LITERARY RECORD.

——'Whoshall placeA limit to the giant's unchained strength.Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?Far, like the comet's way through infinite space,Stretches the long untravelled path of lightInto the depths of ages: we may trace.Distant, the brightening glory of its flightTill the receding rays are lost to human sight.

——'seas and stormy airAre the wide barrier of thy borders, where,Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well,Thou laugh'st at enemies; who shall then declareThe date of thy deep-founded strength, or tellHow happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell?'

We sometimes wish that we had been born fifty years later than it pleased Providence to send us into the world, that we might behold the ever-increasing glory of our native land. * * * The reader will be struck, we think, with the paper upon 'Mind in Animals,' elsewhere in the present number. The writer 'has firm faith in every conclusion he has drawn. He has considered the ultimate tendencies of his doctrine in many different points; and the result is, an additional confidence in the correctness of his conviction, that one principle of intelligence is bestowed upon all created beings; modified, like their physical structure, to adapt them to different spheres.' Time is an abstract term; and as touching the faculty of abstraction in animals, the writer has a curious calendar which he kept of the time of the crowing of the roosters in his neighborhood. Having observed that they gave their midnight signal at about the same hour for several nights in succession, the following record was preserved:

Aug.30,11.25P. M.Pleasant." 31,11.22""Sept.1,11.7½"Cloudy." 3,11.27"Pleasant." 4,12.24"Moonlight." 6,11.30"Rainy." 7,11.29"Cloudy." 9,11.20"Moonlight.

As a new style ofcrow-nometer, this is a curiosity; but we cannot perceive that it proves any thing very conclusively. If it were in our power, however, to watch the operations of animals as carefully as our own, one could very soon place the whole question above controversy. * * *Thackeray, the exceedingly entertaining author of 'The Yellowplush Correspondence,' has in a late number of 'Frazer'sMagazine' some judicious advice in relation to themodus operandiof novel-reading. 'Always look,' says he, 'at the end of a romance to see what becomes of the personages before you venture upon the whole work, and become interested in the characters described in it. Why interest one's self in a personage whom one knows must at the end of the second volume die a miserable death? What is the use of making one's self unhappy needlessly, watching the symptoms ofLeonora, pale, pious, pulmonary, and crossed in love, as they manifest themselves, or tracingAntonioto his inevitable assassination? No: it is much better to look at the end of a novel; and when I read: 'There is a fresh green mound in the church-yard of B——, and a humble stone, on which is inscribed the name ofAnna-Maria,' or a sentence to that effect, I shut the book at once, declining to agitate my feelings needlessly. If you had the gift of prophecy, and people proposed to introduce you to a man who you knew would borrow money of you, or would be inevitably hanged, or would subject you to some other annoyance, would you not decline the proposed introduction? So with novels. The book of fate of the heroes and heroines is to be found at the end of the second volume: one has but to turn to it to know whether one shall make their acquaintance or not. I heartily pardon the man who broughtCordeliato life. I would have the stomach-pump brought forRomeoat the fifth act; for Mrs.MacbethI am not in the least sorry; but as for the General, I would have him destroy that swaggeringMacduff, or if not, cut him in pieces, disarm him, pink him, certainly; and then I would have Mrs.Macduffand all her little ones come in from the slips, stating that the account of their murder was a shameful fabrication of the newspapers, and that they were all of them perfectly well and hearty.' * * *Ithas pleased some late English writer to laud the conduct of SirHudson Lowe, at Saint Helena, whileNapoleonwas under his 'treatment,' and asByronsays, 'stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.' The least said onthatpoint, the better. 'He was England's greatest enemy, andmine, but I forgive him!' said that notorious military martinet, when informed that his renowned captive was no more. This is rather rich; and almost justifies the remark ofNapoleon, in exhibiting to an English visitor, in a copy ofÆsop'sFables (which SirHudsonhad sent him, among other English books) the fable of the sick lion, which, after submitting with fortitude to the insults of the many animals who came to exult over his fallen greatness, at length received a kick in the face from an ass. 'I could have borne every thing but this!' saidNapoleon; and pointing to the wood-cut, he added: 'It is me and your governor!' A friend of ours once informed us, that at atable d'hôteat which he was seated in a German inn, soon afterBonaparte'sdeath, SirHudson Lowewas announced; when nearly every person arose from the table, and 'left him alone in his glory.' * * *Itis somewhat remarkable that so little attention is paid to theclearnessof expression. Every body remembers the geographer who, in describing ancient Albany, represented it as having 'two thousand houses, and ten thousand inhabitants,all standing with their gable-ends to the street!' A similar error was made not long since by a western journalist, who in publishing a clever poem, remarked that it 'was written by an esteemed friend, who had lain in the grave many years,merely for his own amusement!' A scarcely less ludicrousmisstatementoccurred very lately in one of our popular daily journals. In describing the explosion of a brig, near the Narrows, and certain accidents which resulted from the disaster, the editor, among other items, had the ensuing: 'The only passengers wereT. B. Nathan, who owned three thousand dollars' worth of the cargo,and the captain's wife!' * * *Bryant, our most eminent American poet, has entirely 'satisfied the sentiment' of our correspondent 'Senex's'stanzas on 'Old Age,' in his fine lines commencing, 'Lament who will, with fruitless tears,' etc. A modern English poet, too, has recently reëxhausted the theme, in an extended string of six-line verses, from which the subjoined are derived:

'To dark oblivion I bequeathThe ruddy cheek, brown hair, white teeth,And eyes that brightly twinkle;Crow's feet may plough with furrows deepMy features, if I can but keepMy heart without a wrinkle.'A youthful cheer sustains us old.As arrows best their course upholdWinged by a lightsome featherHappy the young old man who thusBears, like a human arbutus,Life's flowers and fruit together.'

