National Academy of Design.—The growing interest felt in relation to the Fine Arts in this country, and the influence which theNational Academy of Designhas had in producing that interest, make it imperative upon us to notice the pictures which are annually sent to this exhibition. In passing through the Academy with this object in view, we have been at some loss to know where to begin. Finding however by chance at the end of the catalogue an alphabetical arrangement of the exhibitors’ names, we have adopted this as the best method of laying the merits of the several pictures before our readers. We therefore begin with:V. G. Audubon, A.—Mr.Audubonexhibits four pictures this season: of these, No. 133, ‘Grove of Palm-trees’ in the Island of Cuba, we prefer. This picture appears to be a faithful representation of the scene, and is handled with a free and firm pencil. The trees are perhaps a little too literally represented, to be agreeable to the eye, consisting as they do of so many equally straight and unpicturesque lines. No. 237, ‘Moon-light Squall coming up,’ is a pleasing representation of one of Nature’s poetical moments. The light is clear and silvery, and the water transparent and truthful. The whole scene is interesting, and there is but little to find fault with; although perhaps parts would admit of more warmth of color.J. D. Blondellhas six pictures, the majority portraits. No. 80, ‘Portrait of a Lady,’ half-length, is a pleasing picture; warm in color and carefully painted, and gives evidence of rising talent. The head is perhaps slightly deficient in careful drawing; but few artists are competent to paint a lady’s portrait; and this gentleman should not feel discouraged, though his work be found slightly deficient in that grace which is so difficult of attainment.Boddington, (London,) exhibits three landscapes, all in a style peculiarly belonging to the English school. They possess great charms; facility of execution, and delicacy of handling.Bonfield.—No. 168 is perhaps the best of his productions. If it were not for the pinky hue of the sky, this would indeed be a charming picture.F. Bayle.—No. 25; ‘Picture-Dealer.’ A deep-toned, carefully-painted picture, and evincing much promise in so young an artist. We are glad to perceive that it is purchased by the American Art-Union.G. L. Brown.—No. 400; ‘View of the Tiber.’ Too much of an imitation of old pictures. In seeking this quality, the artist has lost sight of the truth and freshness of nature.Chapman, N. A.—Mr.Chapmanpresents nine pictures this season, and all in his usual brilliant style. No. 116, ‘Peasant Girl of Albano,’ is exceedingly rich in color, and forcible in effect: a few cool tints about the head-dress would give perhaps still greater value to the warm tones. No. 189, ‘Hebrew Women,’ is this artist’s gem of the year. Well composed, pleasing in color, and carefully finished, it expresses the occurrence with fidelity and truth. No. 204, ‘Boy in Indian Costume,’ is an attractive picture; but No. 213, ‘On the Fence,’ is more to our liking. The story is well told; the city beau is carefully andtruly represented; and the dogs are admirable. No. 263, portrait of DoctorAnderson, the father of wood-engraving in this country, is capital. No. 266, ‘Lazy Fisherman,’ is Laziness personified. No. 341, ‘Sketch from Nature,’ in water-colors, is an exemplification of this gentleman’s versatility of talent.J. G. Clonney, A., has two pictures in the exhibition, Nos. 7 and 160. No. 7, ‘The New-Year’s Call,’ is decidedly the best. The negro is well painted. Mr.Clonney’sworks generally evince great observation of nature in this class of subjects.T. Cole, N. A.—Mr.Coleexhibits but one picture, and that comparatively a small one. It possesses however many of the admirable characteristics of his works, particularly his early ones. It would be difficult to find a middle-ground and distance surpassing those of this picture.T. Crawford, (Rome.)—Mr.Crawfordgives us two full-length statues, in which the charm of themarbleis strongly apparent. Mr.Crawford, we grieve to say, is evidently too impatient in the finish of his works to produce that correctness which is essential to a high effort of art.J. F. Cropsey.—No. 68, ‘View in Orange County,’ is a careful representation of nature, and has the appearance to our eyes of having been painted on the spot; a practice very rarely to be found in young artists. A continuance in this course will place this artist in a prominent position as a landscape-painter. The sky is faulty in color, being too purple to meet our views of nature; and there is a lack of delicacy in the more receding portions of the work. But the fore-ground is carefully painted, and full of truth.Cummings, N. A.—Mr.Cummingshas but one picture. It possesses however the careful finish, gentlemanly character, and general truthfulness, so characteristic of this fine artist.T. Cummings, Jr., a young artist. No. 149, ‘The Ball,’ is his best work. In thus attempting a subject of great difficulty of execution, he evinces promise of future ability. The picture has many pleasing points, marked however with some errors, which time and practice, let us hope, will correct.C. Curtis.—Mr.Curtishas two pictures in the exhibition, and both of merit. No. 196 is among the best heads in the collection.J. W. Dodge, A.—‘Miniature Portraits.’ Those ofHenry Clayand Gen.Jacksonare the most prominent. The likenesses are good, and the pictures carefully finished; a merit in works of this character frequently unattended to. There is, however, a want of dignity sometimes to be found in Mr.Dodge’sportraits, which we could wish to see remedied: it would give an elevation to his paintings which they at present lack.Paul P. Duggan.—‘John the Baptist’ is a model in plaster, which displays greater knowledge of anatomy than we are in the habit of finding in the works of even older artists. In this respect it possesses great merit. We understand it is his first effort in modelling. As such, it is truly a work of the highest promise.Durand, N. A.—Mr.Durandhas contributed largely to the present exhibition, in every sense of the word. His most prominent production is No. 36, ‘The Solitary Oak.’ For an exhibition-picture, perhaps it is not so striking as some of his previous works; yet it will bear examination better. Without any effort at warmth of color, it has that glow of sunlight which it is so difficult to express. A veteran tree, standing alone upon a gentle eminence, stretching forth its giant arms, that have withstood the storms of centuries, is truly a noble subject for an artist of Mr.Durand’sreputation; and most truly has he depicted it. The distance is beautiful, and the introduction of cattle seeking their evening shelter gives an interest seldom to be found in works of this class. Should we attempt to find a fault, it would be the want of a little more warmth and clearness in the dark parts of the fore-ground. No. 134, another charming landscape; true to nature, of a silvery tone, and most exquisite sweetness of color and delicacy of touch. Nos. 181 and 258 are two careful studies from nature, wherein special care has been given to the trunks of trees, a feature in landscape-painting upon which sufficient attention is rarely bestowed. No. 244, ‘Emigrant Family,’ is full of interest. The travelling family are encamped under the shade ofthe trees, and the kettle hung over the fire shows that they are evidently preparing to refresh themselves for farther toil and journeying. The foliage of the trees is elaborately executed; the distance is well preserved; and the whole possesses great truth to nature; perhaps however, like all ‘green’ pictures, it is less attractive in an exhibition than works of a warmer color. No. 163, ‘Portrait of a Gentleman,’ has great force, and shows the artist’s versatility of genius.F. W. Edmonds, N. A.—No. 105, ‘Beggar’s Petition,’ is a spirited and faithful representation of the cold indifference to the wants of others, displayed in the miser’s disposition. The figures are of life-size, and well drawn. The female supplicating in behalf of the distressed, is graceful in attitude, and admirably contrasted with the hoarding miser. No. 205, ‘The Image Pedler,’ is an effort of a higher order; for the artist has attempted, and successfully too, to elevate the class of works to which it belongs. In short, he has invested a humble subject with a moral dignity, which we hope our younger artists, who paint in this department, will not lose sight of. An independent farmer has his family around him, apparently immediately after dinner, and a strolling pedler appears among them, to dispose of his wares; and this gives interest to the whole group. The grandmother drops her peeling-knife, and the mother takes her infant from the cradle, to gaze at the sights in the pedler’s basket. The husband, who has been reading in the cool breeze of the window, turns to participate in the sport; while the grandfather takes a bust ofWashington, places it on the table, and commences an earnest elucidation of the character of the, ‘Father of his Country’ to the little children around him. All the figures are intelligent, and the whole scene conveys to the mind ahappy family. In color, light and shade, and composition, it is masterly; and we see in it that minuteness of detail and careful finish are not incompatible with a broad and luminous effect.C. L. Elliotthas five portraits in the exhibition. His ‘Full-length ofGov. Seward’ is a prominent one, although not his most agreeable picture. No. 61 is we think the best, and is a well-managed portrait, both in drawing and color.G. W. Flagg, H.—No. 63, ‘Half-length of a Lady,’ has considerable merit. It is rich and mellow in color, and better we think than many of Mr.Flagg’srecent works. No. 208, ‘The Widow,’ is a popular picture; pleasing in expression, and possessing more refinement of character than is observable in many of his other portraits. No. 102, ‘Bianca Visconti,’ we do not admire.G. Freeman.—Miniature portraits, generally large, and highly finished. This gentleman has lately arrived from Europe, and is we believe a popular artist; yet we do not like his productions.J. Frothingham, N. A.—Nos. 32 and 35: portraits exhibiting Mr.Frothingham’susual bold and free style in this department of art; remarkably fine likenesses; true in color, and of pleasing general effect.H. P. Gray, N. A.—Mr.Grayexhibits a number of his works this season. He seems to us to sacrifice every thing to color; and his color is not such as is generally seen in nature, but rather what he has seen in pictures. This we think a mistake, and one which we must be permitted to hope he will rectify. In the pictures which he formerly painted, a much closer attention to nature is observable. Mr.Grayhas all the feeling of an artist, with no ordinary talent; and we regret to find that he wanders from the direct path. We were among the first, if not the very first, to call public attention to his merits, and it is with reluctance that we perform the duty involved in these animadversions. ‘Comparisons,’Dogberrytells us, ‘are odorous;’ we cannot help remarking, however, that Mr.Gray’sold fellow-student,Huntington, is (longa intervallo) in the advance. We prefer, of our artist’s present efforts, the picture of ‘His Wife.’ It has a pleasing effect, and is more finished than usual, and more natural in tone than his ‘Magdalen.’J. T. Harris, A., has two pictures, and both portraits. No. 19 is the best. It exhibitsa broad, free touch, and correct drawing, and is withal an excellent likeness. But we never look at Mr.Harris’works without being impressed with the idea that they are not finished. They seem to us, to borrow an artistical expression, as if they were in a capital state for ‘glazing and toning up.’ Otherwise, they are above the ordinary run of portraits.G. P. A. Healy, H.—Mr.Healyis a resident of Paris, but an American. He is a favorite at the French court, and has by this means a reputation to which his works generally do not entitle him. We are bound in justice to say of his present effort, however, that it is an exceedingly fine picture. It is boldly and masterly executed; forcibly drawn, honestly colored, and well expressed. There is too about it a freedom from all the usual tricks of the profession, such as a red chair, velvet collar, and fantastic back-ground, which we particularly recommend to the attention of young artists.Thomas Hicks, A., has eight pictures in the collection, but none, excepting his portraits, which equal his former productions. No. 264, ‘The Mother’s Grave,’ is an oft-repeated subject, and should not be attempted unless the artist is able to treat it with entire originality. There are good points about it, but none sufficiently attractive to warrant particular notice.Ingham, N. A., as usual has a fine collection of female portraits, all excellent for their careful drawing, lady-like expression, and high finish. The drapery and accessories of Mr.Ingham’sportraits are always wonderfully exact to nature; and this greatly enhances the value of portraits of this description; for aside from their merit as likenesses, they will always be valuable as pictures. His male portrait, No. 113, ofT. S. Cummings, Esq., is a most admirable likeness, as well as a highly-wrought and masterly-painted picture. No. 239, ‘Portrait of a Lady,’ with a fan in her hand, is our favorite among his female heads. There is a sweetness and modesty in the expression, not only in the countenance but in the whole figure, which makes it peculiarly attractive.H. Inman, N. A.—No. 62, ‘Portrait of the late BishopMoore, of Virginia,’ is the admiration of all who behold it. In color it surpasses any thing of Mr.Inman’swe have seen in many a day. Clear and luminous, with great breadth of light, and a mild, pleasing expression. We of course mean this to apply to the head. The hand and part of the drapery are not, in our judgment, so well done. No. 104, ‘Lady with a Mask,’ we do not altogether like; yet it is remarkable for being foreshortened in every part, and possesses that singular charm of light and shadow, and accidental effect, which are the characteristics of our artist’s pencil. No. 314, a Landscape, although small, is delicately handled, and ‘touched in’ with great neatness and accuracy. In effect it is attractive, and in color pleasing. The figure in the fore-ground equals in care and minuteness of finish the manner ofWouvermans.N. Jocelyn.—No. 57, ‘Portrait of ProfessorSilliman,’ a faithful likeness, and carefully-painted portrait of a distinguished individual. No. 2, ‘Portrait of a Child,’ is another finished picture by this artist; clear and pearly in color and infantile in expression.Alfred Jones.—No. 301, an engraving fromMount’spicture of ‘Nooning,’ for the American Art-Union, is one of the largest line-engravings ever published in this country, and a work of high order. This style of engraving has heretofore received so little encouragement, that until the Art-Union started it, no one except Mr.Durandhad ever before dared to attempt it. This effort of Mr.Jonesdoes him great credit.M. Livingstone, A., has several works in the exhibition, but we cannot rank them among the higher class of landscapes. They lack the poetry of landscape-painting; but as amateur productions, they are very good.E. D. Marchant, A.—All portraits, but none of high merit. Mr.Marchantis a persevering artist, who paints good likenesses and pleasing pictures; and so far, is doubtless popular with those who employ him.John Megareyhas two portraits, and those far surpassing his former works. They are carefully painted, without an effort at any thing beyond the subject before the artist.We shall resume and conclude our remarks upon the exhibition in our next number.Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—We are about to enter upon theTWENTY-FOURTHvolume of theKnickerbocker, for the advertisement of which, please note the second and third pages of the cover of the present number. We have nothing farther to add, than that ‘whathas been, is that whichshall be,’ in our onward progress. This Magazine, much the oldest in the United States, has been established, by the ever-unabated favor of the public, upon a basis of unshaken permanence. Its subscription-list fluctuates only in advance; it has theaffectionof its readers, and all concerned in its production and promulgation, to a degree wholly unexampled; and it is designed not only to maintain, but continually to enhance, its just claims upon the liberal patronage of American readers. The arrangements for the next volume, if they do not ‘preclude competition,’ will be found, it is confidently believed, to preclude any thing like successful rivalry, on the part of any of our contemporaries. On this point, however, we choose as heretofore to be judged by the public.•••Wegave in a recent issue two or three extracts from a lecture on ‘The Inner Life of Man’ delivered by Mr.Charles Hoover, at Newark, New-Jersey. This admirable performance has since been repeated to a highly gratified audience in this city; and from it we derive the following beautiful passage, which we commend to the heart of every lover of his kind: ‘It is a maxim of patriotism never to despair of the republic. Let it be the motto of our philanthropy never to despair of our sinning, sorrowing brother, till his last lingering look upon life has been taken, and all avenues by which angels approach the stricken heart are closed and silent forever. And in such a crisis, let no counsel be taken of narrow, niggard sentiment. When in a sea-storm some human being is seen in the distant surf, clinging to a plank, that is sometimes driven nearer to the shore, and sometimes carried farther off; sometimes buried in the surge, and then rising again, as if itself struggling like the almost hopeless sufferer it supports, who looks sadly to the shore as he rises from every wave, and battling with the billow, mingles his cry for help with the wild, mournful scream of the sea-bird; nature in every bosom on the shore is instinct with anxious pity for his fate, and darts her sympathies to him over the laboring waters. The child drops his play-things, and old age grasps its crutch and hurries to the spot; and the hand that cannot fling a rope is lifted to heaven for help. What though the sufferer be a stranger, a foreigner, an enemy even? Nature in trouble, in consternation, shrieks ‘He is a man!’ and every heart and hand is prompt to the rescue.’ ‘To a high office and ministry, to a life of beneficence, pity and love, each man should deem himself called by a divine vocation, by the appointment of nature; and otherwise living, should judge himself to be an abortion, a mistake, without signification or use in a world like ours. And the beauty, the glory of such a life, is not to be reckoned among ideal things heard out of heaven but never encountered by the eye. This world has had itsChrist, itsFenelons, itsHowards, as well as itsCaligulasandNeros. Love hath been at times a manifestation as well as a principle; and the train of its glory swept far below the stars, and its brightness has fallen in mitigated and mellowed rays from the faces of men. As the ambiguous stranger-star of Bethlehem had its interpreting angel-song to the herdsmen of the plains, so loving men in all ages have given glimpses and interpretations of the love ofGod, and of the pity that is felt for the miserable and the guilty in the palace and presence-chamber ofJehovah. What glory within the scope of human imitation and attainment is comparable to that of the beneficent, the sympathising lover of his race? What more elevated, pure, and beautiful is possible among the achievements of an endless progression in heaven itself?Miltonrepresents the profoundest emotions of joy and wonder among the celestial hosts as occasioned by the first anticipative disclosures of divine pity toward sinning man; and a greater thanMiltonassures us that the transport and festival of angelic joy occurs when Pity lifts the penitent from his prostration and forgives his folly.’