained by nature as necessary to both. When sickness or the infirmity of age has exhausted all the powers of life, and the dread of death has nothing left to excite it but the last parting pang, the illusion of instinct, no longer necessary, disappears, and leaves its place to be occupied by reason alone, encumbered, perhaps, and enfeebled by the bodily weight which oppresses it, but free from all desires or fears except those which it derives from its conceptions of futurity.' In relation to the necessity of immortality—if we would not derogate from the power and wisdom of the Deity, or controvert our own experience of the laws by which he regulates all his works—the writer remarks: 'Can we for a moment believe that a Being of infinite perfection has made us for no other purpose than 'to fret our hour upon the stage' of mortality, and then vanish into nothing? that He has quickened us with sensations exquisitely susceptible of happiness and misery, to make the latter only our general portion? that He has endowed us with intellectual powers capable of extending their operations beyond the bounds of this narrow sphere which we inhabit, and of penetrating into the regions of infinite space, which we are destined never to see but in contemplation? and that He has stimulated us with desires of future bliss which we are never to enjoy?' No! He has made nothing in vain; He has made nothing without ends adequate to its means; and though all things may change, nothing perishes. Man was made susceptible of happiness that he might be happy; he was made capable of receiving but a small portion of happiness here, that its completion might be made up in another state; and he had given him the conception and hope of another and better state, that he might qualify himself for it, and that he might hereafter possess it.' This is felicitously and forcibly put, and will perhaps remind the reader of the fine lines of Bowring:

'If all our hopes and all our fears
Were prisoned in life's narrow bound,
If, travellers in this vale of tears,
We saw no better world beyond;
Oh! what could check the rising sigh?
What earthly thing could pleasure give?
Oh! who would venture then to die?
Oh! who would venture then to live?
'Were life a dark and desert moor,
Where mists and clouds eternal spread
Their gloomy veil behind, before,
And tempests thunder overhead:
Where not a sunbeam breaks the gloom,
And not a floweret smiles beneath,
Who could exist in such a tomb?
Who dwell in darkness and in death?'

Touching the future destination of the soul, Mr. Hastings observes:

'It must either remain in its unmixed and elementary state, or be united to some body, and endowed with new powers in participation with it. In either way, its existence is secured. But we may reasonably conclude that, as it was necessary in the order of Providence for its prior state to have been an incorporate one, its next will be of the same kind, however varying in the form, character, and quality which it may derive from those of its new associates. I do not mean by this supposition to reject the possibility of the soul existing independently of a bodily support. I believe such a state to be possible, and, if possible, certainly probable; but as our present is a mixed state, and as it is very unlikely that if our souls are destined to exist for ever, they began to exist in their present state, and yet more unlikely that they should have originated in a perfect and proceeded in an imperfect one, it will be most reasonable to suppose that a pure spiritual essence is to be that of our ultimate destination.'