'To dark oblivion I bequeathThe ruddy cheek, brown hair, white teeth,And eyes that brightly twinkle;Crow's feet may plough with furrows deepMy features, if I can but keepMy heart without a wrinkle.

'A youthful cheer sustains us old.As arrows best their course upholdWinged by a lightsome featherHappy the young old man who thusBears, like a human arbutus,Life's flowers and fruit together.'

Weshould be bound to dissent from the conclusions of 'T. R.' on the Hudson, were we to give his paper a place (which weshalldo, with his permission,) in theKnickerbocker. Hispecuniaryconclusions are right, no doubt; but hisnaturaldeductions are, in our poor judgment, decidedly wrong. 'Oh! mad world!' exclaims one who knows it well; 'oh! incomprehensible, blindworld! Look at the rich! In what are they happy? In what do they excel the poor? Not in their greater store of wealth, which is but a source of vice, disease, and death; but in a little superiority of knowledge; a trifling advance toward truth.' * * *Wedo not know who drew the following 'picture in little' of fashion's changes, (changes alike of person and apparel,) but to our mind it has the 'veritable touch and tint:' 'There is something awful in the bed-room of a respectable old couple, of sixty-five. Think of the old feathers, turbans, bugles, petticoats, pomatum-pots, spencers, white satin shoes, false fronts, the old flaccid, boneless stays, tied up in faded riband, the dusky fans, the forty-years' old baby-linen;Frederick'sfirst little breeches, and a newspaper containing the account of his distinguishing himself in the field; all these lie somewhere damp and squeezed down into glum old presses and wardrobes.' * * *Wehave observed going the rounds of the press a paragraph which speaks of 'excitements' of all kinds as prejudicial to longevity; and citing, among other examples, the constant whirl of the stage, as a reason why theatrical persons are generally so short-lived. But thepremisesin this particular instance arewrong. As a class, actors attain to more than common longevity. Call to mind those who in our own era have nourished in England and in this country, in proof of the correctness of this position. And it was thus in a previous age. Look atMacklin. He performed the part of 'Sir Pertinax MacSychophant' in his own Comedy of 'The Man of the World,' consisting of thirty-six 'lengths' or nearly sixteen hundred lines, including 'cues,' with a vigor and spirit that astonished every beholder, when he was in his one hundredth year! How old wasGarrickwhen he was seen for the last time as Macbeth, marching at the head of his troops (in a modern court-suit, and a well-powdered peruke!) across the blasted heath? We do not exactly remember his age, but he was 'no chicken.' * * *Thereis great beauty as well as truth in the annexed brief synopsis of the characteristics of the author of 'The Spectator.'Addison, says the writer, seemed at the same moment to be taken by the hand by Pathos and by Wit, while Fiction enrobed him with her own beautiful garments which Truth confined with her cestus, and Imagination put her crown upon his head, and Religion and all her band of Virtues beckoned him along the path to immortality, both in the life of the genius and the life of the soul. All the lineaments of beauty wake into splendor in his prose. It is in his essays that his muse beams out upon the reader, and calls forth all the sleeping wonders of her face. His true tragic energy is exhibited in his earnest panegyric of virtue; his true comedy is contained in the history of SirRoger de Coverly, and his true fancy in the 'Vision of Mirza.' He was an essayist, a tale-writer, a traveller, a critic. He touched every subject, and adorned every subject that he touched.' Do we seek for the opinions of a man of letters upon the aspect and the antiquities of the most famous country in Europe? We have his 'Remarks on Italy.' Are we fond of examining the aids which history derives from some of the obscurer stores of antiquity? We can turn to his 'Dialogues on Medals.' Are we charmed with the stateliness of Eastern fiction and the melancholy grandeur of Eastern allegory? We find it in all the allegories and visions of this charming writer. Or do we seek to be withdrawn from the cares of our maturer life into the thoughtless sports and pleasures of our youth? Who so good a guide asAddison, in those papers which unlock all the gentler and purer emotions of the heart? * * *Amongthe pleasant papers of the lateRobert C. Sands, which we intended to have included in our late series of his 'Early and Unpublished Writings,' was the following extract from a burlesque imitation of the literary-antiquarian 'researches,' so common some years ago. The poem was 'edited' by a celebrated cook in London, and was 'intituled 'Kynge Arthour, his Puden.' It purported to have been derived from theMS.which 'contained the original Welsh, as well as the version.' It throws great light on the gastrology of the olden time:

'YsKyngefor Sonday mornenge badeHys cooke withoute delaieTo have a greate bagge-puden made,For to dyne upon yt daie.'Ye cooke yn tooke hys biggeste potte,Yt 90 Hhds. helde,And soon he made ye water hotteWyth which yt potte was fyllede.'Hys knedynge-troughe was 50 ydsIn lengthe, and 20 wide;And 80 kytchen wenches stodeIn ordere bye its side.'Full 60 sakes of wheaten floureThey emptyed in a tryse,And 15 Bbls. of melases,& 7 casks of Ryse!'