•••Embellishmentwould seem to be the literary order of the day, in more ways than one. It has come to be the mode to express the most simple thought in the most magniloquent phrase. This propensityto lingualEuphuismhas given rise to sundry illustrations, in embellished maxims, which are particularly amusing. They are of the sort so finely satirized by ‘Ollapod,’ on one occasion, two or three examples of which we annex. The common phrase of ‘’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good’ was transformed into ‘That gale is truly diseased which puffeth benefactions to nonentity;’ ‘Let well enough alone,’ into ‘Suffer a healthy sufficiency to remain in solitude;’ and ‘What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ into ‘The culinary adornments which suffice for the female of the raceAnser, maybe relished also with the masculine adult of the same species.’ Some London wag, in a kindred spirit, has illustrated the cockney song, ‘If I had a donkey as vouldn’t go, do you think I’d wallop him?’ etc., as follows: ‘The herbaceous boon and the bland recommendation to advance, are more operative on the ansinine quadruped than the stern imprecation and the oaken cudgel:‘Had I an ass averse to speed,I ne’er would strike him; no indeed!I’d give him hay, and cry ‘Proceed,’And ‘Go onEdward!’’The same species of satire is now and then visited upon the ‘Troubadour Songs,’ which have become so afflictingly common of late years. Some of these we have already given; and we find them on the increase in England. We have before us, from the London press ofTilt and Bogue, ‘SirWhystleton Mugges, a Metrical Romaunte, in three Fyttes,’ with copious notes. A stanza or two will suffice as a specimen. The knightly hero, it needs only to premise, has been jilted by his fair ‘ladye-love,’ who retires to her boudoir, while the knight walks off in despair:‘Hys herte beat high and quycke;Forth to his tygere he did call,‘Bring me my palfrey from his stall,For I moste cotte my stycke!’‘Ye stede was brought, ye knyghte jomped up,He woulde not even stay to sup,But swyft he rode away;Still groanynge as he went along,And vowing yet to come out stronge,Upon some future day.‘Alack for poore SyrWhystleton,In love and warre so bold!Ye LadyeBlanchehym browne hath done,He is completely solde!‘Completely solde alack he is,Alack and wel-a-day;MortDieu! a bitterre fate is hysWhose trewe love sayth him nay!’Thus endeth ‘Fytte ye First.’ We learn from the preface that the ‘Rhime of the Manne whose Mothre did not Know he was Out,’ and ‘Ye Lodgemente of MaistreFergisoune,’ are also in the editor’s possession, but owing to the imperfect state of theMSS., it is doubtful whether they will ever be published. They have however been submitted to the inspection of ‘ThePercySociety!’•••Weare well pleased to learn that SirEdward Lytton Bulwer, the distinguished author, is soon to visit the United States. That he will be warmly welcomed and cordially received, we cannot doubt; but we have good reason to believe that in the present instance at least our admiration of true genius will be tempered by all proper self-respect. Mr.Bulwerhas for many years entertained a desire to visit America. In one of his letters to the lateWillis Gaylord Clark, now lying before us, he writes: ‘I have long felt a peculiar admiration for your great and rising country; and it gives me a pleasure far beyond that arising from a vulgar notoriety, to think that I am not unknown to its inhabitants. Some time or other I hope to visit you, and suffer mypresent prepossessions to be confirmed by actual experience.’•••Wehave received and perused with gratification the last report of the ‘New-York Asylum for Deaf Mutes.’ The institution is in the most flourishing condition, and its usefulness greatly increased. We are sorry to perceive, by the following ‘specimen of composition’ of a pupil in the eighth class, that the ‘Orphic Sayings’ of Mr.A. Bronson Alcottare taken as literary models by the deaf and dumb students. The ensuing is certainly much better, internally, than anything from the transcendental ‘seer;’ but the manner too nearly resembles his, for both to be original. There is the same didactic condensation, the same Orphic ‘oneness,’ which distinguishes allAlcottismproper. It is entitled ‘Story of Hog:’‘I walkedon the road. I stood near the water. I undressed my feet. I went in the water. I stood under the bridge. I sat on the log. I washed my feet with hands. I looked at large water came. I ran in the water. I ran out the water. The large water floated fast. I afraid. I wiped feet with stockings. I dressed my feet with stockings and shoes. I went on the ground. I stood on the ground. I seen at the hog ate grass. The hog seen at me. I went on the ground. I ran. The hog heard. The hog looked at me. It ran and jumped. The hog ran under the fence and got his head under the fence and want to ran out the fence! I caught ears its hog. The hog shout. I pulled the hog out the fence. I struck a hog with hand. I rided on the hog ran and jumped fast. The hog ran fell on near the water. I rided off a hog. I stood. I held one ear its hog. The hog slept lies on near the water. I waited. I leaved. I went from the hog. The hog awoke. It rose. It saw not me. It ran and jumped. The hog went from the water. The hog went in the mud and water. The hog wallowed in the mud and water became very dirty. It slept. I went. I went into the house.’The Ekkalaeobionis the name given to an establishment opposite the Washington Hotel, in Broadway, where the formation of chickens,ab initio, is ‘practised to a great extent.’ And really, it is in some respects an awful exhibition, to a reflecting mind. It is as it were a visible exposition of the source of life. You see the pulse of existence throbbing in the yet unformed mass, which assumes, day after day, the image of its kind; until at length the little creature knocks for admittance into this breathing world; steps forth from the shell in which it had been so long ‘cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in;’ and straitway walks abroad, ‘regenerated, disenthralled,’ and ready for its ‘grub.’ By all means, reader, go and see this interesting and instructive exhibition. It is provocative of much reflection, aside from the mere contemplation of it as a matter of curiosity.•••Thecorrespondent who sends us the following, writes upon the envelope containing it: ‘I have endeavored to preserve the measure of the original, and at the same time to present a literal translation.’ It will be conceded, we think, that he has been successful in his endeavor. Perhaps in some lines (as in ‘Pertransivit gladius’) the translation is a littletooliteral:STABAT MATER.I.Stabatmater dolorosa,Juxta crucem lacrymosa,Dum pendebat filius:Cujus animam gementem,Contristantem et dolentem,Pertransivit gladius.I.Nearthe cross the Mother weepingStood, her watch in sorrow keepingWhile was hanging there herSon:Through her soul in anguish groaning,O most sad,Hisfate bemoaning,Through and through that sword was run.II.O quam tristis et afflictaFuit illa benedicta,Mater unigeniti:Quæ mœrebat, et dolebat,Et tremebat, cum videbatNati pœnas inclyti.II.Oh how sad with woe oppressed,Was she then, the Mother blessed,Who the sole-begotten bore:As she saw his pain and anguish,She did tremble, she did languish,Weep her holy Son before.III.Quis est homo qui non fleret,Christi matrem si videretIn tanto supplicio?Quis posset non contristari,Piam matrem contemplari,Dolentem cum filio?III.Who is he his tears concealing,Could have seen such anguish stealingThrough the Saviour-mother’s breast?Who his deepest groans could smother,Had he seen the holy MotherBy her Son with grief oppressed!IV.Pro peccatis suæ gentisVidit Jesum in tormentis,Et flagellis subditum;Vidit suum dulcem natumMorientem, desolatum,Dum emisit spiritum.IV.Christ for Israel’s transgressionSaw she suffer thus oppression,Torment, and the cruel blow:Saw Him desolate and dying;Him she loved, beheld Him sighingForth His soul in deepest woe.V.Eja mater, fons amoris,Me sentire vim dolorisFac, ut tecum lugeam.Fac ut ardeat cor meum,In amando Christum Deum,Ut sibi complaceam.V.Source of love, thy grief, O Mother,Grant with thee to share another—Grant that I with thee may weep:May my heart with love be glowing,All on Christ my God bestowing,In His favor ever keep.VI.Saneta mater, istud agas,Crucifixi fige plagasCordi meo valide:Tui nati vulnerati,Jam dignati pro me pati,Pœnas mecum divide.VI.This, oh holy Mother! granting,In my heart the wounds implantingOf His cross, oh let me bear:Pangs with which thy Son when woundedDeigned for me to be surrounded,Grant, oh grant that I may share.VII.Fac me vere tecum flere,Crucifixo condolere,Donec ego vixero:Juxta crucem tecum stare,Te libenter sociareIn planctu desidero.VII.Be my eyes with tears o’erflowing,For the crucified bestowing,Till my eyes shall close in death:Ever by that cross be standing,Willingly with thee demandingBut to share each mournful breath.VIII.Virgo virginum præclara,Mihi jam non sis amaraFac me tecum plangere;Fadut portem Christi mortem,Passionis ejus sortem,Et plagas recolere.VIII.Thou of virgins blest forever,Oh deny I pray thee neverThat I may lament with thee:Be my soul His death enduring,And His passion—thus securingOf His pains the memory.IX.Fac me plagis vulnerari,Cruce hac inebriari,Ob amorem filii:Inflammatus et accensusPer te, virgo, sim defensusIn die judicii.IX.With those blows may I be smitten,In my heart that cross be written,For thy Son’s dear love alway:Glowing, burning with affection,Grant me, Virgin! thy protection,In the dreaded judgment-day.X.Fac me cruce custodiri,Morte Christi præmuniri,Confoveri gratia:Quando corpus morietur,Fac ut animæ doneturParadisi gloria.X.May that cross its aid extend me,May the death of Christ defend me,With its saving grace surround;And when life’s last link is riven,To my soul be glory given,That in Paradise is found.St. Paul’s College.G. H. H.OurPine-street correspondent, who addresses us upon the ‘Fashionable Society in New-York,’ writes from the promptings of an honest-hearted frankness,thatis quite clear; but he has not yet acquired that sort of useful information which is conveyed by the term, ‘knowing the world.’ The ‘fashionable circles’par excellence, whose breeding and bearing he impugns, are of theBeauvoirschool; persons who ‘are of yourgens de cotorie; your people of the real ‘caste’ and ‘tone;’ that is, your people who singly would be set down as nought in society, but who, as a ‘set,’ have managed to make their joint-stock impudence imposing.’ Our correspondent, we suspect, has one important lesson to learn in his intercourse with such persons; and it is a lesson which has been felicitously set forth by a late English essayist. There is a recipe in some old book, he says, ‘How to avoidbeing tossed by a bull;’ and the instruction is, ‘Toss him.’ Try the experiment upon the first coxcomb who fancies that you are his inferior; charge first, and give him to understand at once that he is yours. Be coldly supercilious with all ‘important’ catiffs, and most punctual be your attention to any matter in debate; but let no temptation prevail with you to touch on any earthly point beyond it. In the case alluded to, a pompous old baronet comes down stairs loaded to the very muzzle to repress ‘familiarity’ on the part of a young man, who from an estate of dependence has recently mounted by inheritance to a princely fortune; but the cool, quiet young gentleman finds the old baronet guilty of ‘familiarity’ himself, and makes him bear the penalty of it, before six sentences are exchanged between them. The secret of the whole thing was, a quiet look directly in the eye, and the preservation of a deliberate silence; the true way to dissolve your pompous gentleman or affected ‘fashionable’ lady. The baronet’s long pauses the young heir did not move to interrupt. His merelisteningdrew the old aristocrat gradually out; his auditor replied monosyllabically, and made him pull him all the way. It was pitiful to see the old buzzard, who thought himself high and mighty, compelled to communicate with one who would have no notion of any body’s being high and mighty at all; getting gradually out of patience at the obstinate formality he was compelled to encounter, which he was sure any direct overture toward intimacy on his part would remove; and at last, in the midst of his doubts whether he should be familiar with the young man, being struck with a stronger doubt whether such familiarity would be reciprocated; it was a rich scene altogether, and worthy of being remembered by our correspondent.•••TheMay issue of the ‘Cultivator’ agricultural Magazine, which under the supervision of the lateWillis Gaylordreached a circulation of between forty and fifty thousand copies, contains an elaborate notice of its lamented editor, in which we find (in a letter fromH. S. Randall, Esq.,) the following passage:‘Hisreading was literally boundless. He was as familiar with the natural sciences, history, poetry, and belles-letters, as with agriculture, and nearly if not quite as well qualified to discuss them. It was difficult to start any literary topic which you did not at once perceive had been examined by him with the eye of a scholar and critic. In one of my letters, half sportively, yet in a serious tone, I asked him ‘what he thought of the German Philosophy?’ In his answer,KantandFichte, and I thinkSchellingandJacobi, were discussed with as much familiarity as most scholars would find themselves qualified to make use of in speaking ofLocke, orStewart, orBrown. In commenting on the report of mine, (on Common School Libraries,) alluded to by him in the last Cultivator, he betrays an extensive knowledge of the literature of nearly every nation in Europe. As a writer, the public have long been acquainted with Mr.Gaylord. He wrote on nearly every class of topics connected with human improvement; in papers, magazines, and not unfrequently in books. But it is as an agricultural writer that he is best known. Here, taken all in all, he stands unrivalled. There are many agricultural writers in our country who are as well or better qualified to discuss a single topic, than he was. But I deem it not disrespectful to say, that for acquaintance with and ability to discuss clearly and correctly every department of agricultural science, he has not, he never has had, an equal in this State. He was every way fitted for an editor. Placable and forgiving in his temper; modest, disinterested, unprejudiced; never evincing a foolish credulity; above deception, despising quackery; with an honesty of motive that was never suspected.’No one who knew intimately our lamented relative and friend, but will confirm the justice of this encomium. We trust that a collection ofWillis Gaylord’swritings, literary, scientific, and agricultural, will be made by some competent hand. They are demanded, we perceive, by various public journals throughout the country.•••Professor Gouraud’sextraordinary exposition ofPhreno-Mnemotechnyseems to be winning him ‘fame and fortune’ wherever he goes. He was in Philadelphia at the last advices, where his success was to the full as signal as in this city. It is obvious, we think, that the advantages of this great system will hereafter be chiefly enjoyed by the rising generation, who will thus be enabled to attain in six months an amount of information which in the ordinary way could scarcely be mastered in as many years. Still, the science has already been studied by hundreds of highly-endowedmen, persons eminent in their own peculiar walks, who have cheerfully yielded their tributes of admiration to its vast resources. Several excellent articles upon this theme have from time to time appeared in the columns of the ‘New World’ weekly journal, from the pen of Mr.Mackay, one of the editors; who, being himself a pupil of Mr.Gouraud, writes from personal experience of the matterin question. ‘A thousand dollars,’ he avers, ‘would not be a fair equivalent for the great advantages obtainable by Phreno-Mnemotechny;’ and in this opinion there is a general concurrence of ProfessorGouraud’spupils in this city.•••Whata power there is in much of the occasional music one hears, to stir the heart! Perhaps you never heardBrough, to the ‘instrumentation’ of that fine composer and most facile performer, ‘Frank Brown,’ singBarry Cornwall’s‘King Death,’ or ‘The Admiral and the Shark?’ No? Then never let the opportunity to do so slip, if you should ever be so fortunate as to enjoy it. Listen to the words of the first-named:I.King Deathwas a rare old fellow,He sat where no sun could shine;And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wine!II.There came to him many a maiden,Whose eyes had forgot to shine,And widows with grief o’er laden,For a draught of his sleepy wine.III.The scholar left all his learning,The poet his fancied woes;And the beauty her bloom returningLike life to the fading rose.IV.All came to the rare old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,As he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them inDeath’sblack wine.Weshould reluct at consorting with any citizen who could hear this song executed, in the manner ofBrough, without feeling the electric fluid coursinguphis vertebra, and passing off at the points of his hair, as the hollow tones waver down the chromatic, or wail in low and spondaic monotones. ‘F. B.’ was ‘rich’ in ‘Over There,’ a song which, like the numerous platitudes of the ‘Brigadier-General,’ is indebted to its music for its popularity. There ensues a verse that is very striking:‘Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there! over there!Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there!‘Oh I wish I was a geese,’Cause they lives and dies in peace,And accumulates much grease,Over there!’Nothing by the author ofThomas Campbell’s‘Woodman Spare that Beechen-Tree’ amended, equals the foregoing in the melody of its language or ‘breadth of effect.’ Speaking of songs: what can be more delightful than those of our fair correspondent Mrs.Hewitt? Her translations are excellent; and the words she has written for the use of that great musical genius,Wallace, in his romance of ‘Le Réve,’ are ‘beautiful exceedingly.’ Mrs.Bailey, a most pleasingartiste, well remembered here, has recently produced them at her concerts in Baltimore, with greatéclat.•••The ‘Spirit of the Times,’ with its numerous and ample pages, filled to overflowing with a variety which always seems to embrace ‘every thing that’s going;’ whether relating to all sorts of matters interesting to all sorts of sportsmen, or to literature, the drama, agricultural science, and the fine arts; this same widely popular journal is now afforded atFIVE DOLLARS A YEAR! ‘Ask that gentleman to sit down; he’s said enough!’