We have remarked in one or two of our weekly and daily journals elaborate defences of Mr. Forrest, the distinguished American actor, against charges of ingratitude to early and devoted friendship, and of a lack of generosity in spirit, and of liberality in practice. We had almost said that these defences were wholly unnecessary. We have known Mr. Forrest for fifteen years, and during that period have been intimate with those who have known him for twice that length of time; and we know that the very virtues in which he is now declared, in certain quarters, to be deficient, are the very attributes of his character for which his friends have the most ardent esteem. Where a man lives down such calumnies as we have cited, it really seems like supererogation to defend him from them. Truth isn't slipping on boots, while Falsehood of this stamp is running away unscathed. * * * The old adage that 'Habit is second nature' was well exemplified in a case cited by a friend of ours, of an old sea-captain living in a small town on the coast of the Bay State. He had followed the seas for forty years and upward, during which time he always shaved himself on ship-board, in storm or calm, without the aid of a looking-glass, or of any thing by which to steady himself. So accustomed had he become to this mode of shaving, that when he finally left the seas, he found it impossible to remove his beard without keeping himself in motion the while; and if he attempted to look in a glass, he invariably cut himself. His most usual method, while performing this operation, was to run about his room, and occasionally tumble over a chair, to preserve his equilibrium, as he said. Sometimes, however, when there was a storm without, and a heavy sea rolling, even this was too tame; and he then varied his exercise by trotting up and down stairs, and once in a while sliding down the ballusters! * * * There is another 'Richmond in the field!' Scarcely have we done chronicling the thousand-and-one attractions of the Knickerbocker steamer, than we find 'our good name' and the portrait of old Deidrich arresting the eye over the Gothic entrance of the Masonic Temple in Broadway. Enter that imposing edifice, walk along the vaulted passages, and ascend to the great saloon. 'What a scene!' exclaims every visitor: 'six ten-pin alleys in Westminster Abbey!' And this is the description, precisely. The majestical roof, with its mingling arches and rich and elaborate tracery, overhangs a hall profusely ornamented, and 'illustrated' with several fine paintings, and which contains six of the best ten-pin alleys in the world. Here the 'Knickerbocker Club,' composed of 'O. F. M.', (our first men,) and their non-resident guests, drop in ever and anon, to develope their chests and strengthen their lungs, in 'a bout' or two at the healthful game of bowling. There, too, do we occasionally 'expand and bourgeon,' when we have over-wrought brain and hand; an example which persons of sedentary pursuits would do well now and then to imitate. Other apartments there are, for billiards, whist, and dominoes, (as well as for conversation, reading, refreshment, etc.,) which are in a kindred style of elegance and comfort; and attractive to those who, unlike ourselves, are not confined in their exercise to 'ball and pin.' The proprietor's care for the convenience and enjoyment of his guests is such as might be expected of a tasteful Knickerbocker, from the classic region of Sleepy Hollow. By the by; he suggests a most important addition to the pictorial 'features' of the great saloon; namely, the Nine-pin Players whom Rip Van Winkle found bowling among the KaÄtskill mountains one thundery afternoon. A capital suggestion, and worthy of heed. * * * We are in the receipt, at too late an hour, we regret to say, for adequate notice, of 'An Address to the People of the United States in behalf of the American Copy-right Question,' recently put forth by a committee of the 'American Copy-right Club.' We earnestly commend it to the attention of every American reader, who has a desire to enhance the prospects, and increase the value, of our native literature. The address, we are informed, proceeds from the pen of Mr. Cornelius Mathews; and we take great pleasure in stating that it is what we ventured in our last number to hope that it would be, clear, simple, and direct in its arguments; forcible, and with two or three exceptions, not forced in its illustrations; and occasionally touched with a quiet but not the less affective satire. We shall refer to this address, and present certain extracts which we have marked for insertion, in an ensuing number. * * * The lines upon 'My Mother's Grave' are from the heart; that we can easily perceive; but yet they are not poetry, we are unfeignedly sorry, for the young writer's sake, to be compelled to say. For the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth stanzas, pray read these few lines of Schiller. It is all embodied here:

'It is that faithful mother!
Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted,
From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted.
Far from those blithe companions, born
Of her, and blooming in their morn;
On whom when couched, her heart above,
So often looked the Mother-Love!
'Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band,
And never, never more to come!
She dwells within the shadowy land,
Who was the Mother of that Home!'

In the course of a concert given lately by Mr. Henry Russell at Washington, (D. C.,) the following affecting incident occurred. The vocalist had just finished singing the little song of our friend 'the General' Morris, 'Woodman! spare that Tree!' which was received with the customary applause; upon which Mr. Russell arose, and begged permission to 'relate a remarkable circumstance connected with that song.' He had but just executed it, he said, at a concert given by him at Boulogne sur Mer, when a gentleman, in a state of alarming excitement, arose from the midst of the assembled multitude, and in a voice trembling with emotion, exclaimed: 'Was the tree spared?' 'Never,' said Mr. Russell, 'can I forget the glow which bu'st out all over that man's face, when I answered: 'Yes, it was!!' If that 'inquiring mind' did not belong to a wicked wag, then the probability is, that we are rather mistaken than otherwise. * * * We have before us, in pamphlet-form, taken from the last number of the 'Southern Quarterly Review,' a 'Sketch of the Character of the Hon. Hugh S. Legare,' which we have perused with a satisfaction unmingled, save with a melancholy regret, that one so preËminently gifted as the subject of this article, should have been so early called away. The lamented deceased was a man 'affluent in learning, whether it regarded the useful or beautiful in life; delicate and exquisite in his tastes, elevated in character, and sensitive in his affections; true to his public trusts, and exemplary in his relative duties.' Our country may well lament his loss. The 'Sketch' is in the main well written: it irks us, however, to encounter in a description of Mr. Legare's dress the term 'pants' instead of pantaloons. The word is a vulgarism almost as gross as the substitution of 'gents' for gentlemen, after the manner of Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse; no model, certainly, for a grave reviewer. * * * Our readers will doubtless recollect a marriage between a Mr. Long and Miss Little, which went the rounds of the papers some years ago, and to which some wag had appended the well-known lines:

'Man wants but little here below,
But wants that Little Long.