'YsKyngefor Sonday mornenge badeHys cooke withoute delaieTo have a greate bagge-puden made,For to dyne upon yt daie.

'Ye cooke yn tooke hys biggeste potte,Yt 90 Hhds. helde,And soon he made ye water hotteWyth which yt potte was fyllede.

'Hys knedynge-troughe was 50 ydsIn lengthe, and 20 wide;And 80 kytchen wenches stodeIn ordere bye its side.

'Full 60 sakes of wheaten floureThey emptyed in a tryse,And 15 Bbls. of melases,& 7 casks of Ryse!'

This really seems somewhat common-place, just at this period; but twenty-five years ago it was a 'gem of one of the old English school of metrical writers!' * * *Withperhaps as strong sympathies in behalf of the great philanthropic moments of the age as most of our readers possess, we are nevertheless sometimes inclined to wish that the liberal patrons of the great benevolent societies could now and then have a glance behind the curtains at the chief actors there. In many of these institutions true Christian principle is doubtless paramount, and the managers men of exaltedpiety and worth; but there areothersof them which, while thenamesof good men are paraded upon the 'Boards' to inspire confidence, are really directed by a set of individuals who would have done honor to the Spanish Inquisition in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Some facts have recently come to our knowledge in regard to the doings of the directors of asoi-disantcharitable institution, which operates in this city and State for the ostensible benefit of a transatlantic colony, which, were they known to the public, as without doubt they soon will be, would pretty effectually set the seal of condemnation upon all their efforts toward collecting moneys from the benevolent, for many years to come. A friend and correspondent of ours, whose character stands above reproach, fell by chance into the hands of some half a dozen of these directors, who, among a body of thirty for the most part honorable men, usually form the quorums and do the business; and the treatment he received (these same half-a-dozen sheltering themselves the while under the sanctity of their religious body) would have disgraced a band of KingPhilip'swarriors in the old Pequot war. We are no Abolitionists, technically so called, as our readers well know; nor do we take sides with either of the two great societies whose professed object is the benefit of the colored race; so that we cannot be charged with speaking from prejudice. But wedogo for justice, for truth, for fair-dealing, and Christian principle; and when any body of men, whatever may be their standing or professions, outrage these; and worse than all, when they commit this outrage under the garb of pharisaical sanctity, we know of no reason why they should be screened from public rebuke. * * *Somekind-hearted and affectionate female correspondent, an integral portion of the girlery of New-York, on the strength of some remarks in our last upon the universality of the tender passion, has sent us a love-tale, with this motto:

——'Allthings seemSo happy when they love; the gentle birdsHave far more gay a note when they uniteTo build their simple nest; and when at lengthThe 'anxious mother' watches o'er her young.Her mate is near, to recompense her careWith his sweet song.'