•••Every-bodymust remember the ‘Boots’ who figures in one ofDickens’stories, who was wont to designate all the lodgers by the names of their different kinds of boots, shoes, slippers, etc. The author of ‘The Two Patrons,’ a capital tale in the last number ofBlackwood’sMagazine, has a serving-man of a similar kind, who in commenting upon the visitors at his master’s house, compares them to diverse dishes, as shadowing forth the relative degrees of aristocracy. He establishes some one supereminent article of food as a high ideal, to which all other kinds of edibles are to be referred; and the farther removed from this imaginary point of perfection any dish appears, the more vulgar and common-place it becomes: ‘They are low, uncommon low; reg’lar b’iled mutton and turnips. They may be rich, but they a’nt genteel. Nothink won’t do but to be at it from the very beginning; fight after it as much as they like; wear the best of gownds, and go to the fustest of boarding-schools; though they plays ever so well on the piando, and talks Italian like a reg’lar Frenchman, nothink won’t do; there’sthe b’iled mutton and turnips sticking out still. LadyCharlotte, now, is a werry different affair; quite the roast fowl and bl’mange; how unlikeouryoung ladies!—b’iled veals and parsley and butters—shocking wulgarity! And look at the father: I never see no gentleman with so broad a back, except p’raps a prize-ox.’ There is another very amusing character in the same story; one of those stupid matter-of-fact persons, who can never appreciate a figure of speech, or understand the simplest jest. A ‘benign cerulean,’ enthusiastic for the ‘rights of the sex,’ remarks that woman’s rights and duties are becoming every day more widely appreciated. ‘The old-fashioned scale must be readjusted; and woman, noble, elevating, surprising woman, ascend to the loftiest eminence, and sit superior on the topmost branch of the social tree.’ The ear of the matter-of-fact man catches the last simile, and he ventures to say: ‘Uncommon bad climbers, for the most part in general, is women. Their clothes isn’t adapted to it. I minds once I seen a woman climb a pole after a leg of mutting!’ If looks could have killed the mal-apropos speaker, he would not have survived the reception which this ridiculous remark encountered from every guest at the table. He was himself struck with the mournful silence that followed his observation, and added, by way of explanation: ‘That was a thing as happing’d on a pole; in coors it would be werry different on a tree, because of the branches.’ At length, however, the theme of woman is renewed by the former advocate: ‘Woman has not yet received her full development. The time will come when her influence shall be universal; when, softened, subdued, and elevated, the animal now called Man will be unknown. You will be all women: can the world look for a higher destiny?’ ‘In coors,’ observed the old spoon, ‘if we are all turned into woming, the world will come to an end. For ‘spose a case; ‘spose it had been my sister as married my wife, instead of me; it’s probable there would’nt have been no great fambly; wich in coors, if there was no population——’ What the fearful result of this supposed case would have been, was not permitted to transpire. The feminine ‘b’iled veals and parsley and butters’ immediately rose and left the table, and the matter-of-fact man to the ridicule of the male guests.•••If our metropolitan friend ‘S.,’ who has disappointed us in a paper intended for the present number, ‘by reason of that contemptible disorder, dyspepsia,’ will take our advice, he will not be likely to fail us again, from a similar cause. Let him walk, as we do, some six or eight miles every day; and above all, pay frequent visits to our old friend Dr.Rabineau’sspacious and delightfulSalt-Water Swimming Bath, near Castle-Garden; always remembering to make free use of his ‘crash towels.’ Dyspepsia never made a call upon us; and it ‘doesn’t associate with any body’ that keeps company with that public benefactor, Dr.Rabineau.•••We should be reluctant to introduce the annexed profane story to our readers, but that it forcibly illustrates a characteristic vice of the wandering natives of a little island across the water, who are never at a loss for ‘themes of disgust’ in relation to America, and the ‘revolting habits’ of American citizens. On the continent, an Englishman is universally known by thesoubriquetof ‘SignorGoddam; and many of our readers wilt rememberByron’sanecdote of the pompous Italian in London, who was desirous of imitating the English style in the British metropolis. ‘Bring me,’ said he, with an imperious tone, ‘bring me some wine! Why don’t you bring him?’ The servant answered: ‘I will, Sir.’ ‘Youwill?’ rejoined the Italian; ‘youwill, eh?Goddam, youMUSHT!’ And this settled the question. But to the story ‘under notice,’ which was picked up by our correspondent at Cairo, in Egypt:‘An impetuous Englishman, unacquainted with any language but his own, was desirous of seeing Egypt, and satisfying himself by occular demonstration of the truth of the many wonders which he had heard of that celebrated land. To get to Alexandria was easy enough; and some acquaintances whom he had picked up on the way, kindly facilitated his journey to the Nile, and saw him fairly afloat in hiscangeafor Cairo. But here, left with an Arab captain, and five swarthy Egyptians, his difficulties commenced, and without knowing a single word of Arabic, he had to depend on his own resources. The boats on the Nile are very ticklish flat-bottomed affairs, wretchedly handled. Before the wind they rush up like steamers, but on a wind, go to lee-ward like feathers; while in consequence of the Nile being full of shifting sand-banks, with a daily varying depth of water, they are continually running aground in the middle of the river. To this add the laziness of the captain andcrew, to whom time was of no consequence; to-day, to-morrow, the next day, or a week hence, was all the same to them; they had no preferment to look forward to, no release from labor but death; and wisely enough, perhaps, exerted themselves as little as they could. ‘Inshalla!Godwas great, and the sun was hot! Why should they weary themselves?’ And so they took every opportunity to rest, cook their miserable fare, and dawdle the listless hours away. Of these dilatory habits of the natives the Englishman had been warned, and that whenever it happened, he was to prevent them from stopping, and force them to go on.‘The opportunity was not long wanting. Without any reason sufficiently apparent to him, the huge stone fastened to a coir cable, and doing duty for an anchor, was dropped overboard, and the crew betook themselves to sleep. What was to be done? Of Arabic he had not a word to tell them to proceed; but he had plenty of English; so by dint of shaking his stick at the captain, and a somewhat boisterous ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ roared out in a tone sufficiently indicative of his wishes, the primitive ‘anchor’ was got up, and onward they proceeded. Delighted to find his most British remonstrance succeed, he did not let it rust for want of practice; but every time the lazy crew attempted to ‘bring to,’ the stamp, the roar, and the shake of the stick, with the never-failing objurgation, were resorted to, and invariably with the same results. The passage up to Cairo averages three days, but vessels have been known to be as many as nine. Seven, eight, nine days past; twelve, fourteen; yet as if by magic, Grand Cairo seemed to recede before them. No time had been lost by him, for the wind had been strong in their favor, and he scarcely allowed the crew to take the necessary rest. It was very odd how greatly had he been misinformed in the distance! The very maps too seemed leagued against him; his manifold measurings and calculations were of no apparent avail. At last, at rising on the morning-of the fifteenth day, he found himself at anchor off a strange tumble-down-looking town, which by signs the captain gave him to understand was the place of his destination. Could that be ‘Grand Cairo!’ How odd! But then he was in a country of oddities; and on stepping ashore, he encountered a sun-burnt English-looking man gazing earnestly at the new arrival.‘Is this Grand Cairo, Sir?’ inquired the astonished novice.‘Grand Cairo, Sir! GoodGod, no! This is Kennah, a thousand miles beyond! Why, how the devil did you manage to get up here without knowing it? Do you speak Arabic?’‘Not a word!’‘Umph! What language thendidyou speak?’‘No other than English; but when they stopped, I d—d their eyes soundly, and they seemed to understand very well whatthatmeant, for they were up anchor and off in a jiffy!’The stranger, who spoke Arabic fluently, sought an explanation of the native captain, and the mystery was quickly solved.‘How did you contrive to get up here,Ryis, instead of stopping at Cairo?’‘Why, Effendim, the Frank was the most impatient man in the world: no sooner did we stop to cook, to rest, or for the wind, than stick in hand, and raving with passion, he stamped on the deck, and with a gesture too imperious to be mistaken, shouted the only Arabic sentence which he seemed to know, which was ‘GoddamRyis!’—and ‘Inshallah!’ we got no rest, but were forced to work like devils. We passed Bourlac (Cairo) in the night, andAllah Kherim!here we are at a town which none of you Christians pass without stopping.’‘God-dam’ is very good Arabic for ‘go on;’ and ‘Ry-i-s,’ means ‘captain.’ ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ however thoroughly English it may seem to cockneys, is very tolerable Arabic for ‘Go on, captain!’ (en avant.)‘A Story of Sorrow and Crime’ is an affecting monitory sketch, devoid of that mawkishness which is sometimes the characteristic of kindred performances. The writer’s reflections upon the career of his hero, remind us of that beautiful passage in one ofBlair’sessays: ‘Life is short: the poor pittance of seventy years is worth being a villain for. What matters it if your neighbor lies in a splendid tomb? Sleep you with innocence! Look behind you through the track of time; a vast desert lies open in the retrospect; through this desert have your fathers journeyed on, until wearied with years and sorrows, they sunk from the walks of men. You must leave them where they fell, and you are to go a little farther, where you will find eternal rest. Whatever you may have to encounter between the cradle and the grave, every moment is big with innumerable events, which come not in slow succession, but bursting forcibly from a revolving and unknown cause, fly over this orb with diversified influence.’•••‘F. P.’s ‘Western Adventures’ have goodpointsabout them, but if published entire, would we think disappoint himself perhaps as much as his readers. Here is an anecdote, however, which is worth ‘jotting down’ in types: ‘I met not long after in New-York a man who had just been induced to rent the very hotel in Kentucky which was the scene of the reverses I have been describing. Aware that I had at one time kept the establishment, he was anxious to know my opinion of its pecuniary promise. ‘I don’t expect to make much the first year,’ said he; ‘I shall be satisfied if I ‘realize’ all expenses. But do you think I shall clear myself the first year?’ ‘I haven’t the slightest doubt of it,’ I replied; ‘I cleared myselfbefore the first six months were up, and was d—dgladto get off so; and I rather guess thatyou’llbe too, in about half that time.’ And he was!’•••Could there be a more affecting picture than that of a fond mother learning for the first time from the tell-tale prattle of her little ones thatshe is ‘given over to darkness and the worm’ by her friends, who had disguised from her the fatal truth? Such is the scene depicted in these pathetic lines:‘Hespeaketh now: ‘Oh, mother dear!’Murmurs the little child:And there is trouble in his eyes,Those large blue eyes so mild:‘Oh, mother dear! they say that soon,When here I seek for theeI shall not find thee—nor out there,Under the old oak-tree;‘Nor up stairs in the nursery,Nor any where, they say:Where wilt thou go to, mother dear?Oh, do not go away!’There was long silence, a deep hush,And then the child’s low sob:Herquivering eyelids close: one handKeeps down the heart’s quick throb.And the lips move, though sound is none,That inward voice is prayer.And hark! ‘Thywill, OLord, be done!’And tears are trickling there—Down that pale cheek, on that young head;And round her neck he clings;And child and mother murmur outUnutterable things.Hehalf unconscious,shedeep-struckWith sudden, solemn truth,That number’d are her days on earth—Her shroud prepared in youth:That all in life her heart holds dearGodcalls her to resign:She hears, feels, trembles—but looks up,And sighs ‘Thywill be mine!’’‘I camedown from Albany the other evening,’ writes a correspondent, ‘in that floating palace, theKnickerbockersteamer; I slept in yourKnickerbockerstate-room; arrived in town, I took after dinner aKnickerbockeromnibus, and rode up to the ‘Westminster Abbey Bowling Saloon,’ named ofKnickerbocker; I called on you with my article for theKnickerbockerMagazine; and on my way down, enjoyed a delightful ablution at theKnickerbockerBath; stepped into theKnickerbockerTheatre, and ‘laughed consumedly’ over an amusing play; and finally, closed with a cup of delicious tea, green and black, and anchovy-toast, atKnickerbockerHall. Every thing, I was glad to see, wasKnickerbocker.’ Very flattering; yet we dare say our friend was not aware that this Magazine was thepioneerin the use of this popular name in Gotham, and that its example has suggested, one after another, the namesakes to which he has alluded. Such, howbeit, is the undeniable fact.•••Weremarked the example ofcatachresisto which ‘L.’ alludes, and laughed at it, we venture to say, as heartily as himself. It was not quite so glaring however as the confused images of a celebrated Irish advocate: ‘I smell a rat; I see it brewing in the storm; and I will crush it in the bud!’•••Wefind several things to admire in our Detroit friend’s ‘Tale of Border Warfare;’ but he can’t ‘talk Indian’—that is very clear. The ‘abrogynes’ are not in the habit of making interminable speeches: they leave that to white members of Congress, who pump up a feeling in a day’s speech ‘for Buncombe.’ Do you remember whatHallecksays ofRed-Jacket?‘The spell of eloquence is thine, that reachesThe heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;And there’s one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,The secret of their mastery—they are short.’Not one man in a thousand can talk or write the true ‘Indian.’ Our friendSa-go-sen-o-ta, formerly known as Col.William L. Stone, is one of the best Indian writers in this country. His late letter ‘To the Sachems, Chiefs, and Warriors of the Seneca Indians,’ acknowledging the honor they had done him in electing him a chief, is a perfect thing in its kind. May it be long before the ‘Master of Breath’ shall call him to ‘the fair hunting-grounds, through clouds bright as fleeces of gold, upon a ladder as beautiful as the rainbow!’•••Ourentertaining ‘Dartmoor Prisoner’ has a pleasant story of a fellow-captive who on one occasion performed that ‘cautionary’ experiment which is sometimes denominated ‘putting your foot in it.’ The term is of legitimate origin, it should seem. According to theAsiatic Researches, a very curious mode of trying the title to land is practised in Hindostan. Two holes are dug in the disputed spot, in each of which the lawyers on either side put one of their legs, and remain there until one of them is tired, orcomplains of being stung by the insects, in which case his client is defeated. In this country it is the client and not the lawyer who ‘puts his foot into it!’•••Wehave commenced in the present, and shall conclude in our next number, a ‘Legend of the Conquest of Spain,’ byWashington Irving. We derive it from the same source whence we received the ‘Legend of DonRoderick,’ lately published in these pages. We commend its graphic limnings and stirring incidents to the admiration of our readers.•••A friendand correspondent in a sister city dashes in with a rich brush, in one of his familiar letters to us, a sketch of a boss-painter, who was renovating the writer’s house with sundry pots of paint; a conceited, half-informed prig, who having grown rich, talks of ‘going to Europe in the steam-boat,’ and has a huge fancy for seeing Italy. ‘Yes,’ said the house-and-signRaphael, ‘I must see Rome and Athens; them Romans allers made a great impression on me; the land ofApellesandXerxes; ah! that must be worth travelling for.’ ‘Would you not rather run over England?’ I asked; but the asspoohedat England, and on the strength of his daubing our house-blinds, claimed an interest in the Fine Arts abroad: ‘No, Sir, give me Italy—the Loover and the Vattykin; them’s the places for my money! Gods! how I should like to rummage over them old-masters! They beatusall hollow—that’s a fact. I’ll give in to them. There never was such painters before, nor never will be. I want to study ’em.’ ‘Yes,’ I rejoined; ‘’twould interest you, doubtless; and after having studied the great painters in Italy, you might return by way of Switzerland, and scrape acquaintance with theglaciers.’ The booby did nottake, but only stared and said: ‘Oh, they’re famous for glass-work there, be they?’ This lover of the Fine Arts had a counterpart in the man who having ‘made as much money as he wanted by tradin’ in Boston,’ went ‘a-travelling abroad;’ and while in Florence, called onPowersthe sculptor, with a design to ‘patronize’ him a little. After looking at his ‘Greek Slave,’ his ‘Eve,’ and other gems of art, he remarked that he ‘thought they’d look a good ’eal better if they had some clothes on. I’m pretty well off,’ he continued, ‘and ha’n’t a chick nor child in the world; and I thought I’d price astattyor two. What’s the damage, now, for that one you’re peckin’ at?’ ‘It should be worth from four to five thousand dollars, I think,’ answeredPowers. ‘What! five thousand dollars forthat ’are! I cal’lated to buy me a piece ofstattyarybefore I went home, butthat’sout of the question!Hasn’t stattyary riz lately?How’s paintin’s here now?’•••Justcomplaints are made by our city contemporaries of the exorbitant rates of postage upon weekly periodicals. Mr.Williscomplains, in the ‘New-Mirror’ weekly journal, that country postmasters charge so much postage on that periodical by mail, that in many cases it would make the work cost to its country subscribers something like ten dollars a year! All postage in this country is at too high a rate; and so long as it remains so, the law will continue to be evaded. ‘CheatingUncle Sam’ is not considered a very heinous offence. There is nothing one robs with so little compunction as one’s country. It is at the very worst robbing only eighteen millions of people.•••Thelines sent us in rejoinder to the stanzas of ‘C. W. D.,’ in a late issue, would not beoriginalin our pages; nor could we hope to have manynewreaders for them, after they have appeared in, and of course been copied from, that exceedingly pleasant and well-edited daily journal, theBoston Evening Transcript.•••Hauffman, the German poet, was recently expelled from the Prussian dominions, and all his works proscribed thenceforth. ‘Served him right;’ for in one of his works appears the ‘word following, to wit:’ ‘Sleuerverweigerungsverfassungsmassigberechtig!’—meaning a man who is exempt by the constitution from the payment of taxes. ‘Myscheeves thick’ must needs follow such terrific words. ‘We have heard,’ says a London critic, in allusion to this jaw-breaker, ‘of a gentleman, a member of theMarionettenschauspielhausengesellschaft, who was said to be an excellent performer on the ‘Constantinopolitanischetudelsackpfeife!’’•••Weowe a word of apology to our friends the publishers, for the omission of notices which we had prepared of their publications, and which are crowded out by our title-page and index, that were forgotten until the last moment. We shall ‘bring up arrears’ in our next.