A few weeks since in B——, a Mr. Jonathan Goodeal was married to Miss Honora Little. After the ceremony, one of the company rose and uttered the following, which he considered a decided improvement on the original couplet:

'Man wants but little here below,
But wants that Little a Good'eal!'

A 'VERY anonymous' correspondent, who signs himself 'J. B.' (none of our Knickerbocker 'J. B.'s, as we have with some trouble ascertained,) writes us the annexed notelet: 'In your 'Gossip' for December, why not, in relation to Weir's picture, commemorate the courtship of Miles Standish and Mr. Bradford? Bradford's wife, as the picture-pamphlet tells us, fell overboard the day after the arrival, and Mrs. Rose Standish deceased the same autumn. Miles (Query Latin?) it seems looked with complacency upon a Mrs. Alden, but being no hero on a carpet, desired his friend Bradford to act as his second, and carry his offer. Bradford complied, and pleaded warmly for his friend. The lady, however, listened to him with much impatience, and as soon as he had finished, said, very demurely: 'And now why do you not speak for yourself, Master Bradford?' And history informs us that Mr. Bradford did speak for himself, and Alden Bradfords still extant verify the chronicle. You would also do me a favor by anathematizing one Flagg, who publishes Victor Hugo's plays, prefaces and all, under the name of Flagg, without giving the great Romanticist any credit therefor.' Mr. Flagg, who, if 'these be truths,' ought to be ashamed of his reputation, may consider himself 'anathematized.' * * * Some afflicted gentleman, with whom we deeply sympathize, has lately shown up in one of the London magazines a specimen of the genus Pundit; one of those persons who, having acquired the reputation of a wit, lives in a constant agony of endeavor to keep up the character; who lends nothing of a rational kind to the general entertainment during a whole evening, but watchfully 'bides his time' for the infliction of his own especial annoyance. In the present instance, the 'pundit and stock-joker' was caught at dinner by his host, during a shower of 'original puns' which accompanied the various courses, in this wise:

'Happening to possess some fine old Madeira in pints, a bottle of it was produced with an appropriate puff of its age. Taking up the bottle, Mr. Pundit remarked, 'that it might be old, but it was very little of its age.' Frank was in raptures at the joke, and laughed till tears came to his eyes. On recovering himself, he was surprised to find that my countenance, instead of being spread out into an approving smile, was fixed in something not much short of a frown. I expressed my regret that Mr. Pundit's admirable memory should be so unprofitably employed, while he interposed an appeal in behalf of the originality of the joke; but I hoped he would forgive me, if I proved to the contrary. 'Be good enough,' I told my son, 'to fetch me the fourth volume of Erasmus. It is,' I continued, turning to Mr. Pundit, 'the Leyden edition, and I shall have the pleasure of showing you your joke in a collection of ancient aphorisms, which was originally published several centuries ago.' Frank having brought the book, I found the passage, which runs thus: 'Gnathena, when a very small bottle of wine was brought in, with the praise that it was very old, answered, it is very little of its age.' Mr. Pundit was confounded, and confessed to a glimmering remembrance of having seen the joke before. 'The wonder would have been,' I replied, 'had a gentleman of your erudition in witticisms not met with it, for it has, since Erasmus's time, found its way into nearly all the jest-books of various ages and countries. I must, however, give you credit for its apt application to my diminutive modicum of Madeira.'

