LITERARY RECORD.

Jesus, there is no dearer name than thine,Which Time has blazoned on his ample scroll:No wreaths nor garlands ever did entwineSo fair a Temple or so vast a Soul.Ay, every Angel set his comely sealUpon thy brow, and gave each human grace,In a sweet copy Heaven to reveal,And stamp Perfection on a mortal face.Once on the earth, before dull mortal eyes,Which could not half thy sacred radiance see,(E'en as the emmet cannot read the skies,)For our weak orbs reach not Immensity,Once on the earth wast Thou a living shrine,Where shone the Good, the Lovely, the Divine.

The'Plebeian' daily journal of Gotham is down upon theYanokiesor Yankees, with a weapon swung round like a flail; and like another valiant defender of theKnickerbockersbefore him, he has raised such a buzzing about his unlucky head, that he will need the tough hide of anAchillesor anOrlando Furioso, to protect him from their stings. We do not like thenucleusof the ball which our sturdy democrat has set in motion—the glorious battle of Bunker-Hill; but for the rest, we should do dishonor to the spirit of our great historian and sire, if we did not applaud the prowess which is displayed in this warfare upon a set of 'dieven, schobbejaken, dengenieten, twist-zoëkeren, loozenschalken, blaes-kaken, kakken-bedden;' a squalling, bundling, guessing, questioning, swapping, pumpkin-eating, molasses-daubing, shingle-splitting, cider-watering, horse-jockeying, notion-peddling crew! Let the 'Defender of the Faithful' continue to ply his trenchant quill: thousands of crowded and jostledKnickerbockersare heart and soul in the contest; and the spirit ofWilliam the Testy, who was translated to the firmament, and now forms a very fiery little star somewhere on the left claw of 'the Crab,' looks approvingly down upon the warfare! We confess that we find it in our hearts greatly to rejoice that the descendants ofHabbakuk Nutter,Return Strong,Zerubbabel Fisk, andDetermined Cock, those losel scouts who overreachedStoffel Brinkerhoff, are to be taught that the 'sins of the fathers may be visited upon the children,' by a right valiant son of New-Amsterdam. When we bethink us how these Yankee varlets penetrated into the New-Netherland settlements, and bored our taciturn progenitors with their volubility and intolerable inquisitiveness; bringing the honest burghers to a stand on the highway, and torturing them with questions and guesses; 'and which is more,' seducing the light affections of the simple damsels from their ponderous Dutch gallants,and introducing among them the ancient practice ofbundling; when we call to mind how that long-sided, raw-boned, hardy race received the proclamations of the sage Governor of New-Amsterdam, treating them with contempt, and applying them to an unseemly purpose, and foully dishonoring the valorousVan Curlet, who bore them; when we remember these things, and also how that the tribe has been spreading wider and wider, and growing more impertinent every day; we cannot find it in our heart to regret that a doughty champion has come out against them, to expose their braggadocia and annihilate their pretensions. By the beard ofMahomet! do they think that wisdom and patriotism lived alone and is to die with them? Because they are virtuous, are there to be no more cakes and ale? Is their aspiring metropolis, climbing upon its little hills to look down upon itself, to eclipse the great capital of the Manhaddoes? Is imperial Rome, in comparison, to be voted a rat-hole, 'Nineveh,' a nook, Babylon a baby-house, and Pekin the paltriest pile of the pigmies?' Unanimously, in this meridian, theKnickerbockers'reckon not!' * * *Weplace the following passages from recent letters of two excellent friends in juxtaposition, for an especial reason. The epistles are not dated far apart; and in the second, the writer, who dwelleth near 'MasonandDixon,' descants upon the awful climate hereabout in the summer months. Infatuated person! Observe what he of Tinnecum, living scarcely eight miles away, saith: 'I have watched a fair opportunity to invite you to this 'verum et secretumμουσειοι.' The woods are gloriously animated; the fields deliciously green; the west winds overburdened with clover; the sea-shore breezes are life-inspiring; and to quote Greek again from one of the noble bursts of the chorus, I love to sit upon a piazza, with my picturesque head of hair ensnarled in the breeze, and sing out:

Αυρα, ποντιας αυρα,Αυρα, ποντιας αυρα.