National Academy of Design.—The growing interest felt in relation to the Fine Arts in this country, and the influence which theNational Academy of Designhas had in producing that interest, make it imperative upon us to notice the pictures which are annually sent to this exhibition. In passing through the Academy with this object in view, we have been at some loss to know where to begin. Finding however by chance at the end of the catalogue an alphabetical arrangement of the exhibitors’ names, we have adopted this as the best method of laying the merits of the several pictures before our readers. We therefore begin with:V. G. Audubon, A.—Mr.Audubonexhibits four pictures this season: of these, No. 133, ‘Grove of Palm-trees’ in the Island of Cuba, we prefer. This picture appears to be a faithful representation of the scene, and is handled with a free and firm pencil. The trees are perhaps a little too literally represented, to be agreeable to the eye, consisting as they do of so many equally straight and unpicturesque lines. No. 237, ‘Moon-light Squall coming up,’ is a pleasing representation of one of Nature’s poetical moments. The light is clear and silvery, and the water transparent and truthful. The whole scene is interesting, and there is but little to find fault with; although perhaps parts would admit of more warmth of color.J. D. Blondellhas six pictures, the majority portraits. No. 80, ‘Portrait of a Lady,’ half-length, is a pleasing picture; warm in color and carefully painted, and gives evidence of rising talent. The head is perhaps slightly deficient in careful drawing; but few artists are competent to paint a lady’s portrait; and this gentleman should not feel discouraged, though his work be found slightly deficient in that grace which is so difficult of attainment.Boddington, (London,) exhibits three landscapes, all in a style peculiarly belonging to the English school. They possess great charms; facility of execution, and delicacy of handling.Bonfield.—No. 168 is perhaps the best of his productions. If it were not for the pinky hue of the sky, this would indeed be a charming picture.F. Bayle.—No. 25; ‘Picture-Dealer.’ A deep-toned, carefully-painted picture, and evincing much promise in so young an artist. We are glad to perceive that it is purchased by the American Art-Union.G. L. Brown.—No. 400; ‘View of the Tiber.’ Too much of an imitation of old pictures. In seeking this quality, the artist has lost sight of the truth and freshness of nature.Chapman, N. A.—Mr.Chapmanpresents nine pictures this season, and all in his usual brilliant style. No. 116, ‘Peasant Girl of Albano,’ is exceedingly rich in color, and forcible in effect: a few cool tints about the head-dress would give perhaps still greater value to the warm tones. No. 189, ‘Hebrew Women,’ is this artist’s gem of the year. Well composed, pleasing in color, and carefully finished, it expresses the occurrence with fidelity and truth. No. 204, ‘Boy in Indian Costume,’ is an attractive picture; but No. 213, ‘On the Fence,’ is more to our liking. The story is well told; the city beau is carefully andtruly represented; and the dogs are admirable. No. 263, portrait of DoctorAnderson, the father of wood-engraving in this country, is capital. No. 266, ‘Lazy Fisherman,’ is Laziness personified. No. 341, ‘Sketch from Nature,’ in water-colors, is an exemplification of this gentleman’s versatility of talent.J. G. Clonney, A., has two pictures in the exhibition, Nos. 7 and 160. No. 7, ‘The New-Year’s Call,’ is decidedly the best. The negro is well painted. Mr.Clonney’sworks generally evince great observation of nature in this class of subjects.T. Cole, N. A.—Mr.Coleexhibits but one picture, and that comparatively a small one. It possesses however many of the admirable characteristics of his works, particularly his early ones. It would be difficult to find a middle-ground and distance surpassing those of this picture.T. Crawford, (Rome.)—Mr.Crawfordgives us two full-length statues, in which the charm of themarbleis strongly apparent. Mr.Crawford, we grieve to say, is evidently too impatient in the finish of his works to produce that correctness which is essential to a high effort of art.J. F. Cropsey.—No. 68, ‘View in Orange County,’ is a careful representation of nature, and has the appearance to our eyes of having been painted on the spot; a practice very rarely to be found in young artists. A continuance in this course will place this artist in a prominent position as a landscape-painter. The sky is faulty in color, being too purple to meet our views of nature; and there is a lack of delicacy in the more receding portions of the work. But the fore-ground is carefully painted, and full of truth.Cummings, N. A.—Mr.Cummingshas but one picture. It possesses however the careful finish, gentlemanly character, and general truthfulness, so characteristic of this fine artist.T. Cummings, Jr., a young artist. No. 149, ‘The Ball,’ is his best work. In thus attempting a subject of great difficulty of execution, he evinces promise of future ability. The picture has many pleasing points, marked however with some errors, which time and practice, let us hope, will correct.C. Curtis.—Mr.Curtishas two pictures in the exhibition, and both of merit. No. 196 is among the best heads in the collection.J. W. Dodge, A.—‘Miniature Portraits.’ Those ofHenry Clayand Gen.Jacksonare the most prominent. The likenesses are good, and the pictures carefully finished; a merit in works of this character frequently unattended to. There is, however, a want of dignity sometimes to be found in Mr.Dodge’sportraits, which we could wish to see remedied: it would give an elevation to his paintings which they at present lack.Paul P. Duggan.—‘John the Baptist’ is a model in plaster, which displays greater knowledge of anatomy than we are in the habit of finding in the works of even older artists. In this respect it possesses great merit. We understand it is his first effort in modelling. As such, it is truly a work of the highest promise.Durand, N. A.—Mr.Durandhas contributed largely to the present exhibition, in every sense of the word. His most prominent production is No. 36, ‘The Solitary Oak.’ For an exhibition-picture, perhaps it is not so striking as some of his previous works; yet it will bear examination better. Without any effort at warmth of color, it has that glow of sunlight which it is so difficult to express. A veteran tree, standing alone upon a gentle eminence, stretching forth its giant arms, that have withstood the storms of centuries, is truly a noble subject for an artist of Mr.Durand’sreputation; and most truly has he depicted it. The distance is beautiful, and the introduction of cattle seeking their evening shelter gives an interest seldom to be found in works of this class. Should we attempt to find a fault, it would be the want of a little more warmth and clearness in the dark parts of the fore-ground. No. 134, another charming landscape; true to nature, of a silvery tone, and most exquisite sweetness of color and delicacy of touch. Nos. 181 and 258 are two careful studies from nature, wherein special care has been given to the trunks of trees, a feature in landscape-painting upon which sufficient attention is rarely bestowed. No. 244, ‘Emigrant Family,’ is full of interest. The travelling family are encamped under the shade ofthe trees, and the kettle hung over the fire shows that they are evidently preparing to refresh themselves for farther toil and journeying. The foliage of the trees is elaborately executed; the distance is well preserved; and the whole possesses great truth to nature; perhaps however, like all ‘green’ pictures, it is less attractive in an exhibition than works of a warmer color. No. 163, ‘Portrait of a Gentleman,’ has great force, and shows the artist’s versatility of genius.F. W. Edmonds, N. A.—No. 105, ‘Beggar’s Petition,’ is a spirited and faithful representation of the cold indifference to the wants of others, displayed in the miser’s disposition. The figures are of life-size, and well drawn. The female supplicating in behalf of the distressed, is graceful in attitude, and admirably contrasted with the hoarding miser. No. 205, ‘The Image Pedler,’ is an effort of a higher order; for the artist has attempted, and successfully too, to elevate the class of works to which it belongs. In short, he has invested a humble subject with a moral dignity, which we hope our younger artists, who paint in this department, will not lose sight of. An independent farmer has his family around him, apparently immediately after dinner, and a strolling pedler appears among them, to dispose of his wares; and this gives interest to the whole group. The grandmother drops her peeling-knife, and the mother takes her infant from the cradle, to gaze at the sights in the pedler’s basket. The husband, who has been reading in the cool breeze of the window, turns to participate in the sport; while the grandfather takes a bust ofWashington, places it on the table, and commences an earnest elucidation of the character of the, ‘Father of his Country’ to the little children around him. All the figures are intelligent, and the whole scene conveys to the mind ahappy family. In color, light and shade, and composition, it is masterly; and we see in it that minuteness of detail and careful finish are not incompatible with a broad and luminous effect.C. L. Elliotthas five portraits in the exhibition. His ‘Full-length ofGov. Seward’ is a prominent one, although not his most agreeable picture. No. 61 is we think the best, and is a well-managed portrait, both in drawing and color.G. W. Flagg, H.—No. 63, ‘Half-length of a Lady,’ has considerable merit. It is rich and mellow in color, and better we think than many of Mr.Flagg’srecent works. No. 208, ‘The Widow,’ is a popular picture; pleasing in expression, and possessing more refinement of character than is observable in many of his other portraits. No. 102, ‘Bianca Visconti,’ we do not admire.G. Freeman.—Miniature portraits, generally large, and highly finished. This gentleman has lately arrived from Europe, and is we believe a popular artist; yet we do not like his productions.J. Frothingham, N. A.—Nos. 32 and 35: portraits exhibiting Mr.Frothingham’susual bold and free style in this department of art; remarkably fine likenesses; true in color, and of pleasing general effect.H. P. Gray, N. A.—Mr.Grayexhibits a number of his works this season. He seems to us to sacrifice every thing to color; and his color is not such as is generally seen in nature, but rather what he has seen in pictures. This we think a mistake, and one which we must be permitted to hope he will rectify. In the pictures which he formerly painted, a much closer attention to nature is observable. Mr.Grayhas all the feeling of an artist, with no ordinary talent; and we regret to find that he wanders from the direct path. We were among the first, if not the very first, to call public attention to his merits, and it is with reluctance that we perform the duty involved in these animadversions. ‘Comparisons,’Dogberrytells us, ‘are odorous;’ we cannot help remarking, however, that Mr.Gray’sold fellow-student,Huntington, is (longa intervallo) in the advance. We prefer, of our artist’s present efforts, the picture of ‘His Wife.’ It has a pleasing effect, and is more finished than usual, and more natural in tone than his ‘Magdalen.’J. T. Harris, A., has two pictures, and both portraits. No. 19 is the best. It exhibitsa broad, free touch, and correct drawing, and is withal an excellent likeness. But we never look at Mr.Harris’works without being impressed with the idea that they are not finished. They seem to us, to borrow an artistical expression, as if they were in a capital state for ‘glazing and toning up.’ Otherwise, they are above the ordinary run of portraits.G. P. A. Healy, H.—Mr.Healyis a resident of Paris, but an American. He is a favorite at the French court, and has by this means a reputation to which his works generally do not entitle him. We are bound in justice to say of his present effort, however, that it is an exceedingly fine picture. It is boldly and masterly executed; forcibly drawn, honestly colored, and well expressed. There is too about it a freedom from all the usual tricks of the profession, such as a red chair, velvet collar, and fantastic back-ground, which we particularly recommend to the attention of young artists.Thomas Hicks, A., has eight pictures in the collection, but none, excepting his portraits, which equal his former productions. No. 264, ‘The Mother’s Grave,’ is an oft-repeated subject, and should not be attempted unless the artist is able to treat it with entire originality. There are good points about it, but none sufficiently attractive to warrant particular notice.Ingham, N. A., as usual has a fine collection of female portraits, all excellent for their careful drawing, lady-like expression, and high finish. The drapery and accessories of Mr.Ingham’sportraits are always wonderfully exact to nature; and this greatly enhances the value of portraits of this description; for aside from their merit as likenesses, they will always be valuable as pictures. His male portrait, No. 113, ofT. S. Cummings, Esq., is a most admirable likeness, as well as a highly-wrought and masterly-painted picture. No. 239, ‘Portrait of a Lady,’ with a fan in her hand, is our favorite among his female heads. There is a sweetness and modesty in the expression, not only in the countenance but in the whole figure, which makes it peculiarly attractive.H. Inman, N. A.—No. 62, ‘Portrait of the late BishopMoore, of Virginia,’ is the admiration of all who behold it. In color it surpasses any thing of Mr.Inman’swe have seen in many a day. Clear and luminous, with great breadth of light, and a mild, pleasing expression. We of course mean this to apply to the head. The hand and part of the drapery are not, in our judgment, so well done. No. 104, ‘Lady with a Mask,’ we do not altogether like; yet it is remarkable for being foreshortened in every part, and possesses that singular charm of light and shadow, and accidental effect, which are the characteristics of our artist’s pencil. No. 314, a Landscape, although small, is delicately handled, and ‘touched in’ with great neatness and accuracy. In effect it is attractive, and in color pleasing. The figure in the fore-ground equals in care and minuteness of finish the manner ofWouvermans.N. Jocelyn.—No. 57, ‘Portrait of ProfessorSilliman,’ a faithful likeness, and carefully-painted portrait of a distinguished individual. No. 2, ‘Portrait of a Child,’ is another finished picture by this artist; clear and pearly in color and infantile in expression.Alfred Jones.—No. 301, an engraving fromMount’spicture of ‘Nooning,’ for the American Art-Union, is one of the largest line-engravings ever published in this country, and a work of high order. This style of engraving has heretofore received so little encouragement, that until the Art-Union started it, no one except Mr.Durandhad ever before dared to attempt it. This effort of Mr.Jonesdoes him great credit.M. Livingstone, A., has several works in the exhibition, but we cannot rank them among the higher class of landscapes. They lack the poetry of landscape-painting; but as amateur productions, they are very good.E. D. Marchant, A.—All portraits, but none of high merit. Mr.Marchantis a persevering artist, who paints good likenesses and pleasing pictures; and so far, is doubtless popular with those who employ him.John Megareyhas two portraits, and those far surpassing his former works. They are carefully painted, without an effort at any thing beyond the subject before the artist.We shall resume and conclude our remarks upon the exhibition in our next number.
National Academy of Design.—The growing interest felt in relation to the Fine Arts in this country, and the influence which theNational Academy of Designhas had in producing that interest, make it imperative upon us to notice the pictures which are annually sent to this exhibition. In passing through the Academy with this object in view, we have been at some loss to know where to begin. Finding however by chance at the end of the catalogue an alphabetical arrangement of the exhibitors’ names, we have adopted this as the best method of laying the merits of the several pictures before our readers. We therefore begin with:
V. G. Audubon, A.—Mr.Audubonexhibits four pictures this season: of these, No. 133, ‘Grove of Palm-trees’ in the Island of Cuba, we prefer. This picture appears to be a faithful representation of the scene, and is handled with a free and firm pencil. The trees are perhaps a little too literally represented, to be agreeable to the eye, consisting as they do of so many equally straight and unpicturesque lines. No. 237, ‘Moon-light Squall coming up,’ is a pleasing representation of one of Nature’s poetical moments. The light is clear and silvery, and the water transparent and truthful. The whole scene is interesting, and there is but little to find fault with; although perhaps parts would admit of more warmth of color.
J. D. Blondellhas six pictures, the majority portraits. No. 80, ‘Portrait of a Lady,’ half-length, is a pleasing picture; warm in color and carefully painted, and gives evidence of rising talent. The head is perhaps slightly deficient in careful drawing; but few artists are competent to paint a lady’s portrait; and this gentleman should not feel discouraged, though his work be found slightly deficient in that grace which is so difficult of attainment.
Boddington, (London,) exhibits three landscapes, all in a style peculiarly belonging to the English school. They possess great charms; facility of execution, and delicacy of handling.
Bonfield.—No. 168 is perhaps the best of his productions. If it were not for the pinky hue of the sky, this would indeed be a charming picture.
F. Bayle.—No. 25; ‘Picture-Dealer.’ A deep-toned, carefully-painted picture, and evincing much promise in so young an artist. We are glad to perceive that it is purchased by the American Art-Union.
G. L. Brown.—No. 400; ‘View of the Tiber.’ Too much of an imitation of old pictures. In seeking this quality, the artist has lost sight of the truth and freshness of nature.
Chapman, N. A.—Mr.Chapmanpresents nine pictures this season, and all in his usual brilliant style. No. 116, ‘Peasant Girl of Albano,’ is exceedingly rich in color, and forcible in effect: a few cool tints about the head-dress would give perhaps still greater value to the warm tones. No. 189, ‘Hebrew Women,’ is this artist’s gem of the year. Well composed, pleasing in color, and carefully finished, it expresses the occurrence with fidelity and truth. No. 204, ‘Boy in Indian Costume,’ is an attractive picture; but No. 213, ‘On the Fence,’ is more to our liking. The story is well told; the city beau is carefully andtruly represented; and the dogs are admirable. No. 263, portrait of DoctorAnderson, the father of wood-engraving in this country, is capital. No. 266, ‘Lazy Fisherman,’ is Laziness personified. No. 341, ‘Sketch from Nature,’ in water-colors, is an exemplification of this gentleman’s versatility of talent.
J. G. Clonney, A., has two pictures in the exhibition, Nos. 7 and 160. No. 7, ‘The New-Year’s Call,’ is decidedly the best. The negro is well painted. Mr.Clonney’sworks generally evince great observation of nature in this class of subjects.
T. Cole, N. A.—Mr.Coleexhibits but one picture, and that comparatively a small one. It possesses however many of the admirable characteristics of his works, particularly his early ones. It would be difficult to find a middle-ground and distance surpassing those of this picture.
T. Crawford, (Rome.)—Mr.Crawfordgives us two full-length statues, in which the charm of themarbleis strongly apparent. Mr.Crawford, we grieve to say, is evidently too impatient in the finish of his works to produce that correctness which is essential to a high effort of art.
J. F. Cropsey.—No. 68, ‘View in Orange County,’ is a careful representation of nature, and has the appearance to our eyes of having been painted on the spot; a practice very rarely to be found in young artists. A continuance in this course will place this artist in a prominent position as a landscape-painter. The sky is faulty in color, being too purple to meet our views of nature; and there is a lack of delicacy in the more receding portions of the work. But the fore-ground is carefully painted, and full of truth.
Cummings, N. A.—Mr.Cummingshas but one picture. It possesses however the careful finish, gentlemanly character, and general truthfulness, so characteristic of this fine artist.
T. Cummings, Jr., a young artist. No. 149, ‘The Ball,’ is his best work. In thus attempting a subject of great difficulty of execution, he evinces promise of future ability. The picture has many pleasing points, marked however with some errors, which time and practice, let us hope, will correct.
C. Curtis.—Mr.Curtishas two pictures in the exhibition, and both of merit. No. 196 is among the best heads in the collection.
J. W. Dodge, A.—‘Miniature Portraits.’ Those ofHenry Clayand Gen.Jacksonare the most prominent. The likenesses are good, and the pictures carefully finished; a merit in works of this character frequently unattended to. There is, however, a want of dignity sometimes to be found in Mr.Dodge’sportraits, which we could wish to see remedied: it would give an elevation to his paintings which they at present lack.
Paul P. Duggan.—‘John the Baptist’ is a model in plaster, which displays greater knowledge of anatomy than we are in the habit of finding in the works of even older artists. In this respect it possesses great merit. We understand it is his first effort in modelling. As such, it is truly a work of the highest promise.
Durand, N. A.—Mr.Durandhas contributed largely to the present exhibition, in every sense of the word. His most prominent production is No. 36, ‘The Solitary Oak.’ For an exhibition-picture, perhaps it is not so striking as some of his previous works; yet it will bear examination better. Without any effort at warmth of color, it has that glow of sunlight which it is so difficult to express. A veteran tree, standing alone upon a gentle eminence, stretching forth its giant arms, that have withstood the storms of centuries, is truly a noble subject for an artist of Mr.Durand’sreputation; and most truly has he depicted it. The distance is beautiful, and the introduction of cattle seeking their evening shelter gives an interest seldom to be found in works of this class. Should we attempt to find a fault, it would be the want of a little more warmth and clearness in the dark parts of the fore-ground. No. 134, another charming landscape; true to nature, of a silvery tone, and most exquisite sweetness of color and delicacy of touch. Nos. 181 and 258 are two careful studies from nature, wherein special care has been given to the trunks of trees, a feature in landscape-painting upon which sufficient attention is rarely bestowed. No. 244, ‘Emigrant Family,’ is full of interest. The travelling family are encamped under the shade ofthe trees, and the kettle hung over the fire shows that they are evidently preparing to refresh themselves for farther toil and journeying. The foliage of the trees is elaborately executed; the distance is well preserved; and the whole possesses great truth to nature; perhaps however, like all ‘green’ pictures, it is less attractive in an exhibition than works of a warmer color. No. 163, ‘Portrait of a Gentleman,’ has great force, and shows the artist’s versatility of genius.
F. W. Edmonds, N. A.—No. 105, ‘Beggar’s Petition,’ is a spirited and faithful representation of the cold indifference to the wants of others, displayed in the miser’s disposition. The figures are of life-size, and well drawn. The female supplicating in behalf of the distressed, is graceful in attitude, and admirably contrasted with the hoarding miser. No. 205, ‘The Image Pedler,’ is an effort of a higher order; for the artist has attempted, and successfully too, to elevate the class of works to which it belongs. In short, he has invested a humble subject with a moral dignity, which we hope our younger artists, who paint in this department, will not lose sight of. An independent farmer has his family around him, apparently immediately after dinner, and a strolling pedler appears among them, to dispose of his wares; and this gives interest to the whole group. The grandmother drops her peeling-knife, and the mother takes her infant from the cradle, to gaze at the sights in the pedler’s basket. The husband, who has been reading in the cool breeze of the window, turns to participate in the sport; while the grandfather takes a bust ofWashington, places it on the table, and commences an earnest elucidation of the character of the, ‘Father of his Country’ to the little children around him. All the figures are intelligent, and the whole scene conveys to the mind ahappy family. In color, light and shade, and composition, it is masterly; and we see in it that minuteness of detail and careful finish are not incompatible with a broad and luminous effect.
C. L. Elliotthas five portraits in the exhibition. His ‘Full-length ofGov. Seward’ is a prominent one, although not his most agreeable picture. No. 61 is we think the best, and is a well-managed portrait, both in drawing and color.