The old gentleman subsequently adds, by way of salvo: 'I know you err from innocence; you little thought that all the puns you were making were current when I was studying for the bar thirty years ago, and originated, I doubt not, amidst the al-fresco festivities of the Saxon heptarchy.' A capital 'recipe' is given for silencing the series of 'dinner-puns' proper: 'Should the Pundit begin at meal-times, attack his first effort; request the company's attention, and rattle off the whole string. Thus forestalled, he will allow the meal to pass off pleasantly, and the conversation to flow on.' * * * Surely 'C.,' if he has perused the 'Gossip' of our last number, will not think that it is from any lack of 'sympathy' with him, that we decline his 'Autumnal Thoughts.' What he felt, looking upon the 'glorious decay of Nature' from her sublime mountain pinnacles—over a scene which 'lay bathed in the smoky light of an October day and an Alleghany valley'—we ourselves felt, perhaps at the same moment, in gazing upon the frost-painted heights along the Hudson, and the calm beauty of the Long-Island shores. We, too, 'saddened by the solemn monitions of fading loveliness, went back to the past, and to the dear friends in whose light we saw all that the heart can see, of vanished days;' and with an unutterable longing to know the mystery of life, and the greater mystery of death and the grave, have asked, with a poet too gifted to be so little known:

'Where are ye now!—though Fancy's flight
To you my soul doth sometimes bear,
Departed Time's eternal night
Re-echoes back the question, 'Where!'
Nature, in simple beauty drest,
Still dances round the restless year,
And gazing on her yellow vest,
I sometimes think my change is near!
'Not that my hair with age is gray,
Not that my heart hath yet grown cold,
But that remembered friendships say,
'Death loves not best the infirm and old.'
As many a bosom knows and feels,
Left, in the flower of life, alone,
And many an epitaph reveals
On the cold monumental stone.'

But the lessons of autumn may partake of a sober gladness as well as of melancholy thoughts; and this is beautifully illustrated by a friend and correspondent, whose nom de plume in the 'New World' cannot divert attention from the characteristics of his style. He too has been looking at the 'glorious autumnal-forest display on the hills,' which were 'bedabbled like a painter's palette.' 'Ah!' he exclaims, 'the frost has done it! And now the outward life of the trees is killed. That beautiful spectacle is Death. Equally lovely does the soul appear when the frost has touched its outer covering. You see what a variety of colors has been produced by the same cause acting upon different natures, for the spiritual life in trees is as various as among men. So it is when our natures are touched by the chills of adversity, or death even; some of us, like the hemlock, will look sad and pale; some, like the wild cherry, will become red and fiery; and others, like those hardy cedars, the good and patient, will retain their primitive greenness and beauty.' * * * There is evidently a political or some other conspiracy hatching at this moment in the 'little people's' apartment adjoining our sanctum. Beside the good vrouw's, there are three other female heads together, and one of them belongs to a delegate from the High Priestess of Fashion; and through the two open doors, we can hear, in earnest but broken tones, such exciting words as these: 'White feather,' 'piece,' 'piping,' 'set in all round,' 'bias,' 'the skirt,' 'brought round to the front and fastened,' 'single bows,' 'busts,' 'bugles,' 'purple,' 'gore,' 'when it's made up,' etc. Now what can all this portend? Putting 'that and that together,' we are led to think that the ladies are about to follow certain sage advice from a very sage quarter, touching the 'rights of women!' These words are doubtless only 'parts of speech'-es to incite to action; fragments, very like, of what runs something in this connection: 'We have shown the 'white feather' long enough! Let us throw away our 'bias' for the gentler virtues, and 'set in all round' for Mr. John Neal's paradise of our down-trodden sex! We have been kept on 'the skirt' of society since the days of Eve; it is high time we were 'brought round to the front and fastened' there by public opinion! They think (the 'single beaux' as well as the married men) that we are only fit for 'piping' times of 'peace;' but we will let them know that we are not unfit for war; that we can stand by and see a shell 'bu'st' without winking; that we neither fear 'purple' nor any other 'gore;' and that the blast of an hundred 'bugles' would have no terrors for us. Our resolution, 'when it's made up,' cannot be shaken!' But we may do the ladies (God bless them!) injustice. It has just occurred to us, that perhaps after all it may be only the Eleusinian mysteries of millinery and mantuamaking that we are seeking to penetrate. 'Like as not!' * * * What a thoughtful, feeling, truthful poet James Russell Lowell has become! Not erroneously did we predict, from one of his early poems in the Knickerbocker, 'Threnodia on the Death of an Infant,' that 'to this complexion would he come at last.' Are not these stanzas from 'The Heritage,' one of Mr. Lowell's latest efforts, every way admirable?