'The strawberries (an old writer has remarked that doubtlessGodmighthave made a better berry, but he neverdid) are as deliriously ripe as if they had been smiled on by Venus, and dear goddess! she had imbued them with the sweetness of her own lips: 'Quinta parte sui nectaris imbuit.' They are charming! To see them piled up in little heaps, like the fruits of an early harvest, not to be stored away for a winter of discontent, but to cheer the immediate moment, to be refreshed every now and then by the anticipation of their sweet breath as it comes up, not obtrusively, gushing into your face, and causing you to throw back your head with a smile, as if all the senses were lulled into a dear security! To see them lying in so many wanton attitudes, as rubicund as if they were intoxicated with sun-beams, in all their variety of shapes; some preciously diminutive, others of an incredible, jovial plumpness; variegated, luxurious, shaped like some pyramids I know of, with their great circumference overshadowing the narrow base; conveying by their very size a provoking, insulting challenge, that they are too big to be swallowed up—by Phœbus! it is a treat to merge expectation in fruition; and if there is anydangerin swallowing them up, then I say again with Horace: 'Dulce est periclum'—the danger is sweet. 'These delights if thou canst give——' IndeedcanI; and you shall have others beside—Και πλεον εξεις—as Venus said, when she advertised her missing boy. There is a pleasure in sitting by the window, to be lulled by a variety of murmurs, or to listen to them in the solemn groves; whether it be the sound of the sea, or the winds undulating among the tree-tops, or the swarming of bees, I can hardly tell, they are so like; and if the heart beats at regular intervals not too much in a hurry or with an inconsiderate knocking, being kept from agitation by a good conscience, as may without vanity be claimed both by you and me, we shall be captivated by a music more sweet thanBellini.Come out here right off!' Thus far the favored occupant of this delectable region. Give ear now to that other scholar and gentleman, 'hereinbeforementioned:' 'Itis truly a blistering day, and the breath from the mouth of the approaching Dog is enough to stifle a Christian. I keep continually thinking of Nebuchadnezzar's furnace, and repeat, with morefervorthan I could wish, 'Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron shades!' etc. But 'Oh! Jimmy Thompson, Jimmy Thompson, oh!' never in Green England did you experience such an atmosphere as this! Pah! it goes down my throat like the spirit of melted lead. Oh! for some water-sprite to bear me under his dripping wings to the summit of Dawalageri; there among the notched rocks to sit sipping of iced sherry, and with pine-apples pendant to my very mouth, to whiff the cool Havana and readDante'sPurgatorio! There might some 'swift-winged courier of the clouds' bring me the July number of theKnick.; and after laughing at the wit and melting with the pathos of American talent, might some prophetic angel unscale my eyes, and show me in the future the Chinese wall blown up by a match of opium, and the wheels of the Juggernaut carrying a train of burden-cars and a crowd of travellers from Calcutta to Delhi! What an unimaginableworld lies behind the vale of that same wonder-pregnant Future! Oh! that one might raise that veil and see all that is to be, save the destinies of himself and his own beloved land! The sight, however, might be far from pleasing to the philanthropist. Freedom may fly again to her hereditary mountains; Knowledge may burn her lonely lamp in conventual cloisters; the 'march of mind' may make a retrograde advancement; another Caliph may fire the Royal Library of Paris; and posterity may be sufficiently unfortunate to have lost all trace and all memorial of you and me! God forbid!' * * *Repiningreader, bethink you in your moments of despondency, or even gloom, of the mind that traced, in the 'enduring dark' of his lonely apartment, these touching lines:

'Oh, who on earth would love to live,Unless he lived to love!'

'Whenin disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,I all alone bewail my outcast fate,And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself, and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope;Featured like him; like him with friends possessed;Desiring this man's art and that man's scope;With what I most enjoy contented least:Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee—and then my state(Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth) sings hymns at Heaven's gate;For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,That then I scorn to change my happy state with kings!'