Our fair correspondent has exalted the attractions of her heroine 'to a degree,' as the English cockney novelists have it: 'Every look of her beaming eyes penetrated to the heart; every motion of her moist coral lips gave ecstasy; and every variation of her features discovered new and ineffable beauties!' Good 'eavens!—how 'Theodore'musthave felt, as he 'gradually recovered from the hurt of his fall,' (washis 'limb' amputated?) and found that angel 'lifting his head from his pillow, and touching his eye-lids with awakening light!' * * *Thanksto the kind 'Incognita,' to whom we are indebted for a beautiful worsted butterfly, destined to a 'literaneous' sort of destiny! Verily, it is a beautiful fabric; so vivid and life-like in its brilliant colors, that it seems, while hanging by the thin ear of our iron gray-hound, as if about to rise and float a living blossom of the air. How deftly the Ettrick Shepherd ('the d—dHogg!' asBallantynecalled him,) has limned its counterpart: 'Perhaps a bit bonny butterfly is resting wi' folded wings on a gowan, not a yard from your cheek; and now, awakening out of a summer-dream, floats away in its wavering beauty; but as if unwilling to leave the place of its mid-day sleep, comin' back and back, and round and round, on this side and that side, and settling in its capricious happiness to fasten again on some brighter floweret, till the same breath o' wind that lifts up your hair sae refreshingly catches the airy voyager, and wafts her away into some other nook of her ephemeral paradise!' Answer us, all ye that eversawa summer butterfly in the country, is not that aperfectpicture? * * *Wehave a prospectus of a new series of the 'New Mirror,' which can now be obtained incompletesets, weekly, or in monthly parts, 'with four steel-plates, and sixty-four pages of reading matter.' When we add, that theMirrorhas many of its old corps of writers, with several new ones, and that GeneralMorrisandN. P. Willisare also diligently laboring at the oars, we have said all that is necessary, to indicate the claims of the work. Success to ye, gentlemen! By the by: the first number of the new series had a full-length portrait, bytheJohnston, of the eminent and deeply-lamented painter-poet,Washington Allston. If it is at all like the original, we can well believe the statement of an indignant writer in the 'Boston Post,' who avers that 'the engraving fromBrackett'sbeautiful bust of Mr.Allston, in the last 'Democratic Review,' bears no resemblance whatever to the bust itself, and might as well be called a likeness of one of the numerousJohn Smiths, as a portrait of the great artist.' Speaking of likenesses: we would venture to ask, what is the thing at the end of the right arm of a figure in one of the Philadelphia 'pictorial' monthlys intended to represent? Is it a hand, (no,thatit isn't!) or the end of a tri-pronged beet or radish? It is 'a copy' from the end ofsomediverse-forked vegetable,thatis quite clear. * * *Itis a very interesting work, the History ofElizabethof England, recently published by Messrs.Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia. Proud, powerful, and haughty as that imperial potentate finally became, her infancy was distinguished by the want of even comfortable clothing. An uncommon intellect she certainly possessed, and she had her wrongs, no doubt; but who can think of her without at once reverting to poorMaryof Scotland? After an imprisonment of nineteen years, that unhappy Queen was left alone, without counsel and without friends; betrayed by those in whom she had trusted, and confronted by the representatives of the power and majesty of England. 'But she evinced in the last sad scene of her mournful life the spirit of the daughter of a long line of kings, and exposed to the wondering world the spectacle of a helpless woman, enfeebled by long confinement, 'gray in her prime,' and broken down by sickness and sorrow, contending single-handed against the sovereign of a mighty realm, who sought her blood, and had predetermined her death.' * * *Ourentertaining correspondent, the 'American Antiquary,' has given elsewhere some account of the stalwart citizens of a portion of New-Hampshire. Theyare'good men,' no doubt, and 'honest as the skin atween their brows;' but 'where two men ride a horse, one must go before.' Our friend should see a specimen or two of our western and southwestern noblemen of nature. We should like to place his hand in that ofAlbert Pike, for example, the Arkansas poet, politician, and lawyer. His first impression would be, that in hisBlackwood'Hymn to the Gods' he had been lauding his own kith and kin. We consider it a great pleasure to have encountered so fine an illustration of the 'mens sana incorpore sano.' Having seen him once, one could not soon forget him. We should know him now, if we were to 'come across his hide in a tan-yard!' * * *OurSalem (Mass.) friend, who complains that we 'are leagued with the Quakers against the memory of the pious Puritans,' is 'hereby respectfully invited to attend' to the following hit at oldCotton Matherand his fellow-persecutors of that era, from the pen of a true 'Son of New-England:' 'We can laugh now at the Doctor and his demons: but little matter of laughter was it to the victims on Salem hill; to the prisoners in the jails; to poorGiles Corey, tortured with planks upon his breast, which forced the tongue from his mouth, and his life from his old palsied body; to bereaved and quaking families; to a whole community priest-ridden and spectre-smitten; gasping in the sick dream of a spiritual night-mare, and given over to believe a lie. We may laugh, for the grotesque is blended with the horrible, but we must also pity and shudder.Godbe thanked that the delusion has measurably vanished; and they who confronted that delusion in its own age, disenchanting with strong, clear sense, and sharp ridicule, their spell-bound generation, deserve high honors as the benefactors of their race. They were indeed branded through life as infidels and 'damnable Sadducees,' by a corrupt priesthood, who ministered to a credulity which could be so well turned to their advantage; but the truth which they uttered lived after them, and wrought out its appointed work, for it had a divine commission andGod-speed.' * * *To'X. L.' of Hudson we say, 'By no means!' He isanother'rusty, fusty, musty old bachelor,' who lacks that 'company' which Misery is said to love. 'If love,' he commences, 'were notbeneatha man, he couldn't 'fallinto it,' as he is so often said to do. Borrowed, dear Sir, 'to begin with!' Learn wisdom of one of your aged fraternity, whom we have the pleasure to know, who was married within a twelvemonth, in the fiftieth year of his age. He has lately been heard to observe: 'If I had known as much about matrimony twelve years ago as I do now, I should just as lieve have been married then as not!' * * *Whereveryou are, reader, if you have an opportunity to seeMacreadyinByron's'Werner,' fail not to enjoy that rich intellectual repast. It is a matchless piece of acting. A friend of ours, whose experience in dramatic excellence embraces all the great standards usually referred to, tells us thatEdmund Kean's'Othello,'John Kemble's'Coriolanus,'Talma's'Britanicus,' andMacready's'Werner,' in their several styles of merit, are the most admirable performances he ever beheld. * * *A correspondentinquires if there is 'any more of such charming scenes' as the one we quoted from the 'Mysteries of Paris,' in our last number. 'It was very beautiful,' she adds. Yes; there is an account of a joyous country excursion made byRodolpheand 'Fleur-de-Marie' in the Autumn, from which we take a short passage:

'Oh!I am very happy, it is such a long time since I have been out of Paris! When I saw the country before, it was spring; but now, although we are almost into winter, it gives me just as much pleasure. What a fine sunny day! Only look at those little rosy clouds, there—there! And that hill! with its pretty white houses gleaming among the trees. How many leaves remain! It is astonishing, in the month of November, is it not, Monsieur? But in Paris the leaves fall so soon. * * *And down there—that flight of pigeons! Look! look! they are settling down on the roof of the mill!In the country, one is never tired of looking; every thing is attractive.''It is a pleasure,Fleur-de-Marie,' saidRodolphe, 'to see you so delighted with these nothings which make the charm of the country.' The young girl, contemplated the peaceful and smiling landscape which was spread out before her, and once more her face assumed its soft, pensive expression.''There!' she exclaimed; 'that fire from the stubble in those fields; see howthe beautiful white smoke ascends to heaven! And this cart, with its two fat grays! If I were a man, how I should love to be a farmer!—to be in the midst of a large field,following the plough, and seeing at a great distance immense woods. Just such a day as to-day, for instance! Enough to make one sing songs, melancholy songs, to bring tears into the eyes, like 'Genevieve de Brabant.'

'It is a pleasure,Fleur-de-Marie,' saidRodolphe, 'to see you so delighted with these nothings which make the charm of the country.' The young girl, contemplated the peaceful and smiling landscape which was spread out before her, and once more her face assumed its soft, pensive expression.'

'There!' she exclaimed; 'that fire from the stubble in those fields; see howthe beautiful white smoke ascends to heaven! And this cart, with its two fat grays! If I were a man, how I should love to be a farmer!—to be in the midst of a large field,following the plough, and seeing at a great distance immense woods. Just such a day as to-day, for instance! Enough to make one sing songs, melancholy songs, to bring tears into the eyes, like 'Genevieve de Brabant.'

There is in this artless description a fine love and perception of the beautiful in nature. * * * 'Absence of Mind' is tooscrappy. Its 'examples' seem collated from sundry files of old newspapers, of various dates. The man however who, in his hurry (at a late hour on a rainy day) to pay a note, took up in place of an umbrella anold broom, and rushed through Wall-street to the bank, with the besom over his head, reminds us of the 'absent' clergyman, who started one winter-Sunday for his church; and having nearly reached it, the wind blew his cloak open; upon which he turned about, that it might be blown close around him again: forgetting this fact, however, he continued to travel in the direction which he faced, until he arrived at his own door. Here he inquired for himself; and being told by a waggish servant that he wasnot in, he departed, with the remark that he should 'call again soon!' * * * 'The Exile's Song,' in the present number, was enclosed in a letter from its author,A. M'Craw, of Scotland, to the late lamented Dr.Timothy Uphamof Waterford, by whose wish it is now published. It was written in this country, several years since; and was occasioned by the statement that two persons had been found in a cave in a forest on the bank of the Kennebeck river, who had sought seclusion and safety in that wild retreat. Dr.Uphamwas a gentleman of a highly distinguished family in New-Hampshire, whose mind led him to appreciate talent whenever and wherever he encountered it. Scientific and literary honors were tendered him from high sources, previous to his demise; but it pleasedGodto summon him to that heaven which is constantly enriching itself with the spoils of earth:

'Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modusTam cari capitis.'