'The rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
And he inherits soft, white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old:
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.
'The rich man's son inherits cares;
The bank may break, the factory burn,
Some breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft, white hands would hardly earn
A living that would suit his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.
'What does the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
'What does the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
'What does the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door:
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
'O, rich man's son, there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil;
But only whitens, soft, white hands;
This is the best crop from thy lands.
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.
'O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state,
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;
Work only makes the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign:
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.
'Both heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both children of the same dear God;
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past:
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.'

'A turkey,' once remarked a huge feeder in our presence, 'is a very inconvenient bird, in p'int of comin' over a man's pocket, and satisfying his stomach. You see, it's too much for one, and not enough for two!' This is exactly our quandary in relation to the excellent story of our Mississippi correspondent. It makes 'too much for one, and not enough for two' numbers of the Knickerbocker. Beside which, it has 'scene undividable, colloquy unlimited.' We may try hereafter to insert it entire, after the printer shall have 'taken its measure.' If we do print it, however, we shall take the liberty to erase such words as e'er, ne'er, o'er, etc., which have no business in prose. Ellipses like these are for poetry only, and not always felicitously employed, even in verse. 'Clang,' moreover, ('the one only hope to which his heart clang,') is a compound fracture of Old Priscian's skull, which would lay his brain open to day-light, and us to an action for assault and battery. * * * Mrs. Kirkland ('Mary Clavers,') the well-known author of 'A New Home,' 'Forest Life,' etc., has opened a school for young ladies in this city, at 214 Thompson-street, near Fourth. Familiar with the languages of Europe; thoroughly conversant with all the branches of an accomplished English education; of varied experience in society and real life; and possessing, with great kindness of heart and amenity of manner, a rare instructive tact; we cannot doubt that our fair correspondent will attract many pupils to her 'new home,' and that more will 'follow.' * * * Our excellent friend, the historian of Tinnecum, has been passing a few pleasant days on the Hudson, and in the neighborhood of the city of that name; and from his gossipping epistle thence, we shall venture to select a characteristic Daguerreotype-passage, for the entertainment of our readers: 'The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats, and so are the rocks for the conies. Hills and goats, rocks and conies, are plenty with me, as you shall perceive. Cras donaberis hÆdo, if I can get him out to you. The Lancashire sheep, a long-fleeced breed, come and eat corn out of my hand. I kept my eye on the beautiful blue ranges of the KaÄtskills as long as possible, and then delved into this lovely valley. Mountains shut it in on every side, and every night the sun lingers upon their summits, and crowns them with a diadem of fire. Yesterday the whole scene was white as Soracte. As I was going to the cider-mill to get a jug of the sweet juice, my guide stopped to show me the identical spot where a low-spirited man, oh! horrible! cut his own throat. 'What did he do it for?' said I. 'Oh, he was low'n spurruts, wery cidery and wery grunty. The devil was into him.' 'Bad business,' said I, 'this cutting of throats;' yet did you know that a hog always does it, when he swims across a stream, which is no doubt the derivation of suicide. The cider was delicious. The mill was in full operation, set in motion by an old blind horse. 'Look!' said my cicerone, with a mysterious whisper, as I was busy at the tub, at the same time directing my attention to the person who was attending at the mill; 'the son of the man who cut his throat!' I gazed in utter astonishment, and endeavored to obtain a 'realizing sense' of the fact. It was almost as good as 'the fork that belonged to the case-knife with which Beauchampe murdered Colonel Sharpe in Kentucky,' which proved such a rival attraction to a western museum-proprietor.' 'This morning I went into the woods to gather chestnuts, which the hogs having got before devoured them all up. It was the same old story as on the frequented chestnut-grounds about Tinnecum. 'There! I found one! There! I found another! Two! three! four! five! six! Oh! oh! aint they plenty!' Then, alas! no more were to be had far or near. I piled them on a little hillock, and calling the attention of a neighboring Berkshire to the pile, had the gratification to see him address himself to their mastication, with evident goÛt.' * * * Our correspondent who writes upon the 'Manifestation of Mind in Animals,' and those interested in his able papers upon this theme, will find in the following a very forcible illustration of the correctness of his positions:

'A gentleman receiving a present of some Florence oil, the flasks were set in his cellar, at the bottom of a shallow box; the oil not being wanted for use, they remained there for some time; when the owner, going one day by chance in the cellar, was surprised to find the wicker-work by which the flasks were stopped, gnawed from the greater part of them, and upon examination the oil sunk about two inches or two and a half from the neck of each flask. It soon occurred to him that it must be the work of some kind of vermin; and being a man of speculative turn, he resolved to satisfy the curiosity raised in his mind. He accordingly found means to watch, and actually detect three rats in the very act; the neck of the flasks were long and narrow; it therefore required some contrivance; one of these stood upon the edge of the box, while another mounting his back, dipped his tail into the neck of the flask, and presented it to a third to lick; they then changed places; the rat which stood uppermost descended, and was accommodated in the same manner with the tail of his companion, till it was his turn to act the porter, and he took his station at the bottom. In this manner the three alternately relieved each other, and banqueted upon the oil till they had sucked it beyond the length of their tails.'

Would that our esteemed friend 'Polygon' could really know how many times we have strenuously endeavoured to gain leisure, from avocations more than usually various and constant, to return, in such poor sort as we might, the gratification we have always derived from his personal correspondence! It is in vain, we fear, that we hope to be able to redeem the past; for 'by-gones,' he must let us talk with him, as we have done, in this desultory 'Gossip' of ours; for the future, Providence permitting, we shall aim to escape even the appearance of indifference or neglect. Will 'J. N. B.,' of W——, New-Hampshire, also bear with us a little?' We have his last missive filed among our 'Notes Payable;' for there were thoughts in it that touched us nearly. 'L. H. B.,' too, of B——, to whom we have been indebted for many favors, must not infer neglect or indifference from our compulsory silence. 'Say not the words, if you and me is to continual friends, for sech is not the case;' as quoth 'Mrs. Gamp.' We must hope, likewise, that 'W. G.,' of H——t Hill (how of the removal, and what of the old homestead?) and our kind Tinnecum friend, will also look upon the above explanatory card as apologetical (if not satisfactory) for 'short-comings' of which, under other circumstances, they might with good reason complain. * * * If you are 'i' the vein,' reader, suppose you follow us in a hop-skip-and-jump flitting through the pungent, pithy, punning paragraphs of Punch, the 'London Charivari,' late arrivals of which garnish our table. Among its 'complaints,' is one against the clock of St. Clement's church, which stands opposite its publication-office in the Strand: 'We are constantly troubled by parties coming into the office to inquire why all the four dials tell a different story, and why every one of them is always wrong. If the clock cannot keep going, let it turn off all its hands, wind up its affairs, and retire at once from public observation; but let it not continue to occupy a high and prominent position, if it is unable to fill it with credit to itself and profit to the community. We have put up with more from this clock than from any other public servant. We thought it might only want time to bring itself round; but finding it will not give us any hour, we will no longer give it any quarter. We expected a meeting of the hands the other day at twelve o'clock, but it did not occur, and things remain in the same uncertainty. We feel justified in calling on the clock for an account of its works; and, if no minutes have been kept, we shall leave the public to judge of the entire matter. Since writing the above, we have been told that it is the hour-hand which refuses to move in the affair, but that the minute-hand is quite ready to second any thing reasonable.' Could any thing be more felicitous than this application of 'suspended payment' terms to the disarrangements of a public time-piece? Punch himself had just returned from a trip to Paris. He describes a diligence as 'a post-chaise fastened to a stage-coach before, and a slice of omnibus attached behind, with a worn-out cab mounted aloft;' which we are told is a perfect portrait of this lumbering conveyance. Here is a solution of one 'cause why' the French wear so much hair on their faces: 'The inferiority of French cutlery, especially razors, renders shaving an elaborate process, for which reason it is generally abandoned; and in common with the usual treatment of most things springing from a poor soil, they pay more attention to dressing their crops than cutting them. In fact, they consider all attraction to be capillary.' Punch was greatly interested in the 'Egyptian obstacle' in the Place de la Guerre, 'supposed to be Cleopatra's Needle, covered with hieroglyphics, of which the thread is altogether lost!' Among the domestic intelligence, is an account of the raising of fragments of the brig TÉlÉmaque, by means of a diving-bell. There were found 'a bit of the binnacle; half a yard of yard-arm; a quarter of the quarter-deck; a hen-roost and a portion of the hatch-way; a part of the cat-head, and an old mouse-trap.' In his brief notices to correspondents, the readers of the 'Charivari' are informed that the editor does not know 'who built Bacon's Novum Organum,' nor whether the elephant at the Zoological Gardens has his name in brass-nails on his trunk or not! * * * In a late number of the Albany 'Northern Light' monthly journal, there is a very able paper by Willis Gaylord, Esq., based upon a paragraph in the report of the Geological Lectures of Dr. A. Smith, of this city, from which we take the subjoined extract:

'It is a well-ascertained fact derived from a known law of centrifugal motion, that were the earth to revolve on its axis once in eighty minutes, as it now does in twenty-four hours, all bodies would lose their weight at the equator; if the revolution was made in a still shorter time, all bodies would fly off, like the drops of water from a rapidly revolving grind-stone. A universal deluge of all the temperate and polar regions would be the result of a stoppage or retardation of the earth's motion. Indeed, the first result would be the deluge of the whole; as the waters of the ocean would obey the impulse already communicated, and sweep over the entire earth from west to east; although it is easy to see that when this first impulse was over, the waters must flow to, and accumulate around the poles. If there must be a philosophical solution given of the existing evidences of a general deluge, can there be one more simple, or which better fulfils all the conditions of such a catastrophe, than the one here alluded to? All solutions must exist more or less on suppositions, and we have only to suppose the earth checked in its orbit from some cause, to produce all the observed phenomena of the deluge.'

Apropos of the 'Northern Light;' it is a journal which we always open with avidity, and from which we seldom fail to derive instruction and pleasure. Mr. Street discharges his editorial function with ability, and his collaborateurs are men of mark in the scientific and literary world.... What has 'enured' to our esteemed friend and correspondent, the 'Georgia Lawyer?' There has been 'good exclamation on his Worship' from various quarters of the Union, accompanied by inquiries after his health, and the state of his 'Port-folio.' QuÆre: Has a Georgia lawyer a legal right to 'set himself up against the will of the people?' Has not the 'party of the second part' the power to set aside a literary nol. pros. of that sort? 'By the mass! but we think we may stay him' from keeping all his pleasant thoughts to himself.... We are glad to learn that our young artist-friend Mr. T. B. Read, formerly of Cincinnati, is meeting with deserved success in Boston, where he has set up his easel. His improvement is very marked. There is at this moment before us a little cabinet-gem of his, which really seems to light up our sanctum. It is the portrait of a young and lovely maiden, whose attention is suddenly arrested as she is about descending a stair:

'She is fresh and she is fair,
Glossy is her golden hair;
Like a blue spot in the sky
Is her clear and loving eye.'