Thefollowing, which we derive from a Boston friend, who assures us that it is a 'statement of a veritable occurrence,' we can very readily believe. Indeed, we have never been able to doubt any thing which a bird might say, since we heard UncleBezonnet's'Poor Mino' in Nassau-street, laugh, and sing, and exclaim 'Good morning!' 'What's your name?' 'UncleJohn! UncleJohn! somebody's in the store;' and then, changing his tone, remark, what nobody could deny, 'What an extraordinary bird!' But to his 'Boston contemporary:' 'I came across a pious parrot the other day, while strolling down toward the wharves. It was the first of the class I had ever seen. I was just passing by a sailor boarding-house, when I heard, several times repeated, the words, 'The Lord ha' massy on Poor Poll, a sinner! Lord ha' massy! Amen!' Turning round, I perceived they were uttered by a parrot in a cage, who with one claw drawn up on her breast, head bent reverently down, and eye cocked solemnly upward, was now following her ejaculations by the most piteous moans. Talking parrots are generally sad creatures, and seldom very choice in their language. 'But here,' thought I, 'is an exception; and surely, a race which has in it evenoneindividual capable of attaining to a knowledge of its utterly depraved condition, cannot be altogether lost.' What seemed to me to be the more remarkable, was the fact that such knowledge should have been attainable in a sailor boarding-house, in one of the most vicious streets of the city. While these thoughts were passing through my mind, the parrot had been eyeing me with an eager, sidelong glance, as if she were quite ready for a chat, and waited only for me to begin it. 'Pretty, pretty Poll:' said I, stroking her head gently with the end of my cane; 'Polly have a biscuit?' 'Yes, G—d d—n you! hand over!' was the sharp, quick reply.' * * *Fewand far between, now, are the scenes recorded below by a Southern correspondent. The last of the old hearts-of-oak will soon fall to the ground: 'Since I last 'drove pen,' I have sat by the death-bed, watched by the corpse, and shovelled earth upon the coffin, of an old revolutionary soldier. He served four years inWashington'sown division of the army; and doubtless, although he attained no high official rank, his blood was as freely offered, and his services should be as gratefully appreciated, as those of any general of them all. He was a forgotten unit in that subaltern rank, on whose individual merits the titled built their edifice of fame. His offering was like 'the widow's mite,' an offering as dear to him as any the costliest oblation made unto his country's treasury of glory. Requieseat!' * * * 'Youwill find,' says a friend writing from London, by the last steamer, 'that your portrait has been extensively circulated about Great-Britain and her dominions, in the last number of 'Chuzzlewit.' The artist who draws the illustrations, has given, in the person of youngMartin, who is reading one of your flash newspapers, in presence of the editor and his war correspondent, a very faithful transcript of the lineaments of the Editor of theKnickerbocker, as we remember them.' We cannot say how far our correspondent is correct in his impressions; although they were corroborated by a score or more of American friends, before we had seen the engraving in question; butthiswe know, that if any ofour readers desire to see a portrait, as life-like as if he had sat for it, of the late lamentedWillis Gaylord Clark, they may find it in the person of youngMartin Chuzzlewit, in the English edition of Mr.Dickens'slast issue of the work of that name. The outline, the air, the manner, areperfect. * * *Itmay be thought remarkable, that while to the mass the illusions of the theatre possess unwonted interest, those who know the most of its secrets affect it the least.Theodore Hook, we are told by his reviewer, had a fixed and rooted aversion to the stage, and a consummate contempt for the player's profession, as a school of character and manners; an absolute physical loathing, as it were, for every thing connected with the green-room, from the mouthing art of managers, to the melancholy pirouettes of the 'poor plastered things with fringes to their stays, which they call petticoats.'Fanny Kembleherself, overcoming so many proud and glorious associations, did not sicken of it more heartily. Doesn't this militate against the argument of 'C.'?Rather, we think. * * *Ifthe reader does not discover something sparkling, quaint, and decidedlyoriginalin 'No'th-East by East,' in preceding pages, we shall inevitably have thrown away and sacrificed 'our guess.' There is a touch ofDana, a dash ofColeridge, and the 'slightest possible taste in the world' ofHalleck, yet withal noimitation, in that amphibious poem. Some linesseemsomewhat amendable; 'As lightning had sprungsuddenthen,' is one, for example. Lightningisrather 'sudden,' we believe, in most cases. We scarcely remember ever to have seen averyslow flash; yet the line could hardly be bettered, and there is good precedent for the apparently adscititious word. A few 'common substantives' in the poem may require elucidation for the uninitiated. The 'Graves' are rocks in Boston harbor, near the outer light, or 'big bright Eye.' Near this light, and past George's island, by 'Nix's Mate,' is the main channel, through which shipsmustmake a 'procession' in coming up toward Boston. The 'pinkie' is a schooner-rigged craft, sharp at both ends, a short peak running up aft, and designed for a chasing sea. The annexed lines were written to follow the passage wherein the courier-star says 'The sun is coming up this way,' etc., but they came too late for insertion:

'Thesun is now uncoveringThe mid-Atlantic—scatteringThe mists, with many a toss and flingOf dangling skirts and weary wing;Half frantic, as they knew not whereTo hide them from his fiery glare;The iceberg from his ocean-bedLifts loftily his glittering head,But shakes not off one burnished spear,To ring in the frosted atmosphere.'

Perhapsweareamenable to the criticism of our New-Haven friend. Certain it is, however, that 'the lightness which predominates in our cogitations and gatherings' is often to us a veritable relief; and if we may trust the candor of many friends, it has been grateful to them also,

... 'when the fretful stirUnprofitable, and the fever of the worldHave hung upon the beatings of the heart.'