G. W. Flagg, H.—No. 63, ‘Half-length of a Lady,’ has considerable merit. It is rich and mellow in color, and better we think than many of Mr.Flagg’srecent works. No. 208, ‘The Widow,’ is a popular picture; pleasing in expression, and possessing more refinement of character than is observable in many of his other portraits. No. 102, ‘Bianca Visconti,’ we do not admire.
G. Freeman.—Miniature portraits, generally large, and highly finished. This gentleman has lately arrived from Europe, and is we believe a popular artist; yet we do not like his productions.
J. Frothingham, N. A.—Nos. 32 and 35: portraits exhibiting Mr.Frothingham’susual bold and free style in this department of art; remarkably fine likenesses; true in color, and of pleasing general effect.
H. P. Gray, N. A.—Mr.Grayexhibits a number of his works this season. He seems to us to sacrifice every thing to color; and his color is not such as is generally seen in nature, but rather what he has seen in pictures. This we think a mistake, and one which we must be permitted to hope he will rectify. In the pictures which he formerly painted, a much closer attention to nature is observable. Mr.Grayhas all the feeling of an artist, with no ordinary talent; and we regret to find that he wanders from the direct path. We were among the first, if not the very first, to call public attention to his merits, and it is with reluctance that we perform the duty involved in these animadversions. ‘Comparisons,’Dogberrytells us, ‘are odorous;’ we cannot help remarking, however, that Mr.Gray’sold fellow-student,Huntington, is (longa intervallo) in the advance. We prefer, of our artist’s present efforts, the picture of ‘His Wife.’ It has a pleasing effect, and is more finished than usual, and more natural in tone than his ‘Magdalen.’
J. T. Harris, A., has two pictures, and both portraits. No. 19 is the best. It exhibitsa broad, free touch, and correct drawing, and is withal an excellent likeness. But we never look at Mr.Harris’works without being impressed with the idea that they are not finished. They seem to us, to borrow an artistical expression, as if they were in a capital state for ‘glazing and toning up.’ Otherwise, they are above the ordinary run of portraits.
G. P. A. Healy, H.—Mr.Healyis a resident of Paris, but an American. He is a favorite at the French court, and has by this means a reputation to which his works generally do not entitle him. We are bound in justice to say of his present effort, however, that it is an exceedingly fine picture. It is boldly and masterly executed; forcibly drawn, honestly colored, and well expressed. There is too about it a freedom from all the usual tricks of the profession, such as a red chair, velvet collar, and fantastic back-ground, which we particularly recommend to the attention of young artists.
Thomas Hicks, A., has eight pictures in the collection, but none, excepting his portraits, which equal his former productions. No. 264, ‘The Mother’s Grave,’ is an oft-repeated subject, and should not be attempted unless the artist is able to treat it with entire originality. There are good points about it, but none sufficiently attractive to warrant particular notice.
Ingham, N. A., as usual has a fine collection of female portraits, all excellent for their careful drawing, lady-like expression, and high finish. The drapery and accessories of Mr.Ingham’sportraits are always wonderfully exact to nature; and this greatly enhances the value of portraits of this description; for aside from their merit as likenesses, they will always be valuable as pictures. His male portrait, No. 113, ofT. S. Cummings, Esq., is a most admirable likeness, as well as a highly-wrought and masterly-painted picture. No. 239, ‘Portrait of a Lady,’ with a fan in her hand, is our favorite among his female heads. There is a sweetness and modesty in the expression, not only in the countenance but in the whole figure, which makes it peculiarly attractive.
H. Inman, N. A.—No. 62, ‘Portrait of the late BishopMoore, of Virginia,’ is the admiration of all who behold it. In color it surpasses any thing of Mr.Inman’swe have seen in many a day. Clear and luminous, with great breadth of light, and a mild, pleasing expression. We of course mean this to apply to the head. The hand and part of the drapery are not, in our judgment, so well done. No. 104, ‘Lady with a Mask,’ we do not altogether like; yet it is remarkable for being foreshortened in every part, and possesses that singular charm of light and shadow, and accidental effect, which are the characteristics of our artist’s pencil. No. 314, a Landscape, although small, is delicately handled, and ‘touched in’ with great neatness and accuracy. In effect it is attractive, and in color pleasing. The figure in the fore-ground equals in care and minuteness of finish the manner ofWouvermans.
N. Jocelyn.—No. 57, ‘Portrait of ProfessorSilliman,’ a faithful likeness, and carefully-painted portrait of a distinguished individual. No. 2, ‘Portrait of a Child,’ is another finished picture by this artist; clear and pearly in color and infantile in expression.
Alfred Jones.—No. 301, an engraving fromMount’spicture of ‘Nooning,’ for the American Art-Union, is one of the largest line-engravings ever published in this country, and a work of high order. This style of engraving has heretofore received so little encouragement, that until the Art-Union started it, no one except Mr.Durandhad ever before dared to attempt it. This effort of Mr.Jonesdoes him great credit.
M. Livingstone, A., has several works in the exhibition, but we cannot rank them among the higher class of landscapes. They lack the poetry of landscape-painting; but as amateur productions, they are very good.
E. D. Marchant, A.—All portraits, but none of high merit. Mr.Marchantis a persevering artist, who paints good likenesses and pleasing pictures; and so far, is doubtless popular with those who employ him.
John Megareyhas two portraits, and those far surpassing his former works. They are carefully painted, without an effort at any thing beyond the subject before the artist.
We shall resume and conclude our remarks upon the exhibition in our next number.
Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—We are about to enter upon theTWENTY-FOURTHvolume of theKnickerbocker, for the advertisement of which, please note the second and third pages of the cover of the present number. We have nothing farther to add, than that ‘whathas been, is that whichshall be,’ in our onward progress. This Magazine, much the oldest in the United States, has been established, by the ever-unabated favor of the public, upon a basis of unshaken permanence. Its subscription-list fluctuates only in advance; it has theaffectionof its readers, and all concerned in its production and promulgation, to a degree wholly unexampled; and it is designed not only to maintain, but continually to enhance, its just claims upon the liberal patronage of American readers. The arrangements for the next volume, if they do not ‘preclude competition,’ will be found, it is confidently believed, to preclude any thing like successful rivalry, on the part of any of our contemporaries. On this point, however, we choose as heretofore to be judged by the public.•••Wegave in a recent issue two or three extracts from a lecture on ‘The Inner Life of Man’ delivered by Mr.Charles Hoover, at Newark, New-Jersey. This admirable performance has since been repeated to a highly gratified audience in this city; and from it we derive the following beautiful passage, which we commend to the heart of every lover of his kind: ‘It is a maxim of patriotism never to despair of the republic. Let it be the motto of our philanthropy never to despair of our sinning, sorrowing brother, till his last lingering look upon life has been taken, and all avenues by which angels approach the stricken heart are closed and silent forever. And in such a crisis, let no counsel be taken of narrow, niggard sentiment. When in a sea-storm some human being is seen in the distant surf, clinging to a plank, that is sometimes driven nearer to the shore, and sometimes carried farther off; sometimes buried in the surge, and then rising again, as if itself struggling like the almost hopeless sufferer it supports, who looks sadly to the shore as he rises from every wave, and battling with the billow, mingles his cry for help with the wild, mournful scream of the sea-bird; nature in every bosom on the shore is instinct with anxious pity for his fate, and darts her sympathies to him over the laboring waters. The child drops his play-things, and old age grasps its crutch and hurries to the spot; and the hand that cannot fling a rope is lifted to heaven for help. What though the sufferer be a stranger, a foreigner, an enemy even? Nature in trouble, in consternation, shrieks ‘He is a man!’ and every heart and hand is prompt to the rescue.’ ‘To a high office and ministry, to a life of beneficence, pity and love, each man should deem himself called by a divine vocation, by the appointment of nature; and otherwise living, should judge himself to be an abortion, a mistake, without signification or use in a world like ours. And the beauty, the glory of such a life, is not to be reckoned among ideal things heard out of heaven but never encountered by the eye. This world has had itsChrist, itsFenelons, itsHowards, as well as itsCaligulasandNeros. Love hath been at times a manifestation as well as a principle; and the train of its glory swept far below the stars, and its brightness has fallen in mitigated and mellowed rays from the faces of men. As the ambiguous stranger-star of Bethlehem had its interpreting angel-song to the herdsmen of the plains, so loving men in all ages have given glimpses and interpretations of the love ofGod, and of the pity that is felt for the miserable and the guilty in the palace and presence-chamber ofJehovah. What glory within the scope of human imitation and attainment is comparable to that of the beneficent, the sympathising lover of his race? What more elevated, pure, and beautiful is possible among the achievements of an endless progression in heaven itself?Miltonrepresents the profoundest emotions of joy and wonder among the celestial hosts as occasioned by the first anticipative disclosures of divine pity toward sinning man; and a greater thanMiltonassures us that the transport and festival of angelic joy occurs when Pity lifts the penitent from his prostration and forgives his folly.’•••Embellishmentwould seem to be the literary order of the day, in more ways than one. It has come to be the mode to express the most simple thought in the most magniloquent phrase. This propensityto lingualEuphuismhas given rise to sundry illustrations, in embellished maxims, which are particularly amusing. They are of the sort so finely satirized by ‘Ollapod,’ on one occasion, two or three examples of which we annex. The common phrase of ‘’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good’ was transformed into ‘That gale is truly diseased which puffeth benefactions to nonentity;’ ‘Let well enough alone,’ into ‘Suffer a healthy sufficiency to remain in solitude;’ and ‘What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ into ‘The culinary adornments which suffice for the female of the raceAnser, maybe relished also with the masculine adult of the same species.’ Some London wag, in a kindred spirit, has illustrated the cockney song, ‘If I had a donkey as vouldn’t go, do you think I’d wallop him?’ etc., as follows: ‘The herbaceous boon and the bland recommendation to advance, are more operative on the ansinine quadruped than the stern imprecation and the oaken cudgel:‘Had I an ass averse to speed,I ne’er would strike him; no indeed!I’d give him hay, and cry ‘Proceed,’And ‘Go onEdward!’’The same species of satire is now and then visited upon the ‘Troubadour Songs,’ which have become so afflictingly common of late years. Some of these we have already given; and we find them on the increase in England. We have before us, from the London press ofTilt and Bogue, ‘SirWhystleton Mugges, a Metrical Romaunte, in three Fyttes,’ with copious notes. A stanza or two will suffice as a specimen. The knightly hero, it needs only to premise, has been jilted by his fair ‘ladye-love,’ who retires to her boudoir, while the knight walks off in despair:‘Hys herte beat high and quycke;Forth to his tygere he did call,‘Bring me my palfrey from his stall,For I moste cotte my stycke!’‘Ye stede was brought, ye knyghte jomped up,He woulde not even stay to sup,But swyft he rode away;Still groanynge as he went along,And vowing yet to come out stronge,Upon some future day.‘Alack for poore SyrWhystleton,In love and warre so bold!Ye LadyeBlanchehym browne hath done,He is completely solde!‘Completely solde alack he is,Alack and wel-a-day;MortDieu! a bitterre fate is hysWhose trewe love sayth him nay!’Thus endeth ‘Fytte ye First.’ We learn from the preface that the ‘Rhime of the Manne whose Mothre did not Know he was Out,’ and ‘Ye Lodgemente of MaistreFergisoune,’ are also in the editor’s possession, but owing to the imperfect state of theMSS., it is doubtful whether they will ever be published. They have however been submitted to the inspection of ‘ThePercySociety!’•••Weare well pleased to learn that SirEdward Lytton Bulwer, the distinguished author, is soon to visit the United States. That he will be warmly welcomed and cordially received, we cannot doubt; but we have good reason to believe that in the present instance at least our admiration of true genius will be tempered by all proper self-respect. Mr.Bulwerhas for many years entertained a desire to visit America. In one of his letters to the lateWillis Gaylord Clark, now lying before us, he writes: ‘I have long felt a peculiar admiration for your great and rising country; and it gives me a pleasure far beyond that arising from a vulgar notoriety, to think that I am not unknown to its inhabitants. Some time or other I hope to visit you, and suffer mypresent prepossessions to be confirmed by actual experience.’•••Wehave received and perused with gratification the last report of the ‘New-York Asylum for Deaf Mutes.’ The institution is in the most flourishing condition, and its usefulness greatly increased. We are sorry to perceive, by the following ‘specimen of composition’ of a pupil in the eighth class, that the ‘Orphic Sayings’ of Mr.A. Bronson Alcottare taken as literary models by the deaf and dumb students. The ensuing is certainly much better, internally, than anything from the transcendental ‘seer;’ but the manner too nearly resembles his, for both to be original. There is the same didactic condensation, the same Orphic ‘oneness,’ which distinguishes allAlcottismproper. It is entitled ‘Story of Hog:’‘I walkedon the road. I stood near the water. I undressed my feet. I went in the water. I stood under the bridge. I sat on the log. I washed my feet with hands. I looked at large water came. I ran in the water. I ran out the water. The large water floated fast. I afraid. I wiped feet with stockings. I dressed my feet with stockings and shoes. I went on the ground. I stood on the ground. I seen at the hog ate grass. The hog seen at me. I went on the ground. I ran. The hog heard. The hog looked at me. It ran and jumped. The hog ran under the fence and got his head under the fence and want to ran out the fence! I caught ears its hog. The hog shout. I pulled the hog out the fence. I struck a hog with hand. I rided on the hog ran and jumped fast. The hog ran fell on near the water. I rided off a hog. I stood. I held one ear its hog. The hog slept lies on near the water. I waited. I leaved. I went from the hog. The hog awoke. It rose. It saw not me. It ran and jumped. The hog went from the water. The hog went in the mud and water. The hog wallowed in the mud and water became very dirty. It slept. I went. I went into the house.’The Ekkalaeobionis the name given to an establishment opposite the Washington Hotel, in Broadway, where the formation of chickens,ab initio, is ‘practised to a great extent.’ And really, it is in some respects an awful exhibition, to a reflecting mind. It is as it were a visible exposition of the source of life. You see the pulse of existence throbbing in the yet unformed mass, which assumes, day after day, the image of its kind; until at length the little creature knocks for admittance into this breathing world; steps forth from the shell in which it had been so long ‘cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in;’ and straitway walks abroad, ‘regenerated, disenthralled,’ and ready for its ‘grub.’ By all means, reader, go and see this interesting and instructive exhibition. It is provocative of much reflection, aside from the mere contemplation of it as a matter of curiosity.•••Thecorrespondent who sends us the following, writes upon the envelope containing it: ‘I have endeavored to preserve the measure of the original, and at the same time to present a literal translation.’ It will be conceded, we think, that he has been successful in his endeavor. Perhaps in some lines (as in ‘Pertransivit gladius’) the translation is a littletooliteral:STABAT MATER.I.Stabatmater dolorosa,Juxta crucem lacrymosa,Dum pendebat filius:Cujus animam gementem,Contristantem et dolentem,Pertransivit gladius.I.Nearthe cross the Mother weepingStood, her watch in sorrow keepingWhile was hanging there herSon:Through her soul in anguish groaning,O most sad,Hisfate bemoaning,Through and through that sword was run.II.O quam tristis et afflictaFuit illa benedicta,Mater unigeniti:Quæ mœrebat, et dolebat,Et tremebat, cum videbatNati pœnas inclyti.II.Oh how sad with woe oppressed,Was she then, the Mother blessed,Who the sole-begotten bore:As she saw his pain and anguish,She did tremble, she did languish,Weep her holy Son before.III.Quis est homo qui non fleret,Christi matrem si videretIn tanto supplicio?Quis posset non contristari,Piam matrem contemplari,Dolentem cum filio?III.Who is he his tears concealing,Could have seen such anguish stealingThrough the Saviour-mother’s breast?Who his deepest groans could smother,Had he seen the holy MotherBy her Son with grief oppressed!IV.Pro peccatis suæ gentisVidit Jesum in tormentis,Et flagellis subditum;Vidit suum dulcem natumMorientem, desolatum,Dum emisit spiritum.IV.Christ for Israel’s transgressionSaw she suffer thus oppression,Torment, and the cruel blow:Saw Him desolate and dying;Him she loved, beheld Him sighingForth His soul in deepest woe.V.Eja mater, fons amoris,Me sentire vim dolorisFac, ut tecum lugeam.Fac ut ardeat cor meum,In amando Christum Deum,Ut sibi complaceam.V.Source of love, thy grief, O Mother,Grant with thee to share another—Grant that I with thee may weep:May my heart with love be glowing,All on Christ my God bestowing,In His favor ever keep.VI.Saneta mater, istud agas,Crucifixi fige plagasCordi meo valide:Tui nati vulnerati,Jam dignati pro me pati,Pœnas mecum divide.VI.This, oh holy Mother! granting,In my heart the wounds implantingOf His cross, oh let me bear:Pangs with which thy Son when woundedDeigned for me to be surrounded,Grant, oh grant that I may share.VII.Fac me vere tecum flere,Crucifixo condolere,Donec ego vixero:Juxta crucem tecum stare,Te libenter sociareIn planctu desidero.VII.Be my eyes with tears o’erflowing,For the crucified bestowing,Till my eyes shall close in death:Ever by that cross be standing,Willingly with thee demandingBut to share each mournful breath.VIII.Virgo virginum præclara,Mihi jam non sis amaraFac me tecum plangere;Fadut portem Christi mortem,Passionis ejus sortem,Et plagas recolere.VIII.Thou of virgins blest forever,Oh deny I pray thee neverThat I may lament with thee:Be my soul His death enduring,And His passion—thus securingOf His pains the memory.IX.Fac me plagis vulnerari,Cruce hac inebriari,Ob amorem filii:Inflammatus et accensusPer te, virgo, sim defensusIn die judicii.IX.With those blows may I be smitten,In my heart that cross be written,For thy Son’s dear love alway:Glowing, burning with affection,Grant me, Virgin! thy protection,In the dreaded judgment-day.X.Fac me cruce custodiri,Morte Christi præmuniri,Confoveri gratia:Quando corpus morietur,Fac ut animæ doneturParadisi gloria.X.May that cross its aid extend me,May the death of Christ defend me,With its saving grace surround;And when life’s last link is riven,To my soul be glory given,That in Paradise is found.St. Paul’s College.G. H. H.OurPine-street correspondent, who addresses us upon the ‘Fashionable Society in New-York,’ writes from the promptings of an honest-hearted frankness,thatis quite clear; but he has not yet acquired that sort of useful information which is conveyed by the term, ‘knowing the world.’ The ‘fashionable circles’par excellence, whose breeding and bearing he impugns, are of theBeauvoirschool; persons who ‘are of yourgens de cotorie; your people of the real ‘caste’ and ‘tone;’ that is, your people who singly would be set down as nought in society, but who, as a ‘set,’ have managed to make their joint-stock impudence imposing.’ Our correspondent, we suspect, has one important lesson to learn in his intercourse with such persons; and it is a lesson which has been felicitously set forth by a late English essayist. There is a recipe in some old book, he says, ‘How to avoidbeing tossed by a bull;’ and the instruction is, ‘Toss him.’ Try the experiment upon the first coxcomb who fancies that you are his inferior; charge first, and give him to understand at once that he is yours. Be coldly supercilious with all ‘important’ catiffs, and most punctual be your attention to any matter in debate; but let no temptation prevail with you to touch on any earthly point beyond it. In the case alluded to, a pompous old baronet comes down stairs loaded to the very muzzle to repress ‘familiarity’ on the part of a young man, who from an estate of dependence has recently mounted by inheritance to a princely fortune; but the cool, quiet young gentleman finds the old baronet guilty of ‘familiarity’ himself, and makes him bear the penalty of it, before six sentences are exchanged between them. The secret of the whole thing was, a quiet look directly in the eye, and the preservation of a deliberate silence; the true way to dissolve your pompous gentleman or affected ‘fashionable’ lady. The baronet’s long pauses the young heir did not move to interrupt. His merelisteningdrew the old aristocrat gradually out; his auditor replied monosyllabically, and made him pull him all the way. It was pitiful to see the old buzzard, who thought himself high and mighty, compelled to communicate with one who would have no notion of any body’s being high and mighty at all; getting gradually out of patience at the obstinate formality he was compelled to encounter, which he was sure any direct overture toward intimacy on his part would remove; and at last, in the midst of his doubts whether he should be familiar with the young man, being struck with a stronger doubt whether such familiarity would be reciprocated; it was a rich scene altogether, and worthy of being remembered by our correspondent.•••TheMay issue of the ‘Cultivator’ agricultural Magazine, which under the supervision of the lateWillis Gaylordreached a circulation of between forty and fifty thousand copies, contains an elaborate notice of its lamented editor, in which we find (in a letter fromH. S. Randall, Esq.,) the following passage:‘Hisreading was literally boundless. He was as familiar with the natural sciences, history, poetry, and belles-letters, as with agriculture, and nearly if not quite as well qualified to discuss them. It was difficult to start any literary topic which you did not at once perceive had been examined by him with the eye of a scholar and critic. In one of my letters, half sportively, yet in a serious tone, I asked him ‘what he thought of the German Philosophy?’ In his answer,KantandFichte, and I thinkSchellingandJacobi, were discussed with as much familiarity as most scholars would find themselves qualified to make use of in speaking ofLocke, orStewart, orBrown. In commenting on the report of mine, (on Common School Libraries,) alluded to by him in the last Cultivator, he betrays an extensive knowledge of the literature of nearly every nation in Europe. As a writer, the public have long been acquainted with Mr.Gaylord. He wrote on nearly every class of topics connected with human improvement; in papers, magazines, and not unfrequently in books. But it is as an agricultural writer that he is best known. Here, taken all in all, he stands unrivalled. There are many agricultural writers in our country who are as well or better qualified to discuss a single topic, than he was. But I deem it not disrespectful to say, that for acquaintance with and ability to discuss clearly and correctly every department of agricultural science, he has not, he never has had, an equal in this State. He was every way fitted for an editor. Placable and forgiving in his temper; modest, disinterested, unprejudiced; never evincing a foolish credulity; above deception, despising quackery; with an honesty of motive that was never suspected.’No one who knew intimately our lamented relative and friend, but will confirm the justice of this encomium. We trust that a collection ofWillis Gaylord’swritings, literary, scientific, and agricultural, will be made by some competent hand. They are demanded, we perceive, by various public journals throughout the country.•••Professor Gouraud’sextraordinary exposition ofPhreno-Mnemotechnyseems to be winning him ‘fame and fortune’ wherever he goes. He was in Philadelphia at the last advices, where his success was to the full as signal as in this city. It is obvious, we think, that the advantages of this great system will hereafter be chiefly enjoyed by the rising generation, who will thus be enabled to attain in six months an amount of information which in the ordinary way could scarcely be mastered in as many years. Still, the science has already been studied by hundreds of highly-endowedmen, persons eminent in their own peculiar walks, who have cheerfully yielded their tributes of admiration to its vast resources. Several excellent articles upon this theme have from time to time appeared in the columns of the ‘New World’ weekly journal, from the pen of Mr.Mackay, one of the editors; who, being himself a pupil of Mr.Gouraud, writes from personal experience of the matterin question. ‘A thousand dollars,’ he avers, ‘would not be a fair equivalent for the great advantages obtainable by Phreno-Mnemotechny;’ and in this opinion there is a general concurrence of ProfessorGouraud’spupils in this city.•••Whata power there is in much of the occasional music one hears, to stir the heart! Perhaps you never heardBrough, to the ‘instrumentation’ of that fine composer and most facile performer, ‘Frank Brown,’ singBarry Cornwall’s‘King Death,’ or ‘The Admiral and the Shark?’ No? Then never let the opportunity to do so slip, if you should ever be so fortunate as to enjoy it. Listen to the words of the first-named:I.King Deathwas a rare old fellow,He sat where no sun could shine;And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wine!II.There came to him many a maiden,Whose eyes had forgot to shine,And widows with grief o’er laden,For a draught of his sleepy wine.III.The scholar left all his learning,The poet his fancied woes;And the beauty her bloom returningLike life to the fading rose.IV.All came to the rare old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,As he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them inDeath’sblack wine.Weshould reluct at consorting with any citizen who could hear this song executed, in the manner ofBrough, without feeling the electric fluid coursinguphis vertebra, and passing off at the points of his hair, as the hollow tones waver down the chromatic, or wail in low and spondaic monotones. ‘F. B.’ was ‘rich’ in ‘Over There,’ a song which, like the numerous platitudes of the ‘Brigadier-General,’ is indebted to its music for its popularity. There ensues a verse that is very striking:‘Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there! over there!Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there!‘Oh I wish I was a geese,’Cause they lives and dies in peace,And accumulates much grease,Over there!’Nothing by the author ofThomas Campbell’s‘Woodman Spare that Beechen-Tree’ amended, equals the foregoing in the melody of its language or ‘breadth of effect.’ Speaking of songs: what can be more delightful than those of our fair correspondent Mrs.Hewitt? Her translations are excellent; and the words she has written for the use of that great musical genius,Wallace, in his romance of ‘Le Réve,’ are ‘beautiful exceedingly.’ Mrs.Bailey, a most pleasingartiste, well remembered here, has recently produced them at her concerts in Baltimore, with greatéclat.•••The ‘Spirit of the Times,’ with its numerous and ample pages, filled to overflowing with a variety which always seems to embrace ‘every thing that’s going;’ whether relating to all sorts of matters interesting to all sorts of sportsmen, or to literature, the drama, agricultural science, and the fine arts; this same widely popular journal is now afforded atFIVE DOLLARS A YEAR! ‘Ask that gentleman to sit down; he’s said enough!’•••Every-bodymust remember the ‘Boots’ who figures in one ofDickens’stories, who was wont to designate all the lodgers by the names of their different kinds of boots, shoes, slippers, etc. The author of ‘The Two Patrons,’ a capital tale in the last number ofBlackwood’sMagazine, has a serving-man of a similar kind, who in commenting upon the visitors at his master’s house, compares them to diverse dishes, as shadowing forth the relative degrees of aristocracy. He establishes some one supereminent article of food as a high ideal, to which all other kinds of edibles are to be referred; and the farther removed from this imaginary point of perfection any dish appears, the more vulgar and common-place it becomes: ‘They are low, uncommon low; reg’lar b’iled mutton and turnips. They may be rich, but they a’nt genteel. Nothink won’t do but to be at it from the very beginning; fight after it as much as they like; wear the best of gownds, and go to the fustest of boarding-schools; though they plays ever so well on the piando, and talks Italian like a reg’lar Frenchman, nothink won’t do; there’sthe b’iled mutton and turnips sticking out still. LadyCharlotte, now, is a werry different affair; quite the roast fowl and bl’mange; how unlikeouryoung ladies!—b’iled veals and parsley and butters—shocking wulgarity! And look at the father: I never see no gentleman with so broad a back, except p’raps a prize-ox.’ There is another very amusing character in the same story; one of those stupid matter-of-fact persons, who can never appreciate a figure of speech, or understand the simplest jest. A ‘benign cerulean,’ enthusiastic for the ‘rights of the sex,’ remarks that woman’s rights and duties are becoming every day more widely appreciated. ‘The old-fashioned scale must be readjusted; and woman, noble, elevating, surprising woman, ascend to the loftiest eminence, and sit superior on the topmost branch of the social tree.’ The ear of the matter-of-fact man catches the last simile, and he ventures to say: ‘Uncommon bad climbers, for the most part in general, is women. Their clothes isn’t adapted to it. I minds once I seen a woman climb a pole after a leg of mutting!’ If looks could have killed the mal-apropos speaker, he would not have survived the reception which this ridiculous remark encountered from every guest at the table. He was himself struck with the mournful silence that followed his observation, and added, by way of explanation: ‘That was a thing as happing’d on a pole; in coors it would be werry different on a tree, because of the branches.’ At length, however, the theme of woman is renewed by the former advocate: ‘Woman has not yet received her full development. The time will come when her influence shall be universal; when, softened, subdued, and elevated, the animal now called Man will be unknown. You will be all women: can the world look for a higher destiny?’ ‘In coors,’ observed the old spoon, ‘if we are all turned into woming, the world will come to an end. For ‘spose a case; ‘spose it had been my sister as married my wife, instead of me; it’s probable there would’nt have been no great fambly; wich in coors, if there was no population——’ What the fearful result of this supposed case would have been, was not permitted to transpire. The feminine ‘b’iled veals and parsley and butters’ immediately rose and left the table, and the matter-of-fact man to the ridicule of the male guests.•••If our metropolitan friend ‘S.,’ who has disappointed us in a paper intended for the present number, ‘by reason of that contemptible disorder, dyspepsia,’ will take our advice, he will not be likely to fail us again, from a similar cause. Let him walk, as we do, some six or eight miles every day; and above all, pay frequent visits to our old friend Dr.Rabineau’sspacious and delightfulSalt-Water Swimming Bath, near Castle-Garden; always remembering to make free use of his ‘crash towels.’ Dyspepsia never made a call upon us; and it ‘doesn’t associate with any body’ that keeps company with that public benefactor, Dr.Rabineau.•••We should be reluctant to introduce the annexed profane story to our readers, but that it forcibly illustrates a characteristic vice of the wandering natives of a little island across the water, who are never at a loss for ‘themes of disgust’ in relation to America, and the ‘revolting habits’ of American citizens. On the continent, an Englishman is universally known by thesoubriquetof ‘SignorGoddam; and many of our readers wilt rememberByron’sanecdote of the pompous Italian in London, who was desirous of imitating the English style in the British metropolis. ‘Bring me,’ said he, with an imperious tone, ‘bring me some wine! Why don’t you bring him?’ The servant answered: ‘I will, Sir.’ ‘Youwill?’ rejoined the Italian; ‘youwill, eh?Goddam, youMUSHT!’ And this settled the question. But to the story ‘under notice,’ which was picked up by our correspondent at Cairo, in Egypt:‘An impetuous Englishman, unacquainted with any language but his own, was desirous of seeing Egypt, and satisfying himself by occular demonstration of the truth of the many wonders which he had heard of that celebrated land. To get to Alexandria was easy enough; and some acquaintances whom he had picked up on the way, kindly facilitated his journey to the Nile, and saw him fairly afloat in hiscangeafor Cairo. But here, left with an Arab captain, and five swarthy Egyptians, his difficulties commenced, and without knowing a single word of Arabic, he had to depend on his own resources. The boats on the Nile are very ticklish flat-bottomed affairs, wretchedly handled. Before the wind they rush up like steamers, but on a wind, go to lee-ward like feathers; while in consequence of the Nile being full of shifting sand-banks, with a daily varying depth of water, they are continually running aground in the middle of the river. To this add the laziness of the captain andcrew, to whom time was of no consequence; to-day, to-morrow, the next day, or a week hence, was all the same to them; they had no preferment to look forward to, no release from labor but death; and wisely enough, perhaps, exerted themselves as little as they could. ‘Inshalla!Godwas great, and the sun was hot! Why should they weary themselves?’ And so they took every opportunity to rest, cook their miserable fare, and dawdle the listless hours away. Of these dilatory habits of the natives the Englishman had been warned, and that whenever it happened, he was to prevent them from stopping, and force them to go on.‘The opportunity was not long wanting. Without any reason sufficiently apparent to him, the huge stone fastened to a coir cable, and doing duty for an anchor, was dropped overboard, and the crew betook themselves to sleep. What was to be done? Of Arabic he had not a word to tell them to proceed; but he had plenty of English; so by dint of shaking his stick at the captain, and a somewhat boisterous ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ roared out in a tone sufficiently indicative of his wishes, the primitive ‘anchor’ was got up, and onward they proceeded. Delighted to find his most British remonstrance succeed, he did not let it rust for want of practice; but every time the lazy crew attempted to ‘bring to,’ the stamp, the roar, and the shake of the stick, with the never-failing objurgation, were resorted to, and invariably with the same results. The passage up to Cairo averages three days, but vessels have been known to be as many as nine. Seven, eight, nine days past; twelve, fourteen; yet as if by magic, Grand Cairo seemed to recede before them. No time had been lost by him, for the wind had been strong in their favor, and he scarcely allowed the crew to take the necessary rest. It was very odd how greatly had he been misinformed in the distance! The very maps too seemed leagued against him; his manifold measurings and calculations were of no apparent avail. At last, at rising on the morning-of the fifteenth day, he found himself at anchor off a strange tumble-down-looking town, which by signs the captain gave him to understand was the place of his destination. Could that be ‘Grand Cairo!’ How odd! But then he was in a country of oddities; and on stepping ashore, he encountered a sun-burnt English-looking man gazing earnestly at the new arrival.‘Is this Grand Cairo, Sir?’ inquired the astonished novice.‘Grand Cairo, Sir! GoodGod, no! This is Kennah, a thousand miles beyond! Why, how the devil did you manage to get up here without knowing it? Do you speak Arabic?’‘Not a word!’‘Umph! What language thendidyou speak?’‘No other than English; but when they stopped, I d—d their eyes soundly, and they seemed to understand very well whatthatmeant, for they were up anchor and off in a jiffy!’The stranger, who spoke Arabic fluently, sought an explanation of the native captain, and the mystery was quickly solved.‘How did you contrive to get up here,Ryis, instead of stopping at Cairo?’‘Why, Effendim, the Frank was the most impatient man in the world: no sooner did we stop to cook, to rest, or for the wind, than stick in hand, and raving with passion, he stamped on the deck, and with a gesture too imperious to be mistaken, shouted the only Arabic sentence which he seemed to know, which was ‘GoddamRyis!’—and ‘Inshallah!’ we got no rest, but were forced to work like devils. We passed Bourlac (Cairo) in the night, andAllah Kherim!here we are at a town which none of you Christians pass without stopping.’‘God-dam’ is very good Arabic for ‘go on;’ and ‘Ry-i-s,’ means ‘captain.’ ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ however thoroughly English it may seem to cockneys, is very tolerable Arabic for ‘Go on, captain!’ (en avant.)‘A Story of Sorrow and Crime’ is an affecting monitory sketch, devoid of that mawkishness which is sometimes the characteristic of kindred performances. The writer’s reflections upon the career of his hero, remind us of that beautiful passage in one ofBlair’sessays: ‘Life is short: the poor pittance of seventy years is worth being a villain for. What matters it if your neighbor lies in a splendid tomb? Sleep you with innocence! Look behind you through the track of time; a vast desert lies open in the retrospect; through this desert have your fathers journeyed on, until wearied with years and sorrows, they sunk from the walks of men. You must leave them where they fell, and you are to go a little farther, where you will find eternal rest. Whatever you may have to encounter between the cradle and the grave, every moment is big with innumerable events, which come not in slow succession, but bursting forcibly from a revolving and unknown cause, fly over this orb with diversified influence.’•••‘F. P.’s ‘Western Adventures’ have goodpointsabout them, but if published entire, would we think disappoint himself perhaps as much as his readers. Here is an anecdote, however, which is worth ‘jotting down’ in types: ‘I met not long after in New-York a man who had just been induced to rent the very hotel in Kentucky which was the scene of the reverses I have been describing. Aware that I had at one time kept the establishment, he was anxious to know my opinion of its pecuniary promise. ‘I don’t expect to make much the first year,’ said he; ‘I shall be satisfied if I ‘realize’ all expenses. But do you think I shall clear myself the first year?’ ‘I haven’t the slightest doubt of it,’ I replied; ‘I cleared myselfbefore the first six months were up, and was d—dgladto get off so; and I rather guess thatyou’llbe too, in about half that time.’ And he was!’•••Could there be a more affecting picture than that of a fond mother learning for the first time from the tell-tale prattle of her little ones thatshe is ‘given over to darkness and the worm’ by her friends, who had disguised from her the fatal truth? Such is the scene depicted in these pathetic lines:‘Hespeaketh now: ‘Oh, mother dear!’Murmurs the little child:And there is trouble in his eyes,Those large blue eyes so mild:‘Oh, mother dear! they say that soon,When here I seek for theeI shall not find thee—nor out there,Under the old oak-tree;‘Nor up stairs in the nursery,Nor any where, they say:Where wilt thou go to, mother dear?Oh, do not go away!’There was long silence, a deep hush,And then the child’s low sob:Herquivering eyelids close: one handKeeps down the heart’s quick throb.And the lips move, though sound is none,That inward voice is prayer.And hark! ‘Thywill, OLord, be done!’And tears are trickling there—Down that pale cheek, on that young head;And round her neck he clings;And child and mother murmur outUnutterable things.Hehalf unconscious,shedeep-struckWith sudden, solemn truth,That number’d are her days on earth—Her shroud prepared in youth:That all in life her heart holds dearGodcalls her to resign:She hears, feels, trembles—but looks up,And sighs ‘Thywill be mine!’’‘I camedown from Albany the other evening,’ writes a correspondent, ‘in that floating palace, theKnickerbockersteamer; I slept in yourKnickerbockerstate-room; arrived in town, I took after dinner aKnickerbockeromnibus, and rode up to the ‘Westminster Abbey Bowling Saloon,’ named ofKnickerbocker; I called on you with my article for theKnickerbockerMagazine; and on my way down, enjoyed a delightful ablution at theKnickerbockerBath; stepped into theKnickerbockerTheatre, and ‘laughed consumedly’ over an amusing play; and finally, closed with a cup of delicious tea, green and black, and anchovy-toast, atKnickerbockerHall. Every thing, I was glad to see, wasKnickerbocker.’ Very flattering; yet we dare say our friend was not aware that this Magazine was thepioneerin the use of this popular name in Gotham, and that its example has suggested, one after another, the namesakes to which he has alluded. Such, howbeit, is the undeniable fact.