The situation, the drawing, the coloring, all are beautiful, and bespeak alike taste, skill, and genius, in the artist.... Of the Oi Polloi, we fear, is the author of 'Nature, a Tribute.' He is a metropolitan, born and bred, we will wager a year's subscription to the 'Old Knick.;' a sort of amateur lover of the country, touching which he knows little, and we must infer, cares less. He regards it, we cannot help fancying, somewhat as old Chuzzlewit's cockney undertaker did, who greatly affected the 'sound of animated nature in the agricultural districts.' ... The 'Southern Literary Messenger' appears monthly, with its accustomed neatness of execution, and quantity and variety of literary matter, much of which is of a sterling character. The new editor, B. B. Minor, Esq., discharges his duties with spirit and ability. He appeals to the South for the support which his Magazine well deserves, and should not fail to receive. The Charleston 'Magnolia,' which ran a short race for popularity with the 'Messenger,' has retired from the field; leaving it the only kindred candidate for Southern patronage, if we except the excellent Georgia 'Orion.' Mr. Minor has 'a squint' at the 'enterprising editors in Philadelphia, who sell so many pictures every month;' a branch of 'literary' business which has experienced a sad falling off; yet not sufficient, it would seem, to prevent new 'enterprises' of a similar kind. Mr. Israel Post, long the agent in New-York for Graham's and Godey's Magazines, has issued, since the establishment of a new city agency for those periodicals, proposals for 'The Columbian Magazine', a work after the Philadelphia models, in pictures and price; to be edited by John Inman, Esq.; a sufficient guaranty that at least one department of the work will be well sustained. Success to ye all, gentlemen and lady contemporaries!... 'Who suffers?' You know the Didlerian term, reader; and here is an unintentional illustration of it: 'Poor woman!' said an apothecary, on returning from a patient to whom he had applied thirty leeches, at a quarter of a dollar each; 'poor woman! didn't she suffer!' It strikes us as rather possible that she might have 'suffered,' at least in one way.... We shall have two capital works from the American press in a few days. Kendall, the 'great American Captive,' who came near being lost to liberty, the 'Picayune,' and 'troops of friends,' is nearly out with his volumes; and that they will be rich and racy, few are sufficiently verdant to doubt. (Marryat approves of Kendall's writings, at all events; else why should he purloin them?) Brantz Mayer, Esq., also, whose letters in the 'New World' were so widely admired, has nearly ready for publication an elaborate work upon Mexico, profusely illustrated with engravings, and written in a very attractive style. It will create a decided sensation.... We cannot accept the excuse of 'M.' You must let us hear from you for the first or second number of our new volume. 'Arouse thee, mon!' Remember that 'to will is to do,' in more than a Mesmeric sense; and forget not, also, that 'sloth covers youthful ambition with the blue mould of morbidity.' ... Will our friends of 'The Cultivator' and 'Farmer's Museum' favor us with the prospectuses of both these excellent periodicals, when issued? We shall be glad to promote the circulation of publications of so great value, in many important ways, to the American farmer.... Read 'The Venus of Ille,' in preceding pages, translated by the friend who rendered into such attractive English the thrilling story of 'The Innocence of a Galley-Slave.' The present tale is scarcely less striking than its predecessor. What a sweeping convergence of natural incident there is toward the terrific dÉnouement!—and how admirably the minor accessories harmonize with the main design! Peruse it, and justify our enthusiastic admiration of the original, and this most faithful and spirited translation.... We instanced in our last 'Gossip' two or three amusing specimens of the lack of clearness of expression, arising from a species of unconscious inversion of language. Something akin to the examples cited, is a case mentioned by a London wag, who speaks of 'a hen belonging to a stone-mason that lays bricks!' ... pointing finger 'If you love us,' good reader, and your other friends as well, tell them that our next issue begins a New Volume—the Twenty-Third! Have we ever deceived you, in our promises for the future? (A unanimous 'No!' from all parts of the Union and the Canadas, with scattering echoes from sundry portions of Europe.) Then believe us when we tell you, that although we have every year appeared before you—like the tree 'bearing twelve manner of fruits, and yielding its fruit every month'—we have never been able to announce a better volume than the one whose advent you shall hail with acclamations in January next. Let every true friend of the 'Old Knick.' therefore make one friend as happy as himself, and his friend the Editor as happy as 'the pair of ye's!' ... Let no one who wishes to select books, in any or every department of literature, fail to possess himself of Wiley and Putnam's late catalogue of English, French, and American works, in the various departments of knowledge; science, natural history, useful and fine arts; history, biography, and general literature; Greek and Latin classics, philology, etc.; and theological and medical literature, with appendices, etc.; the whole classified in subjects, and with prices affixed. The catalogue is full, yet concise as clear; and will be sent gratis to any address. Messrs. Bartlett and Welford, under the Astor-House, issued some time since, a similar catalogue, which proved of great convenience to the public, and was no doubt a source of ultimate profit to that well-known house.... The following articles are either filed for insertion, or awaiting 'hopeful' advisement: 'A Night on the Prairie;' 'A Piscatory Eclogue,' by Peter Von Geist; 'My Leg: a Sketch;' 'The Fratricide's Death,' by the 'American Opium-Eater;' 'The Death-Bed, a Stray Leaf from the Country Doctor;' 'The Painted Rock,' 'Mary May, the Newfoundland Indian;' 'The Spirit-Land;' Lines by 'G. H. H.;' 'Scene in a Studio;' 'Translation from Catullus,' by 'G. W. B.;' with many other papers heretofore alluded to, and more to which we have neither leisure nor space to advert, or even to name.