Thereis just now quite a passion forFrench Literaturein this country, and translations have not only become frequent, but very indiscriminate. Much that we see is not amiss in its moral tendency, but more is positively pernicious in its effect upon society. 'What a strange opinion the world will have of French Society a hundred years from now! 'Did all married people,' they will say, 'break a certain commandment? They all do in the novels. Was French society composed of murderers, of forgers, of children without parents, of men consequently running the daily risk of marrying their grandmothers by mistake; of disguised princes, who lived in the friendship of amiable cut-throats and spotless prostitutes; who gave up the sceptre for thesavate, and the stars and pigtails of the court for the chains and wooden shoes of the galleys?' It has been well said ofBernard, (author of 'The Innocence of a Galley-Slave,' in our last two numbers,) that 'he is full of fine observation and gentle feeling; has a gallant sense of the absurd; and writes in a gentlemanlike style.' * * *Hereis a clever and characteristic anecdote of 'Randolphof Roanoke,' related by Mr.Harvey, a spirited (and he must allow us to add improved)racconteur:Robert OwentoldJohn Randolphthat he should live to see the day when mankind would discover the principle of vitality, and of course learn to live for ever. 'Are you not aware,' said he, 'that in Egypt, by artificial heat, the people create thousands of chickens?' 'Yes,' repliedRandolph; 'but you forget to tell us who furnishesthe eggs. Show me the man who canlay an egg, and I'll agree to your 'parallel case.' The proposition was a poser! * * * Mr.Peabody, in his excellent Address at Dartmouth College, speaks of the tendency of our lighter literature to 'aim primarily atimpression,' without much reference to the means adopted to secure that end. What must he think of Mr.J. H. Ingraham'slast infliction upon the public?—his 'Frank Rivers, or the Dangers of the Town,' the hero and heroine of which areRichard P. RobinsonandEllen Jewett? How captivating to tastes kindred with the author's, will be the headings of the different chapters: 'The two fine gentlemen; the Meeting withEllen; the Consequences;' or, 'The Naval Officer; the Kept Mistress,' etc. Can there be but one opinion concerning such shameless 'literary' expositions as this, among all right-minded persons? * * *Manya reader of theKnickerbocker, residing in the smaller villages of our country, will recognize 'The Influential Man' among their 'fellow-citizens.' Our friend at Tinnecum has drawn from life the sketch in preceding pages, and with all his accustomed faithfulness. 'UncleBilly Pine' reminds us of the 'influential man' who, when RipVanwinklecame back from the mountains, after his twenty years' sleep, made his way through a wondering crowd of his Dutch neighbors, with his arms akimbo, and after gazing at him for a moment, shook his head; 'whereat,' says our renowned historian, 'there was a general shaking of the head throughout the whole assemblage.' * * *Parishas always borne away the palm in cosmetics, perfumery, fancy toilet-soaps, etc.; but we suspect that Mr.Eugene Roussel, late of the French metropolis, but now of Philadelphia, has the means, by importation and manufacture, to bring 'nigh us, even to our doors,' the best specimens in this kind to be found in the gay capital. His stores, at the late fair of the American Institute, were the admiration of visitors; andalmostoutvied the collections of our own artizan, Mr.Lloyd, of Prince-street, near the Bowery, whose perfumery, for excellence and cheapness combined, has 'won all suffrages' from the ladies. * * *Weare glad to learn that the 'American Athenæum' at Paris is so well appreciated. Its condition is already flourishing, and its usefulness and popularity gradually increasing. American books, newspapers, etc., may be sent free of expense, through the care of Mr.R. Draper, Number fifty-one, Beaver-street, New-York. * * *Justone word to 'F.' Do you remember the lord-mayor, who when told at his first hunting that the hare was coming, exclaimed: 'Let it come, in Heaven's name!—I'm not afraid on 't?' Have the goodness to make the application. * * *Itwas our intention to have offered a few remarks upon 'The Embarkation of the Pilgrims,' the great national picture, by that distinguished American artist,Weir, which is now open for exhibition at the Gallery of the Academy of Fine Arts, corner of Broadway and Leonard-street. We arecompelled, however, to forego this duty, until another occasion. Meanwhile, we invite the attention of our metropolitan readers to the exhibition, as one well calculated to repay the most careful examination. * * *Wereceive at a late hour, from a friend in the French capital, the 'Proceedings of a Meeting of the Citizens of the United States in Paris, at the Royal Athenæum, in March last; embracing an Address upon the Literary Exchanges recently made between France and America, byAlexander Vattemare.' We shall probably have occasion to allude more particularly to this pamphlet hereafter. * * *Cricket, one of the fine manly games of Old England, is getting quite in vogue in this country, and excites not a little emulation between several antagonistic cities and towns. At a dinner which closed a recent spirited match in Philadelphia, our contemporary, Mr.Paterson, of the 'Anglo-American' weekly journal, gave the following felicitous 'sentiment:'

'The bat and the wicket,And the good game of cricketTill we come to the bucket.When all must kick it!'

Wefind on our table a fervent, heart-full 'Discourse, preached before the Second Church and Society in Boston, in Commemoration of the Life and Character of their former Pastor, Rev.Henry Ware, Jr., D. D.; by their Minister,Chandler Robbins.' We shall share with our readers, in our next issue, the enjoyment we have derived from contemplating, with our friend and correspondent, the many virtues whose memory his predecessor has left in vivid greenness and freshness behind him. * * *Wehave lost the letter of our New-Orleans correspondent, who asked certain questions touching a foreign correspondence with theKnickerbocker. We liked the tone of his epistle very much. Write us again. Who are you? what are you? whence are you? whither are you going? and what have you got to say for yourself? * * *Wehope our readers will appreciate the motives, not vain-glorious altogether, we suspect, which impel us to announce that ourTwenty-Third Volumewill eclipse any previous volume of the series,we think. Looking at our literary stores, (embodying papers from all our old and favorite contributors, and embracing articles, beside, from the Dutch and the Turkish, by our correspondents at Constantinople and Rotterdam,) we acknowledge a glow of satisfaction, which we hope in due time to transfer to our readers. As formatter, we were never more abundantly prepared; and for themanner, that is to be 'in keeping.' The work is to be presented uponentirely new type, in all its departments; and some of theveryfine type heretofore employed in the editor's portion of the work will give place to characters more easily perused by old and young. But 'enough said.' Wait; and 'you shall see what you shall see.' * * *Amongmany other articles filed for insertion, or awaiting examination, are the following: 'The White-House, or the Money-Ghost; a Tale told in the Chimney-corner of a Village Public-House,' from the Dutch; 'Imaginary Conversations,' byPeter Von Geist; 'Mindvs.Instinct in Animals,' Number Two; 'Ninah and Numan,' from the Turkish, etc. 'P. G.'s favorisreserved for publication, when we can find a place for it. We shall appreciate his communications. * * *Severalnotices of new publications, (including 'The Rose of Sharon,' a beautiful and interesting annual, Barry Cornwall's Poems, 'Nature and Revelation,' 'The Mysteries of Paris,' and 'The Professor and his Favorites,') omitted from the present number, will appear in our next.