•••Weremarked the example ofcatachresisto which ‘L.’ alludes, and laughed at it, we venture to say, as heartily as himself. It was not quite so glaring however as the confused images of a celebrated Irish advocate: ‘I smell a rat; I see it brewing in the storm; and I will crush it in the bud!’•••Wefind several things to admire in our Detroit friend’s ‘Tale of Border Warfare;’ but he can’t ‘talk Indian’—that is very clear. The ‘abrogynes’ are not in the habit of making interminable speeches: they leave that to white members of Congress, who pump up a feeling in a day’s speech ‘for Buncombe.’ Do you remember whatHallecksays ofRed-Jacket?‘The spell of eloquence is thine, that reachesThe heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;And there’s one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,The secret of their mastery—they are short.’Not one man in a thousand can talk or write the true ‘Indian.’ Our friendSa-go-sen-o-ta, formerly known as Col.William L. Stone, is one of the best Indian writers in this country. His late letter ‘To the Sachems, Chiefs, and Warriors of the Seneca Indians,’ acknowledging the honor they had done him in electing him a chief, is a perfect thing in its kind. May it be long before the ‘Master of Breath’ shall call him to ‘the fair hunting-grounds, through clouds bright as fleeces of gold, upon a ladder as beautiful as the rainbow!’•••Ourentertaining ‘Dartmoor Prisoner’ has a pleasant story of a fellow-captive who on one occasion performed that ‘cautionary’ experiment which is sometimes denominated ‘putting your foot in it.’ The term is of legitimate origin, it should seem. According to theAsiatic Researches, a very curious mode of trying the title to land is practised in Hindostan. Two holes are dug in the disputed spot, in each of which the lawyers on either side put one of their legs, and remain there until one of them is tired, orcomplains of being stung by the insects, in which case his client is defeated. In this country it is the client and not the lawyer who ‘puts his foot into it!’•••Wehave commenced in the present, and shall conclude in our next number, a ‘Legend of the Conquest of Spain,’ byWashington Irving. We derive it from the same source whence we received the ‘Legend of DonRoderick,’ lately published in these pages. We commend its graphic limnings and stirring incidents to the admiration of our readers.•••A friendand correspondent in a sister city dashes in with a rich brush, in one of his familiar letters to us, a sketch of a boss-painter, who was renovating the writer’s house with sundry pots of paint; a conceited, half-informed prig, who having grown rich, talks of ‘going to Europe in the steam-boat,’ and has a huge fancy for seeing Italy. ‘Yes,’ said the house-and-signRaphael, ‘I must see Rome and Athens; them Romans allers made a great impression on me; the land ofApellesandXerxes; ah! that must be worth travelling for.’ ‘Would you not rather run over England?’ I asked; but the asspoohedat England, and on the strength of his daubing our house-blinds, claimed an interest in the Fine Arts abroad: ‘No, Sir, give me Italy—the Loover and the Vattykin; them’s the places for my money! Gods! how I should like to rummage over them old-masters! They beatusall hollow—that’s a fact. I’ll give in to them. There never was such painters before, nor never will be. I want to study ’em.’ ‘Yes,’ I rejoined; ‘’twould interest you, doubtless; and after having studied the great painters in Italy, you might return by way of Switzerland, and scrape acquaintance with theglaciers.’ The booby did nottake, but only stared and said: ‘Oh, they’re famous for glass-work there, be they?’ This lover of the Fine Arts had a counterpart in the man who having ‘made as much money as he wanted by tradin’ in Boston,’ went ‘a-travelling abroad;’ and while in Florence, called onPowersthe sculptor, with a design to ‘patronize’ him a little. After looking at his ‘Greek Slave,’ his ‘Eve,’ and other gems of art, he remarked that he ‘thought they’d look a good ’eal better if they had some clothes on. I’m pretty well off,’ he continued, ‘and ha’n’t a chick nor child in the world; and I thought I’d price astattyor two. What’s the damage, now, for that one you’re peckin’ at?’ ‘It should be worth from four to five thousand dollars, I think,’ answeredPowers. ‘What! five thousand dollars forthat ’are! I cal’lated to buy me a piece ofstattyarybefore I went home, butthat’sout of the question!Hasn’t stattyary riz lately?How’s paintin’s here now?’•••Justcomplaints are made by our city contemporaries of the exorbitant rates of postage upon weekly periodicals. Mr.Williscomplains, in the ‘New-Mirror’ weekly journal, that country postmasters charge so much postage on that periodical by mail, that in many cases it would make the work cost to its country subscribers something like ten dollars a year! All postage in this country is at too high a rate; and so long as it remains so, the law will continue to be evaded. ‘CheatingUncle Sam’ is not considered a very heinous offence. There is nothing one robs with so little compunction as one’s country. It is at the very worst robbing only eighteen millions of people.•••Thelines sent us in rejoinder to the stanzas of ‘C. W. D.,’ in a late issue, would not beoriginalin our pages; nor could we hope to have manynewreaders for them, after they have appeared in, and of course been copied from, that exceedingly pleasant and well-edited daily journal, theBoston Evening Transcript.•••Hauffman, the German poet, was recently expelled from the Prussian dominions, and all his works proscribed thenceforth. ‘Served him right;’ for in one of his works appears the ‘word following, to wit:’ ‘Sleuerverweigerungsverfassungsmassigberechtig!’—meaning a man who is exempt by the constitution from the payment of taxes. ‘Myscheeves thick’ must needs follow such terrific words. ‘We have heard,’ says a London critic, in allusion to this jaw-breaker, ‘of a gentleman, a member of theMarionettenschauspielhausengesellschaft, who was said to be an excellent performer on the ‘Constantinopolitanischetudelsackpfeife!’’•••Weowe a word of apology to our friends the publishers, for the omission of notices which we had prepared of their publications, and which are crowded out by our title-page and index, that were forgotten until the last moment. We shall ‘bring up arrears’ in our next.
Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—We are about to enter upon theTWENTY-FOURTHvolume of theKnickerbocker, for the advertisement of which, please note the second and third pages of the cover of the present number. We have nothing farther to add, than that ‘whathas been, is that whichshall be,’ in our onward progress. This Magazine, much the oldest in the United States, has been established, by the ever-unabated favor of the public, upon a basis of unshaken permanence. Its subscription-list fluctuates only in advance; it has theaffectionof its readers, and all concerned in its production and promulgation, to a degree wholly unexampled; and it is designed not only to maintain, but continually to enhance, its just claims upon the liberal patronage of American readers. The arrangements for the next volume, if they do not ‘preclude competition,’ will be found, it is confidently believed, to preclude any thing like successful rivalry, on the part of any of our contemporaries. On this point, however, we choose as heretofore to be judged by the public.•••Wegave in a recent issue two or three extracts from a lecture on ‘The Inner Life of Man’ delivered by Mr.Charles Hoover, at Newark, New-Jersey. This admirable performance has since been repeated to a highly gratified audience in this city; and from it we derive the following beautiful passage, which we commend to the heart of every lover of his kind: ‘It is a maxim of patriotism never to despair of the republic. Let it be the motto of our philanthropy never to despair of our sinning, sorrowing brother, till his last lingering look upon life has been taken, and all avenues by which angels approach the stricken heart are closed and silent forever. And in such a crisis, let no counsel be taken of narrow, niggard sentiment. When in a sea-storm some human being is seen in the distant surf, clinging to a plank, that is sometimes driven nearer to the shore, and sometimes carried farther off; sometimes buried in the surge, and then rising again, as if itself struggling like the almost hopeless sufferer it supports, who looks sadly to the shore as he rises from every wave, and battling with the billow, mingles his cry for help with the wild, mournful scream of the sea-bird; nature in every bosom on the shore is instinct with anxious pity for his fate, and darts her sympathies to him over the laboring waters. The child drops his play-things, and old age grasps its crutch and hurries to the spot; and the hand that cannot fling a rope is lifted to heaven for help. What though the sufferer be a stranger, a foreigner, an enemy even? Nature in trouble, in consternation, shrieks ‘He is a man!’ and every heart and hand is prompt to the rescue.’ ‘To a high office and ministry, to a life of beneficence, pity and love, each man should deem himself called by a divine vocation, by the appointment of nature; and otherwise living, should judge himself to be an abortion, a mistake, without signification or use in a world like ours. And the beauty, the glory of such a life, is not to be reckoned among ideal things heard out of heaven but never encountered by the eye. This world has had itsChrist, itsFenelons, itsHowards, as well as itsCaligulasandNeros. Love hath been at times a manifestation as well as a principle; and the train of its glory swept far below the stars, and its brightness has fallen in mitigated and mellowed rays from the faces of men. As the ambiguous stranger-star of Bethlehem had its interpreting angel-song to the herdsmen of the plains, so loving men in all ages have given glimpses and interpretations of the love ofGod, and of the pity that is felt for the miserable and the guilty in the palace and presence-chamber ofJehovah. What glory within the scope of human imitation and attainment is comparable to that of the beneficent, the sympathising lover of his race? What more elevated, pure, and beautiful is possible among the achievements of an endless progression in heaven itself?Miltonrepresents the profoundest emotions of joy and wonder among the celestial hosts as occasioned by the first anticipative disclosures of divine pity toward sinning man; and a greater thanMiltonassures us that the transport and festival of angelic joy occurs when Pity lifts the penitent from his prostration and forgives his folly.’•••Embellishmentwould seem to be the literary order of the day, in more ways than one. It has come to be the mode to express the most simple thought in the most magniloquent phrase. This propensityto lingualEuphuismhas given rise to sundry illustrations, in embellished maxims, which are particularly amusing. They are of the sort so finely satirized by ‘Ollapod,’ on one occasion, two or three examples of which we annex. The common phrase of ‘’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good’ was transformed into ‘That gale is truly diseased which puffeth benefactions to nonentity;’ ‘Let well enough alone,’ into ‘Suffer a healthy sufficiency to remain in solitude;’ and ‘What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ into ‘The culinary adornments which suffice for the female of the raceAnser, maybe relished also with the masculine adult of the same species.’ Some London wag, in a kindred spirit, has illustrated the cockney song, ‘If I had a donkey as vouldn’t go, do you think I’d wallop him?’ etc., as follows: ‘The herbaceous boon and the bland recommendation to advance, are more operative on the ansinine quadruped than the stern imprecation and the oaken cudgel:‘Had I an ass averse to speed,I ne’er would strike him; no indeed!I’d give him hay, and cry ‘Proceed,’And ‘Go onEdward!’’The same species of satire is now and then visited upon the ‘Troubadour Songs,’ which have become so afflictingly common of late years. Some of these we have already given; and we find them on the increase in England. We have before us, from the London press ofTilt and Bogue, ‘SirWhystleton Mugges, a Metrical Romaunte, in three Fyttes,’ with copious notes. A stanza or two will suffice as a specimen. The knightly hero, it needs only to premise, has been jilted by his fair ‘ladye-love,’ who retires to her boudoir, while the knight walks off in despair:‘Hys herte beat high and quycke;Forth to his tygere he did call,‘Bring me my palfrey from his stall,For I moste cotte my stycke!’‘Ye stede was brought, ye knyghte jomped up,He woulde not even stay to sup,But swyft he rode away;Still groanynge as he went along,And vowing yet to come out stronge,Upon some future day.‘Alack for poore SyrWhystleton,In love and warre so bold!Ye LadyeBlanchehym browne hath done,He is completely solde!‘Completely solde alack he is,Alack and wel-a-day;MortDieu! a bitterre fate is hysWhose trewe love sayth him nay!’Thus endeth ‘Fytte ye First.’ We learn from the preface that the ‘Rhime of the Manne whose Mothre did not Know he was Out,’ and ‘Ye Lodgemente of MaistreFergisoune,’ are also in the editor’s possession, but owing to the imperfect state of theMSS., it is doubtful whether they will ever be published. They have however been submitted to the inspection of ‘ThePercySociety!’•••Weare well pleased to learn that SirEdward Lytton Bulwer, the distinguished author, is soon to visit the United States. That he will be warmly welcomed and cordially received, we cannot doubt; but we have good reason to believe that in the present instance at least our admiration of true genius will be tempered by all proper self-respect. Mr.Bulwerhas for many years entertained a desire to visit America. In one of his letters to the lateWillis Gaylord Clark, now lying before us, he writes: ‘I have long felt a peculiar admiration for your great and rising country; and it gives me a pleasure far beyond that arising from a vulgar notoriety, to think that I am not unknown to its inhabitants. Some time or other I hope to visit you, and suffer mypresent prepossessions to be confirmed by actual experience.’•••Wehave received and perused with gratification the last report of the ‘New-York Asylum for Deaf Mutes.’ The institution is in the most flourishing condition, and its usefulness greatly increased. We are sorry to perceive, by the following ‘specimen of composition’ of a pupil in the eighth class, that the ‘Orphic Sayings’ of Mr.A. Bronson Alcottare taken as literary models by the deaf and dumb students. The ensuing is certainly much better, internally, than anything from the transcendental ‘seer;’ but the manner too nearly resembles his, for both to be original. There is the same didactic condensation, the same Orphic ‘oneness,’ which distinguishes allAlcottismproper. It is entitled ‘Story of Hog:’‘I walkedon the road. I stood near the water. I undressed my feet. I went in the water. I stood under the bridge. I sat on the log. I washed my feet with hands. I looked at large water came. I ran in the water. I ran out the water. The large water floated fast. I afraid. I wiped feet with stockings. I dressed my feet with stockings and shoes. I went on the ground. I stood on the ground. I seen at the hog ate grass. The hog seen at me. I went on the ground. I ran. The hog heard. The hog looked at me. It ran and jumped. The hog ran under the fence and got his head under the fence and want to ran out the fence! I caught ears its hog. The hog shout. I pulled the hog out the fence. I struck a hog with hand. I rided on the hog ran and jumped fast. The hog ran fell on near the water. I rided off a hog. I stood. I held one ear its hog. The hog slept lies on near the water. I waited. I leaved. I went from the hog. The hog awoke. It rose. It saw not me. It ran and jumped. The hog went from the water. The hog went in the mud and water. The hog wallowed in the mud and water became very dirty. It slept. I went. I went into the house.’
Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—We are about to enter upon theTWENTY-FOURTHvolume of theKnickerbocker, for the advertisement of which, please note the second and third pages of the cover of the present number. We have nothing farther to add, than that ‘whathas been, is that whichshall be,’ in our onward progress. This Magazine, much the oldest in the United States, has been established, by the ever-unabated favor of the public, upon a basis of unshaken permanence. Its subscription-list fluctuates only in advance; it has theaffectionof its readers, and all concerned in its production and promulgation, to a degree wholly unexampled; and it is designed not only to maintain, but continually to enhance, its just claims upon the liberal patronage of American readers. The arrangements for the next volume, if they do not ‘preclude competition,’ will be found, it is confidently believed, to preclude any thing like successful rivalry, on the part of any of our contemporaries. On this point, however, we choose as heretofore to be judged by the public.•••Wegave in a recent issue two or three extracts from a lecture on ‘The Inner Life of Man’ delivered by Mr.Charles Hoover, at Newark, New-Jersey. This admirable performance has since been repeated to a highly gratified audience in this city; and from it we derive the following beautiful passage, which we commend to the heart of every lover of his kind: ‘It is a maxim of patriotism never to despair of the republic. Let it be the motto of our philanthropy never to despair of our sinning, sorrowing brother, till his last lingering look upon life has been taken, and all avenues by which angels approach the stricken heart are closed and silent forever. And in such a crisis, let no counsel be taken of narrow, niggard sentiment. When in a sea-storm some human being is seen in the distant surf, clinging to a plank, that is sometimes driven nearer to the shore, and sometimes carried farther off; sometimes buried in the surge, and then rising again, as if itself struggling like the almost hopeless sufferer it supports, who looks sadly to the shore as he rises from every wave, and battling with the billow, mingles his cry for help with the wild, mournful scream of the sea-bird; nature in every bosom on the shore is instinct with anxious pity for his fate, and darts her sympathies to him over the laboring waters. The child drops his play-things, and old age grasps its crutch and hurries to the spot; and the hand that cannot fling a rope is lifted to heaven for help. What though the sufferer be a stranger, a foreigner, an enemy even? Nature in trouble, in consternation, shrieks ‘He is a man!’ and every heart and hand is prompt to the rescue.’ ‘To a high office and ministry, to a life of beneficence, pity and love, each man should deem himself called by a divine vocation, by the appointment of nature; and otherwise living, should judge himself to be an abortion, a mistake, without signification or use in a world like ours. And the beauty, the glory of such a life, is not to be reckoned among ideal things heard out of heaven but never encountered by the eye. This world has had itsChrist, itsFenelons, itsHowards, as well as itsCaligulasandNeros. Love hath been at times a manifestation as well as a principle; and the train of its glory swept far below the stars, and its brightness has fallen in mitigated and mellowed rays from the faces of men. As the ambiguous stranger-star of Bethlehem had its interpreting angel-song to the herdsmen of the plains, so loving men in all ages have given glimpses and interpretations of the love ofGod, and of the pity that is felt for the miserable and the guilty in the palace and presence-chamber ofJehovah. What glory within the scope of human imitation and attainment is comparable to that of the beneficent, the sympathising lover of his race? What more elevated, pure, and beautiful is possible among the achievements of an endless progression in heaven itself?Miltonrepresents the profoundest emotions of joy and wonder among the celestial hosts as occasioned by the first anticipative disclosures of divine pity toward sinning man; and a greater thanMiltonassures us that the transport and festival of angelic joy occurs when Pity lifts the penitent from his prostration and forgives his folly.’•••Embellishmentwould seem to be the literary order of the day, in more ways than one. It has come to be the mode to express the most simple thought in the most magniloquent phrase. This propensityto lingualEuphuismhas given rise to sundry illustrations, in embellished maxims, which are particularly amusing. They are of the sort so finely satirized by ‘Ollapod,’ on one occasion, two or three examples of which we annex. The common phrase of ‘’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good’ was transformed into ‘That gale is truly diseased which puffeth benefactions to nonentity;’ ‘Let well enough alone,’ into ‘Suffer a healthy sufficiency to remain in solitude;’ and ‘What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ into ‘The culinary adornments which suffice for the female of the raceAnser, maybe relished also with the masculine adult of the same species.’ Some London wag, in a kindred spirit, has illustrated the cockney song, ‘If I had a donkey as vouldn’t go, do you think I’d wallop him?’ etc., as follows: ‘The herbaceous boon and the bland recommendation to advance, are more operative on the ansinine quadruped than the stern imprecation and the oaken cudgel:
‘Had I an ass averse to speed,I ne’er would strike him; no indeed!I’d give him hay, and cry ‘Proceed,’And ‘Go onEdward!’’