We are not all constituted alike, dear Sir; yet what is one man's meat we would not have another's poison. 'The amiable qualities of cheerfulness and good-humor,' says an old writer, 'cast a kind of sunshine over a composition, and resemble the gentle smile that often lights up the human countenance, the never-failing indication of a humane temper.' As for wit, we consider it a species of poetry. It amuses and delights the imagination by those sudden assemblages and pleasing pictures of things which it creates; and from every common occasion can raise such striking appearances as throw the most phlegmatic tempers into a convulsion of good-humored mirth. We fear our censor will consider us 'past mending.' We must still hold with the excellentFletcher, that 'a little mirth now and then is a great purifier:'

''Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood,More than wine, or sleep, or food;Let each man keep his heart at ease,No man dies of that disease.He that would his body keepFrom diseases, must not weep;But whoever laughs and sings,Never he his body bringsInto fevers, gouts, or rheums,Or ling'ringly his lungs consumes;But contented lives for aye—The more he laughs, the more he may.'

Does our critic remember an ancient motto on a sun-dial? 'Non numero Horas, nisi serenas?' It is capable of application. * * *Weare glad to say, since our opinion in this place is requested, that the essay on 'Education of Youthful Morals' is anexcellentone. It is onlytoo longfor our Magazine, if we would preserve our accustomed variety. It would make at least fifteen printed pages of theKnickerbocker. We hope however to see the article published. No parent who feels as he ought for the children whichGodhas given him, growing up around him, but would honor its aim and emulate its salutary lessons. Years pass quickly away. Yet a little while, and our dear ones will be actors in this busy world, of which at present their knowledge is so small. The article in question has been returned, as requested, through the Upper Post-Office. * * *Somethingakin to the following, were certain lines written by 'S. C. M.', now well known in America and England under a popularpseudonyme, many years since. There is rather more of the 'cautionary,' however, in this 'limning from life:'

THE NOVEL-READER

'Twasvery sweet of a summer's eve,To hear her talk and singOf stars, and dews, and rocks, and caves,And all that sort of thing.I loved her for her mild blue eye,And her sweet and quiet air;But I'm very sure that I didn't seeThe novel on the chair.I longed to have a quiet wife,For a noise quite drives me frantic;But to be a novel-reader's spouseIs any thing but romantic.The live-long day doesLaurareadIn a cushioned easy-chair,In slipshod shoes, and a dirty gown,And tangled, uncombed hair.The children look like beggars' brats,And little have they of breeding;Yet this is but one of the many illsThat flow from novel-reading.For oh! the meals! I'm very sureYou ne'er did see such 'feeding;'For the beef is burnt and the veal is raw,And all from novel-reading.The bed-room's very like a sty,And the kitchen seems a stable;The lap-dogs litter the parlor o'er,And the nursery is a Babel.Ho! youth in search of a quiet wife,Before to the shrine you lead her,Take care, I pray you, take good careThat she isn't a novel-reader!

'Twasvery sweet of a summer's eve,To hear her talk and singOf stars, and dews, and rocks, and caves,And all that sort of thing.

I loved her for her mild blue eye,And her sweet and quiet air;But I'm very sure that I didn't seeThe novel on the chair.

I longed to have a quiet wife,For a noise quite drives me frantic;But to be a novel-reader's spouseIs any thing but romantic.

The live-long day doesLaurareadIn a cushioned easy-chair,In slipshod shoes, and a dirty gown,And tangled, uncombed hair.

The children look like beggars' brats,And little have they of breeding;Yet this is but one of the many illsThat flow from novel-reading.

For oh! the meals! I'm very sureYou ne'er did see such 'feeding;'For the beef is burnt and the veal is raw,And all from novel-reading.

The bed-room's very like a sty,And the kitchen seems a stable;The lap-dogs litter the parlor o'er,And the nursery is a Babel.

Ho! youth in search of a quiet wife,Before to the shrine you lead her,Take care, I pray you, take good careThat she isn't a novel-reader!