Greenwood Cemetery.—A desideratum is timely supplied by a small pamphlet before us, containing the rules, regulations, etc., of theGreenwood Cemetery, on the beautiful Heights of Gowanus, near this city. It contains the names of the officers of the corporation, the trustees, terms of subscription, rules concerning improvements, interments, graves, tombs, visitors to the grounds, etc., with a description of some of the principal monuments already erected. It is to be regretted that the person who furnished the inscription for the monument to the beautiful Indian wife,Do-hum-me, did not quote the admirable verse ofBryantmore correctly. In riding through the grounds the other day, we observed that two words were added to the last line, which entirely destroy its measure and melody. The four lines in question are from that exquisite poem, 'The Indian Girl's Lament' at the grave of her lover. We cannot resist the inclination to preserve the following stanzas in these pages, for the admiration of our readers:

'I'vepulled away the shrubs that grewToo close above thy sleeping head,And broke the forest boughs that threwTheir shadows o'er thy bed,That shining from the sweet southwestThe sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.It was a weary, weary roadThat led thee to the pleasant coast,Where thou, in his serene abode.Hast met thy father's ghost:Where everlasting autumn liesOn yellow woods and sunny skies.'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,That shod thee for that distant land;'Twas I thy bow and arrows laidBeside thy still, cold hand:Thy bow in many a battle bent,Thy arrows never vainly sent.With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,And laid the food that pleased thee best,In plenty, by thy side,And decked thee bravely, as becameA warrior of illustrious name.Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passedThe long dark journey of the grave,And in the land of light, at last,Hast joined the good and brave;Amid the flushed and balmy air,The bravest and the loveliest there.Yet, oft to thine own Indian maidEven there thy thoughts will earthward stray,To her who sits where thou wert laid.And weeps the hours away,Yet almost can her grief forget,To think that thou dost love her yet.And thou, by one of those still lakesThat in a shining cluster lie,On which the south wind scarcely breaksThe image of the sky,A bower for thee and me hast madeBeneath the many-colored shade.And thou dost wait and watch to meetMy spirit sent to join the blessed,And, wondering what detains my feetFrom the bright land of rest,Dost seem, in every sound, to hearThe rustling of my footsteps near.'

It was a weary, weary roadThat led thee to the pleasant coast,Where thou, in his serene abode.Hast met thy father's ghost:Where everlasting autumn liesOn yellow woods and sunny skies.

'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,That shod thee for that distant land;'Twas I thy bow and arrows laidBeside thy still, cold hand:Thy bow in many a battle bent,Thy arrows never vainly sent.

With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,And laid the food that pleased thee best,In plenty, by thy side,And decked thee bravely, as becameA warrior of illustrious name.

Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passedThe long dark journey of the grave,And in the land of light, at last,Hast joined the good and brave;Amid the flushed and balmy air,The bravest and the loveliest there.

Yet, oft to thine own Indian maidEven there thy thoughts will earthward stray,To her who sits where thou wert laid.And weeps the hours away,Yet almost can her grief forget,To think that thou dost love her yet.

And thou, by one of those still lakesThat in a shining cluster lie,On which the south wind scarcely breaksThe image of the sky,A bower for thee and me hast madeBeneath the many-colored shade.

And thou dost wait and watch to meetMy spirit sent to join the blessed,And, wondering what detains my feetFrom the bright land of rest,Dost seem, in every sound, to hearThe rustling of my footsteps near.'

In the fourth line of the fifth stanza, thus far transferred to the marble, the words 'the fair' have been interpolated, in the inscription to which we have referred. The error is attributable to one of two causes; an ambition to 'gild refined gold,' or unpardonable carelessness.

'The Sleep Rider, or The Old Boy in the Omnibus.'—If the 'Man in the Claret-colored Coat' had kept his promise, we should not have been compelled to dismiss this amusing work with a few words of commendation; but it is 'all along of him,' and we wash our hands of any thing 'short-coming' in the way of duty. We have read enough to know that there is an abundant sprinkling of lively, sententious wit, and shrewd observation of men and things in the volume, and that it is as replete with contrasts andabruptionsas any thing ofLawrence Sterne's. LieutenantWhite, one of the Mesmerised tale-tellers of the Omnibus, unwinds an exceedingly graphic 'yarn' which was once 'reeled off' in these pages by a lamented and most gifted kinsman of the 'Man in the Claret-colored Coat;' and there are sundry 'scenes, events, and things' recorded in a way peculiar to the writer, whose productions our readers have often laughed at, with the fullest exercise of their cachinnatory powers. The terse hieroglyphical epigraphs at the heads of the chapters have a world of meaning, most likely; but they require study! Buy the little book, and read it. It is both 'cheapand good.'