Wehad lately missed our friend Mr. L. P.Clover, from his establishment under the Astor-House, in Vesey-street, and were ignorant of his whereabout; until happening one day to pass Dr.Lyell'schurch in Anthony-street, near Broadway, we observed, near the door of a building adjoining that edifice, a couple of large paintings, representing the Falls of Niagara. Entering to inquire the name of the artist, we opened upon Mr.Clover, which 'fully accounted' for the presence at his door of works of art; for although his establishment is better known for its excellent looking-glasses and picture-frames, for the sale of which, on reasonable terms, it has become so popular, yet we have been often indebted to the proprietor's taste and enterprise for the enjoyment of some of the best paintings to be met at any similar place in the metropolis. To test the justice of our commendations, let our town readers drop in at Number eighty-three Anthony-street, and examineVanderlyn'sViews of the Great Cataract, and several ofWard'sfine landscapes. * * *Wehear of various changes and some deaths among our contemporaries. Our friend 'Sargent'sMagazine' has been swallowed up in 'Graham's;' two or three 'lady-periodicals,' as they are termed, have been similarly wedded; the 'Southern Literary Messenger,' since the death of its amiable and persevering proprietor, has been advertised for sale at public auction; the Charleston 'Magnolia' is we hear to be discontinued: Mr.Simmsrecently transferred its editorial functions. The 'Orion,' we are informed, will commence its third volume in September, with increased attractions, literary and pictorial. How many Magazines have arisen, struggled, and fallen, within the last ten years, that were going to throw the 'OldKnick.' into the back-ground, and darken his out-goings! We could at this moment count up a score of such upon our fingers; and yetMaga'flourishes in immortal youth!' 'Be virtuous, and you will be happy;' 'Rome was not built in a day;' and so forth. * * * 'Rememberthat thou keep holy the Sabbath-Day,' is a lesson beautifully enforced in the following lines by SirMatthew Hale. We give them in place of our Baltimore correspondent's remarks upon 'Sunday in the Country,' in our last number:

'ASabbathwell spentBrings a week of content,And health for the toils of to-morrow;But a Sabbath profaned,Whatsoe'er may be gained,Is a certain forerunner of sorrow.'

Thearticle upon 'President Tyler and his Family' in our last number seems, according to the newspapers, to have given offence to a portion of the public. The sketch was from the pen of anold correspondent of theKnickerbocker, who had never failed to please its readers; his articles having always been widely copied and warmly commended. Assured that it had no political bearing, and that it could in nowise trench upon our neutrality, we gave the paper a place; not without the thought also that the recent tour of the President and a portion of his family in this section of the Union would give it additional interest to our readers in the Northern States. The reception of the article, however, has satisfied us that while politics run high, it is not expedient for a neutral work like theKnickerbockerto intermeddle either with publicmenor publicmeasures. We shall therefore eschew all kindred themes hereafter. * * *Weare indebted to a kind friend for the following 'incident of travel.' We have heard before of the couplet which he transcribes, but never of aseriousapplication of the lines. We did not however need the assurance of our correspondent that he 'actually saw them, as stated:' 'During a recent journey through New-Hampshire, with a small party of choice friends, we stopped to refresh ourselves at a little inn in a village that shall be nameless, although it has a nameat home. The parlor into which we were ushered was ornamented, as is usual in New-England villages, with two or three rude pictures; and among the rest, the indispensable family mourning-piece. This latter is always irresistibly attractive to me. Poorly as it is executed, it is the work of love. It speaks of the natural and holy desire to remember the dead, to hold their images and their memorials near; to bind the members of the little family, in whatever worlds, together into one. It is one of the many symbols in which the affectionate heart imbodies its instinctive prophecy of the indissolubleness of the holy and beautiful alliances of friendship and home. It seems to say: 'We have not yet done loving the dead. Our sympathies and attachments are too strong to be so soon dissolved. Virtuous friendship must endure for ever, or love is a cheat. Our holy associationsmustabide, or we have no confidence in any thing eternal.' The picture was the work of the needle, representing with wonderfuloriginalityof conception, a weeping willow bending over a small obelisk, upon which was recorded the name of an infant, aged seven weeks. Beneath the name were the following lines; the perusal of which, I need not say, produced a most sensible effect upon the feelings of all the travellers, and left an impression never to be effaced:

'Since that I so soon was done for,I wonder what I was begun for.'

The brevity of human life is a mystery, which has often perplexed the wisest heads. But the difficult question is here propounded 'with avengeance,' considering the quarter from which it is represented to have come, that is perfectly overpowering.' * * *Whatan admirable reproof of selfishness is conveyed in these few words ofBacon: 'Divide with reason between self-love and society, and be so true to thyself that thou be not false to others. It is a poor centre of a man's actions, himself. It is right earth; for that only stands fast upon its own centre, whereas all things that have affinity with the heavens move upon the centre of another, which they benefit.' * * *Welikepartsof 'The Summer-Storm' very well; but as a whole, it lacks clearness, and in one or two places the language is tame; mere prose, indeed, and not over-felicitously divided. We can wellimaginethe appearance of such a storm, however, in the highlands of Rockland county.Thomsonhas a spirited picture of a similar scene:

'Atfirst, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven,The tempest growls; but as it nearer comes,And rolls its awful burthen on the wind,The lightnings flash a larger curve, and moreThe noise astounds: till over head a sheetOf livid flame discloses wide; then shutsAnd opens wider; shuts and opens stillExpansive, wrapping ether in a blaze!'

Forone only reason, we decline the 'thrilling story' of 'M. D.' of Hudson. We do not affect afightin a tale. Indeed, we crossed out a great battle of fists recently in one of the best articles that has appeared in theKnickerbockerfor several months.Sidney Smith'sadvice on this point is most judicious: 'Nobody should suffer his hero to have a black eye, or to be pulled by the nose. The Iliad would never have come down to these times, ifAgamemnonhad givenAchillesa box on the ear. We should have trembled for the Æniad if any Tyrian nobleman had kicked the piousÆneasin the fourth book.Æneasmay have deserved it, but he never could have founded the Roman empire after so distressing an accident.' * * *Nowin this fervid summer solstice, forget not, O ye sedentary! that most important requirement of the body, frequent ablution.Bathe! bathe!A recipient ourselves of 'the early and latter rain' of Dr.Rabineau'sshower-bath, and eke the benefits of his unrivalled swimming-bath, we speak by the card, and asone having authority. Of Mr. H.Rabineau'swarmsalt water baths, at the foot of Desbrosses-street, on the North River, we hear also the warmest praises, from the lips of invalids and others. * * *Ifwe were to write a page of fine print in reply to one point of 'S.'s remarks upon 'Street Alms-Giving,' it could not so well express whatheat least will understand, as the annexed brief sentence: 'That charity which Plenty gives to Poverty is human and earthly; but it becomes divine and heavenly, when Poverty gives to Want.' * * *Wesubmit it to the reader whether our correspondent is not excusable for the tardy fulfilment of a promise in which they were interested:

'I'vehad the tooth-ache,Diedrich, and have takenAll sorts of extracts, essences, and lotions;Have held on blisters, till my jaws were baking,Of mustard, vinegar, and other notions;And for about a week, at midnight waking,Have drank raw fourth-proof brandy, in such portions,(Mixed with quinines, valerians, and morphines,)'Twould put a dozen stout men in their coffins.'

'M.'s curt notelet is impertinent and ungentleman-like. His article was a mereébauche, and very indifferent at that. Thenucleiof his associations were objects of the very smallest kind, and the language was kept down to a sympathetic degradation and due correspondence with the thoughts. The article was 'respectfully declined,' and in the manner prescribed by its author; and for this we are berated in no measured terms. 'Go to; you are a fishmonger.' * * *The'Lines to Old Ocean' possess a kind of latent rough-and-tumble sublimity, not unlike a good borrowed thought smothered in windy words byJohn Neal. But we likeDickens'sprose picture of 'the main' much better: 'The sea never knows what to do with itself. It hasn't got no employment for its mind, and is always in a state of vacancy. Like them polar bears in the wild-beast shows, as is constantly a-nodding their heads from side to side, it nevercanbe quiet.' This is at least 'clearto the meanest capacity.' * * *Itis said ofRichter, that his foremost thought about a wife was, that she should be able to 'cook him something good.' Our Port-Chester epigrammatist seems to have a taste for the fragile in his estimate of the sex:

'Lovelywoman's a flower, so when you address her,If you wish to retain, I advise you to press her.'

The others 'will do.' They bide their time; as also the 'Night on Lake Erie.' * * *Therecent death ofWashington Allston, the painter, the poet, in all respects the man of genius, has left a void which will not soon be filled; andonethere is, in a foreign land, who will feel this sad event in his very heart of hearts.Washington IrvingandWashington Allstonwere for many years friends of as confiding a faith and firm an attachment asDamonandPythias. They rose to fame abroad together; were constant mutual advisers in literature and art; and at one time, when they were residing temporarily in Rome, we came near losing our renowned author, through the love he bore his friend, and a desire to unite with him in the common pursuit of his delightful art. We shall hope to obtain for these pages a tribute from the pen of Mr.Irvingto the memory of his illustrious friend. * * *Hereis a fact related by an eastern correspondent, that raisesHandy Andy'scharacter for truth and veracity greatly in our estimation. It matches the best blunder recorded by that amusing narrator: 'Not many days since, a little child, two years old, the son of a poor Irish widow, lay in the middle of a new road, kicking up a dust, and roasting in the sun. Presently came along an Irish teamster, who in the most deliberate and careless manner walked his team over the little fellow, and crushed him to death. Some dozen or twenty Irish shanties were in full view of the catastrophe; and as might be expected, there was a rush and an ullulloo from a hundred women at once. While some took up the dead body, others shouted after the teamster, who, apparently unconcerned, was making slowly off. They forced him back to the scene of the catastrophe, where they did not hesitate to accuse him of having caused it purposely. Pat of course denied it strenuously, declaring that he did not see the child, and was therefore wholly blameless. But with a hundred fierce eyes glaring upon him at once, and fifty tongues hissing in his ear, he became confused, began to waver, and finally gave up the point entirely, probably as a peace-offering to his tormentors: 'Thrue, thrue, MistressConolly,' said he to one of them, while he scratched his head sorrowfully, 'Ididsee the boy lying there, 'pon me word;but I thought he was asleep!' This, Mr. C., is a positive fact.' * * *Didyou ever peruse these 'Lines written upon a Watch?' We derive them from a favorite contributor, who informs us that his honored father, in winding up his watch, used often to repeat them:

'Couldbut our tempers move like this machine,Not urged by passion, nor delayed by spleen,But true to Nature's regulative power,By virtuous acts distinguished every hour;Then Health and Joy would follow, as they ought,The laws of motion and the laws of thought:Sweet Health, to pass the present moments o'er,And endless Joy, when Time shall be no more!'

'Onemore last word' to 'Mein Herr of Albany,' to whom we alluded in our last number. We admit the justice of your satire; but with deference, it strikes us that it does not require a cimeter to cut down a gnat.Hoodsomewhere mentions an Irishman who apologized to the keeper of a menagerie for insulting his elephant by a rude assault upon his most prominent feature. He couldn't resist, he said, the only chance he had ever had to pull a nose that he could take hold of with both hands! Our correspondent has a kindred excuse, certainly, inonesense, but not in another. 'Fleas are not lobsters,' nor are asses elephants. * * * AVERYcharming story, friend 'G.' of Illinois; simple, well-told, andnot too long—the bane of kindred performances. Love-stories shouldendonce in a while, by way of novelty. How many novelists have elaborated chapter after chapter, to depict the true-hearted constancy which is better described in these four lines:

'ILO'Enae a laddie but ane,He lo'es nae a lassie but me;He's willing to make me his ain,And his ain I am willing to be.'

'T.'smanuscript iswretched. The words are strung together like a bunch of onions. Some of the conglomerated syllables reminded us of a sign in London, mentioned byHook, whereby a plain manufacturer of Roman cement was turned into a manufacturer ofRomancement; as if he were anxious to solicit business from the prolific fashionable novelists of the time. * * *Wedonotaccept 'The Signs of the Times.' The writer looks through a pair of very dark spectacles, we should say. Going upon the assumption that every man is a rascal until heproveshimself an honest man, would be a course as unjust to a community as to an individual. Our correspondent seems to think that 'the world is in a state of bankruptcy; that it owes the world more than the world can pay, and ought to go into chancery and be sold!' The best-laid plans ofhonestmen, our censor should remember, often fail. The race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong, as many a delving, toiling 'two-footed worker' can bear witness:

'Dame Fortuneis a fickle gipsy,And always blind, and often tipsy;Sometimes for years and years togetherShe'll bless you with the sunniest weather,Bestowing honor, pudding, pence,You can't imagine why, or whence;Then in a moment. Presto, pass!Your hopes are withered like the grass.'

Wehave received a very indignant epistle from 'The Mail-Robber,' who read our last number at Saratoga, where he is temporarily sojourning. We shall present it to our readers, with another poetical epistle, in our September issue. 'Mohawk, a Cluster of Sonnets,' by our friend H. W.Rockwell, Esq.; 'Green places of the City,' by Mrs.Hewitt; and 'Thoughts at Niagara,' are in type for our next. A word here to a few correspondents whose articles were not named in the large list enumerated in our last, or who have not been privately advised of the reception and disposition of their papers: Where is our venerable friend to whom we have been indebted for 'The Young Englishman?' We look for him in our next. The 'Treatise of Books' by 'R.' struck us as rather stiltish and labored in its style, although itsthoughtswere unexceptionable. It was declined, however, because our port-folios contained three or four papers on the same theme, for whose insertion at some future day we have been looking for several months. The 'Treatise' awaits 'R's order at the publication-office. 'H. W. R.'s indignation at the silly charge of plagiarism of 'The Southern Pinewoods' byBryant—whose lines on 'The Prairies,' written for theKnickerbocker, furnished every thought and simile for the imitation—would be thrown away upon a 'weak invention.' The whole affair is a stupid joke, not worth a resurrection. 'Chronicles of the Past,' by an esteemed friend and contributor, is filed for insertion. 'Peter Brown and Dolly Cross,' a Legendary Ballad, and 'Night and Morning,' by 'W. H. H.,' bide their time. They are 'booked.' 'T.'s 'Lines on the Death of a Young Girl' are under 'hopeful' advisement. We shall be glad to receive the 'Inquiry concerning the Manifestation of Mind by the Lower Orders of Animals.' The theme is a fruitful one. Notices in type, of several new publications, areunavoidablyomitted.