The Use of Classical Literature.—We have only space to commend warmly to the acceptance of our readers a little pamphlet from the press of Messrs.James Munroe and Company, Boston, containing an Address delivered before the United Literary Societies of Dartmouth College in July last, byAndrew P. Peabody, Esq. It is a spirited defence of classical literature against the attacks of those short-sighted persons, the utilitarian or other 'reformers' of the time, who undervalue the advantages for which they offer no equivalent. The writer's remarks upon the tendency of modern literature, and of the taste for which it caters, are worthy of heedful note.

Mr. Hillard's Discourse.—We have before us, from the publishers, Messrs.Little and Brown, Boston, 'The Relation of the Poet to his Age: a Discourse delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University,' in August last, byGeorge S. Hillard. We agree in the main with the verdict of the North-American Review upon this discourse. Its diction is soft and beautiful, the style nicely polished, and marked by pictured words, glowing images, and fanciful expressions; yet, as a whole, the discourse 'lacks precision and definiteness, in the statement of the leading idea in the mind of the speaker, and a consequent defect of unity and method.' We would go as far as Mr.Hillard, or any other American, in inculcating a love of, and reverence for, the poetical in our country; its early struggles, its scenery, and its history as a nation; but with deference, it seems to us that the Merimacmayfail to kindle the emotions, in ever so patriotic a heart, which the associations connected with the Tiber might naturally inspire; nor are 'Westminster Abbey, the Alps, or the Vatican,' to be excluded from a kindred place in the mind of the true poet. We must be permitted also to doubt whether 'Srumfry Davy,' as Mr.Yellowplushterms the great scientific discoverer, could have 'chosen' to be equally distinguished as a poet; or whether 'the whistle of a locomotive' has in it,per se, much poetry! The 'Discourse' is executed with greatneatness, whether we regard it in a literary or external point of view, and will be found richly to reward the perusal to which we cordially commend it.

North-American Review.—The last issue of this 'ancient and honorable' Quarterly is a very good one, although less various in the style of its papers than one or two of its immediate predecessors. The 'articles' proper are nine in number, and are upon the following themes: 'The Military Academy' at West-Point; 'Our Commercial History and Policy;' 'Talfourd'sMiscellaneous Writings;' 'Early Laws of Massachusetts;' 'Raczynski'sModern Art in Germany;' 'The Independence of the Judiciary;' 'Autobiography ofSteffens;' 'Despatches ofHernando Cortes;' and 'Dr.Olin'sTravels in the Holy Land.' The closing article contains the usual collection of brief notices of new publications, and opens with a review of Mr.Parson'stranslation ofDante's'Inferno.' We are glad to find our own opinion of this excellent performance confirmed by the liberal praise of the North-American. Passages are given fromCary'sversion, in contrast with that of Mr.Parsons, and the palm of superiority, in poetical merit, awarded to our countryman. The poems of FriendWhittierare noticed with approbation; and also, in one or two instances, rather hypercritically, as it strikes us. The praise, however, is not scant: 'Mr.Whittiercommands a vigorous and manly style. His expression is generally simple and to the point. Some passages in his poems are highly picturesque; and at times his imagery is bold and striking.' 'The Norsemen,' written for this Magazine, 'Raphael,' and 'Massachusetts to Virginia,' are pronounced 'musical, almost without fault; and the imagery and expression noble and spirit-stirring.'

'Cock-a-doodle-doo!'—Poultry merchants and 'cultivators' will have occasion to thank Mr.Micajah R. Cock(nom de plume) for his 'American Poultry Book,' a practical treatise on the management of domestic poultry. It bears the high commendation of the Board of Agriculture of the American Institute, as 'a work supplying a deficiency which has long been felt in this department of the agricultural library, and which should find a place in every farm-house.' The book originated in an attempt, for the compiler's behoof, to collect and embody in a methodical form all the various notices respecting the treatment of poultry in America, scattered through our various periodical publications. Scarcely any thing pays the farmer a better profit than poultry, fowls requiring little attention save at a season of the year when he has comparatively little to do; they are 'amenable' also to the attention of women, their best protectors indeed, in case the 'men-folk'areemployed.Harper and Brothers, publishers.

The 'Illustrated Common-Prayer.'—Mr.H. W. Hewethas brought these excellent numbers to a close, and a very beautiful volume will be the result. The deserved success which has attended the work, we may presume, has led the publisher to commence an 'Illustrated Sacred History of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, as recorded in the Four Gospels; arranged in chronological order; with an appendix and explanatory notes.' The whole will be embellished with numerous engravings on wood, illustrating the principal events from the Annunciation to the Ascension. So far as the internal character of the work is concerned, it is only necessary to say, that it is confided to the competent care of the Rev. Dr.Wainwright, while the previous publications of Mr.Hewetgive assurance that his own department will not be neglected.

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