'Washington: a National Poem.'—Who was it contributed five pounds toward the payment of the English national debt? He was such a benefactor to Britain, in a pecuniary point of view, as the author of this 'Washington' poem is to our national literature. To judge from his high-sounding preface, one would think thatMiltonwas to be out-done, and the fame of by-gone poets utterly eclipsed. The writer went into a 'state of retiracy' and 'threw himself into his task.' He 'read, mused, and meditated; wrote and re-wrote.' He rose early and reposed late; 'sleepless himself, to give to others sleep!' He 'prepared himself long and laboriously' for his great effort, and 'laid his foundations deep.' And the result is, that he has given us anoriginalpoem which sets criticism at defiance. In this judgment, unless 'we bedoubt them o'ermuch,' to use our poet's words, his readers will at least agree with us. Since the 'travail in spirit' of Dr.M'Henry, in bringing forth 'The Antediluvians' in twelve books—an ominous number in the present instance also—we have seen nothing to compare with the pains and perils which our poet must have suffered and dared, in giving birth to the literary offspring under notice. Our candid and deliberate advice to the author is, to bottle up Book First in spirits, and strangle its eleven brothers.

'Illustrations of the Croton Aqueduct.'—We regret that we did not receive this noble work of Mr. F. B.Tower, of the Engineer Department, in time for adequate notice in the present number. As it is, we cannot forbear to call public attention to its great merits. The volume is a superb quarto, containing upward of twenty large and exceedingly well-executed engravings, illustrating all the important structures on the entire line of the Aqueduct, from its source; its tunnels, aqueducts, bridges, reservoirs, fountains, etc. In the letter-press, which we should not omit to add does great credit to the care and skill of the printer, Mr.Osborn, we find a clear and comprehensive history of the preliminary measures which led to the accomplishment of this great enterprise, together with accounts of the aqueducts of ancient Rome, and of the Romans in other parts of Europe, as well as of the modern Roman, Italian, French, Mexican, and South American works, of a kindred character. Messrs.Wiley and Putnamare the publishers.

'Clontarf, or the Field of the Green Banner,' is the title of an Irish Historical Romance, in verse, byJohn Augustus Shea, which reaches us at too late an hour for adequate perusal and notice. Not to pass it wholly by, however, we are fain to say, that in hastily reading a passage here and there through the volume, we have been struck with the warm spirit of freedom which it breathes, the easy flow of its versification, and its frequently agreeable imagery and faithful pictures of passion. The poetical introduction is fervid and felicitous. A few minor poems, which have acquired general celebrity, among them that fine address to the ocean, 'Likeness of Heaven!' etc., close the volume; which being published byAppleton and Companyis of course in good keeping in its externals.

The North-American Review, for the July quarter, is an excellent issue of that always respectable Quarterly. The leading paper, upon the life and character ofThomas Paine, is written with great power, and with evident familiarity with all the details of the history of its notorious subject.Stephens's'Travels in Yucatan' and MissBremer'snovels are noticed in terms of well-deserved praise. These, with an entertaining and instructive article upon the cod, mackerel, and herring fisheries, are all which we have found leisure to read. The remaining papers are upon the 'Mutiny of the Somers,'Drake's'Northern Lakes and Southern Invalids,' 'The School and the School-master,' 'The Nestorian Christians,' 'Classical Studies,' and the usual briefer 'Critical Notices.'

Mr. Nisbet's Lecture.—We have perused the lecture delivered before the Georgia Historical Society at Savannah, by Mr.Eugenius A. Nisbet, with satisfaction and pleasure. The writer's remarks upon the drama; the tendency of French literature; the necessity of an international copy-right law; the intellectual inheritance which we have derived from England; and the influence of domestic airs and national songs; are exceedingly forcible and just. We commend especially Mr.Nisbet'sargument in favor of literary protection to those liberal-minded casuists who would at the same time pick an author's brains and his pockets, and defend the justice of the operation, on the ground that the victim could not help it, and thatsomebodywould rob him iftheydid not!

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