‘Had I an ass averse to speed,I ne’er would strike him; no indeed!I’d give him hay, and cry ‘Proceed,’And ‘Go onEdward!’’
‘Had I an ass averse to speed,
I ne’er would strike him; no indeed!
I’d give him hay, and cry ‘Proceed,’
And ‘Go onEdward!’’
The same species of satire is now and then visited upon the ‘Troubadour Songs,’ which have become so afflictingly common of late years. Some of these we have already given; and we find them on the increase in England. We have before us, from the London press ofTilt and Bogue, ‘SirWhystleton Mugges, a Metrical Romaunte, in three Fyttes,’ with copious notes. A stanza or two will suffice as a specimen. The knightly hero, it needs only to premise, has been jilted by his fair ‘ladye-love,’ who retires to her boudoir, while the knight walks off in despair:
‘Hys herte beat high and quycke;Forth to his tygere he did call,‘Bring me my palfrey from his stall,For I moste cotte my stycke!’‘Ye stede was brought, ye knyghte jomped up,He woulde not even stay to sup,But swyft he rode away;Still groanynge as he went along,And vowing yet to come out stronge,Upon some future day.‘Alack for poore SyrWhystleton,In love and warre so bold!Ye LadyeBlanchehym browne hath done,He is completely solde!‘Completely solde alack he is,Alack and wel-a-day;MortDieu! a bitterre fate is hysWhose trewe love sayth him nay!’
‘Hys herte beat high and quycke;Forth to his tygere he did call,‘Bring me my palfrey from his stall,For I moste cotte my stycke!’
‘Hys herte beat high and quycke;
Forth to his tygere he did call,
‘Bring me my palfrey from his stall,
For I moste cotte my stycke!’
‘Ye stede was brought, ye knyghte jomped up,He woulde not even stay to sup,But swyft he rode away;Still groanynge as he went along,And vowing yet to come out stronge,Upon some future day.
‘Ye stede was brought, ye knyghte jomped up,
He woulde not even stay to sup,
But swyft he rode away;
Still groanynge as he went along,
And vowing yet to come out stronge,
Upon some future day.
‘Alack for poore SyrWhystleton,In love and warre so bold!Ye LadyeBlanchehym browne hath done,He is completely solde!
‘Alack for poore SyrWhystleton,
In love and warre so bold!
Ye LadyeBlanchehym browne hath done,
He is completely solde!
‘Completely solde alack he is,Alack and wel-a-day;MortDieu! a bitterre fate is hysWhose trewe love sayth him nay!’
‘Completely solde alack he is,
Alack and wel-a-day;
MortDieu! a bitterre fate is hys
Whose trewe love sayth him nay!’
Thus endeth ‘Fytte ye First.’ We learn from the preface that the ‘Rhime of the Manne whose Mothre did not Know he was Out,’ and ‘Ye Lodgemente of MaistreFergisoune,’ are also in the editor’s possession, but owing to the imperfect state of theMSS., it is doubtful whether they will ever be published. They have however been submitted to the inspection of ‘ThePercySociety!’•••Weare well pleased to learn that SirEdward Lytton Bulwer, the distinguished author, is soon to visit the United States. That he will be warmly welcomed and cordially received, we cannot doubt; but we have good reason to believe that in the present instance at least our admiration of true genius will be tempered by all proper self-respect. Mr.Bulwerhas for many years entertained a desire to visit America. In one of his letters to the lateWillis Gaylord Clark, now lying before us, he writes: ‘I have long felt a peculiar admiration for your great and rising country; and it gives me a pleasure far beyond that arising from a vulgar notoriety, to think that I am not unknown to its inhabitants. Some time or other I hope to visit you, and suffer mypresent prepossessions to be confirmed by actual experience.’•••Wehave received and perused with gratification the last report of the ‘New-York Asylum for Deaf Mutes.’ The institution is in the most flourishing condition, and its usefulness greatly increased. We are sorry to perceive, by the following ‘specimen of composition’ of a pupil in the eighth class, that the ‘Orphic Sayings’ of Mr.A. Bronson Alcottare taken as literary models by the deaf and dumb students. The ensuing is certainly much better, internally, than anything from the transcendental ‘seer;’ but the manner too nearly resembles his, for both to be original. There is the same didactic condensation, the same Orphic ‘oneness,’ which distinguishes allAlcottismproper. It is entitled ‘Story of Hog:’
‘I walkedon the road. I stood near the water. I undressed my feet. I went in the water. I stood under the bridge. I sat on the log. I washed my feet with hands. I looked at large water came. I ran in the water. I ran out the water. The large water floated fast. I afraid. I wiped feet with stockings. I dressed my feet with stockings and shoes. I went on the ground. I stood on the ground. I seen at the hog ate grass. The hog seen at me. I went on the ground. I ran. The hog heard. The hog looked at me. It ran and jumped. The hog ran under the fence and got his head under the fence and want to ran out the fence! I caught ears its hog. The hog shout. I pulled the hog out the fence. I struck a hog with hand. I rided on the hog ran and jumped fast. The hog ran fell on near the water. I rided off a hog. I stood. I held one ear its hog. The hog slept lies on near the water. I waited. I leaved. I went from the hog. The hog awoke. It rose. It saw not me. It ran and jumped. The hog went from the water. The hog went in the mud and water. The hog wallowed in the mud and water became very dirty. It slept. I went. I went into the house.’
‘I walkedon the road. I stood near the water. I undressed my feet. I went in the water. I stood under the bridge. I sat on the log. I washed my feet with hands. I looked at large water came. I ran in the water. I ran out the water. The large water floated fast. I afraid. I wiped feet with stockings. I dressed my feet with stockings and shoes. I went on the ground. I stood on the ground. I seen at the hog ate grass. The hog seen at me. I went on the ground. I ran. The hog heard. The hog looked at me. It ran and jumped. The hog ran under the fence and got his head under the fence and want to ran out the fence! I caught ears its hog. The hog shout. I pulled the hog out the fence. I struck a hog with hand. I rided on the hog ran and jumped fast. The hog ran fell on near the water. I rided off a hog. I stood. I held one ear its hog. The hog slept lies on near the water. I waited. I leaved. I went from the hog. The hog awoke. It rose. It saw not me. It ran and jumped. The hog went from the water. The hog went in the mud and water. The hog wallowed in the mud and water became very dirty. It slept. I went. I went into the house.’
The Ekkalaeobionis the name given to an establishment opposite the Washington Hotel, in Broadway, where the formation of chickens,ab initio, is ‘practised to a great extent.’ And really, it is in some respects an awful exhibition, to a reflecting mind. It is as it were a visible exposition of the source of life. You see the pulse of existence throbbing in the yet unformed mass, which assumes, day after day, the image of its kind; until at length the little creature knocks for admittance into this breathing world; steps forth from the shell in which it had been so long ‘cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in;’ and straitway walks abroad, ‘regenerated, disenthralled,’ and ready for its ‘grub.’ By all means, reader, go and see this interesting and instructive exhibition. It is provocative of much reflection, aside from the mere contemplation of it as a matter of curiosity.•••Thecorrespondent who sends us the following, writes upon the envelope containing it: ‘I have endeavored to preserve the measure of the original, and at the same time to present a literal translation.’ It will be conceded, we think, that he has been successful in his endeavor. Perhaps in some lines (as in ‘Pertransivit gladius’) the translation is a littletooliteral:STABAT MATER.I.Stabatmater dolorosa,Juxta crucem lacrymosa,Dum pendebat filius:Cujus animam gementem,Contristantem et dolentem,Pertransivit gladius.I.Nearthe cross the Mother weepingStood, her watch in sorrow keepingWhile was hanging there herSon:Through her soul in anguish groaning,O most sad,Hisfate bemoaning,Through and through that sword was run.II.O quam tristis et afflictaFuit illa benedicta,Mater unigeniti:Quæ mœrebat, et dolebat,Et tremebat, cum videbatNati pœnas inclyti.II.Oh how sad with woe oppressed,Was she then, the Mother blessed,Who the sole-begotten bore:As she saw his pain and anguish,She did tremble, she did languish,Weep her holy Son before.III.Quis est homo qui non fleret,Christi matrem si videretIn tanto supplicio?Quis posset non contristari,Piam matrem contemplari,Dolentem cum filio?III.Who is he his tears concealing,Could have seen such anguish stealingThrough the Saviour-mother’s breast?Who his deepest groans could smother,Had he seen the holy MotherBy her Son with grief oppressed!IV.Pro peccatis suæ gentisVidit Jesum in tormentis,Et flagellis subditum;Vidit suum dulcem natumMorientem, desolatum,Dum emisit spiritum.IV.Christ for Israel’s transgressionSaw she suffer thus oppression,Torment, and the cruel blow:Saw Him desolate and dying;Him she loved, beheld Him sighingForth His soul in deepest woe.V.Eja mater, fons amoris,Me sentire vim dolorisFac, ut tecum lugeam.Fac ut ardeat cor meum,In amando Christum Deum,Ut sibi complaceam.V.Source of love, thy grief, O Mother,Grant with thee to share another—Grant that I with thee may weep:May my heart with love be glowing,All on Christ my God bestowing,In His favor ever keep.VI.Saneta mater, istud agas,Crucifixi fige plagasCordi meo valide:Tui nati vulnerati,Jam dignati pro me pati,Pœnas mecum divide.VI.This, oh holy Mother! granting,In my heart the wounds implantingOf His cross, oh let me bear:Pangs with which thy Son when woundedDeigned for me to be surrounded,Grant, oh grant that I may share.VII.Fac me vere tecum flere,Crucifixo condolere,Donec ego vixero:Juxta crucem tecum stare,Te libenter sociareIn planctu desidero.VII.Be my eyes with tears o’erflowing,For the crucified bestowing,Till my eyes shall close in death:Ever by that cross be standing,Willingly with thee demandingBut to share each mournful breath.VIII.Virgo virginum præclara,Mihi jam non sis amaraFac me tecum plangere;Fadut portem Christi mortem,Passionis ejus sortem,Et plagas recolere.VIII.Thou of virgins blest forever,Oh deny I pray thee neverThat I may lament with thee:Be my soul His death enduring,And His passion—thus securingOf His pains the memory.IX.Fac me plagis vulnerari,Cruce hac inebriari,Ob amorem filii:Inflammatus et accensusPer te, virgo, sim defensusIn die judicii.IX.With those blows may I be smitten,In my heart that cross be written,For thy Son’s dear love alway:Glowing, burning with affection,Grant me, Virgin! thy protection,In the dreaded judgment-day.X.Fac me cruce custodiri,Morte Christi præmuniri,Confoveri gratia:Quando corpus morietur,Fac ut animæ doneturParadisi gloria.X.May that cross its aid extend me,May the death of Christ defend me,With its saving grace surround;And when life’s last link is riven,To my soul be glory given,That in Paradise is found.St. Paul’s College.G. H. H.
The Ekkalaeobionis the name given to an establishment opposite the Washington Hotel, in Broadway, where the formation of chickens,ab initio, is ‘practised to a great extent.’ And really, it is in some respects an awful exhibition, to a reflecting mind. It is as it were a visible exposition of the source of life. You see the pulse of existence throbbing in the yet unformed mass, which assumes, day after day, the image of its kind; until at length the little creature knocks for admittance into this breathing world; steps forth from the shell in which it had been so long ‘cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in;’ and straitway walks abroad, ‘regenerated, disenthralled,’ and ready for its ‘grub.’ By all means, reader, go and see this interesting and instructive exhibition. It is provocative of much reflection, aside from the mere contemplation of it as a matter of curiosity.•••Thecorrespondent who sends us the following, writes upon the envelope containing it: ‘I have endeavored to preserve the measure of the original, and at the same time to present a literal translation.’ It will be conceded, we think, that he has been successful in his endeavor. Perhaps in some lines (as in ‘Pertransivit gladius’) the translation is a littletooliteral:
I.Stabatmater dolorosa,Juxta crucem lacrymosa,Dum pendebat filius:Cujus animam gementem,Contristantem et dolentem,Pertransivit gladius.I.Nearthe cross the Mother weepingStood, her watch in sorrow keepingWhile was hanging there herSon:Through her soul in anguish groaning,O most sad,Hisfate bemoaning,Through and through that sword was run.II.O quam tristis et afflictaFuit illa benedicta,Mater unigeniti:Quæ mœrebat, et dolebat,Et tremebat, cum videbatNati pœnas inclyti.II.Oh how sad with woe oppressed,Was she then, the Mother blessed,Who the sole-begotten bore:As she saw his pain and anguish,She did tremble, she did languish,Weep her holy Son before.III.Quis est homo qui non fleret,Christi matrem si videretIn tanto supplicio?Quis posset non contristari,Piam matrem contemplari,Dolentem cum filio?III.Who is he his tears concealing,Could have seen such anguish stealingThrough the Saviour-mother’s breast?Who his deepest groans could smother,Had he seen the holy MotherBy her Son with grief oppressed!IV.Pro peccatis suæ gentisVidit Jesum in tormentis,Et flagellis subditum;Vidit suum dulcem natumMorientem, desolatum,Dum emisit spiritum.IV.Christ for Israel’s transgressionSaw she suffer thus oppression,Torment, and the cruel blow:Saw Him desolate and dying;Him she loved, beheld Him sighingForth His soul in deepest woe.V.Eja mater, fons amoris,Me sentire vim dolorisFac, ut tecum lugeam.Fac ut ardeat cor meum,In amando Christum Deum,Ut sibi complaceam.V.Source of love, thy grief, O Mother,Grant with thee to share another—Grant that I with thee may weep:May my heart with love be glowing,All on Christ my God bestowing,In His favor ever keep.VI.Saneta mater, istud agas,Crucifixi fige plagasCordi meo valide:Tui nati vulnerati,Jam dignati pro me pati,Pœnas mecum divide.VI.This, oh holy Mother! granting,In my heart the wounds implantingOf His cross, oh let me bear:Pangs with which thy Son when woundedDeigned for me to be surrounded,Grant, oh grant that I may share.VII.Fac me vere tecum flere,Crucifixo condolere,Donec ego vixero:Juxta crucem tecum stare,Te libenter sociareIn planctu desidero.VII.Be my eyes with tears o’erflowing,For the crucified bestowing,Till my eyes shall close in death:Ever by that cross be standing,Willingly with thee demandingBut to share each mournful breath.VIII.Virgo virginum præclara,Mihi jam non sis amaraFac me tecum plangere;Fadut portem Christi mortem,Passionis ejus sortem,Et plagas recolere.VIII.Thou of virgins blest forever,Oh deny I pray thee neverThat I may lament with thee:Be my soul His death enduring,And His passion—thus securingOf His pains the memory.IX.Fac me plagis vulnerari,Cruce hac inebriari,Ob amorem filii:Inflammatus et accensusPer te, virgo, sim defensusIn die judicii.IX.With those blows may I be smitten,In my heart that cross be written,For thy Son’s dear love alway:Glowing, burning with affection,Grant me, Virgin! thy protection,In the dreaded judgment-day.X.Fac me cruce custodiri,Morte Christi præmuniri,Confoveri gratia:Quando corpus morietur,Fac ut animæ doneturParadisi gloria.X.May that cross its aid extend me,May the death of Christ defend me,With its saving grace surround;And when life’s last link is riven,To my soul be glory given,That in Paradise is found.
I.Stabatmater dolorosa,Juxta crucem lacrymosa,Dum pendebat filius:Cujus animam gementem,Contristantem et dolentem,Pertransivit gladius.
Stabatmater dolorosa,
Juxta crucem lacrymosa,
Dum pendebat filius:
Cujus animam gementem,
Contristantem et dolentem,
Pertransivit gladius.
I.Nearthe cross the Mother weepingStood, her watch in sorrow keepingWhile was hanging there herSon:Through her soul in anguish groaning,O most sad,Hisfate bemoaning,Through and through that sword was run.
Nearthe cross the Mother weeping
Stood, her watch in sorrow keeping
While was hanging there herSon:
Through her soul in anguish groaning,
O most sad,Hisfate bemoaning,
Through and through that sword was run.
II.O quam tristis et afflictaFuit illa benedicta,Mater unigeniti:Quæ mœrebat, et dolebat,Et tremebat, cum videbatNati pœnas inclyti.
O quam tristis et afflicta
Fuit illa benedicta,
Mater unigeniti:
Quæ mœrebat, et dolebat,
Et tremebat, cum videbat
Nati pœnas inclyti.
II.Oh how sad with woe oppressed,Was she then, the Mother blessed,Who the sole-begotten bore:As she saw his pain and anguish,She did tremble, she did languish,Weep her holy Son before.
Oh how sad with woe oppressed,
Was she then, the Mother blessed,
Who the sole-begotten bore:
As she saw his pain and anguish,
She did tremble, she did languish,
Weep her holy Son before.
III.Quis est homo qui non fleret,Christi matrem si videretIn tanto supplicio?Quis posset non contristari,Piam matrem contemplari,Dolentem cum filio?
Quis est homo qui non fleret,
Christi matrem si videret
In tanto supplicio?
Quis posset non contristari,
Piam matrem contemplari,
Dolentem cum filio?
III.Who is he his tears concealing,Could have seen such anguish stealingThrough the Saviour-mother’s breast?Who his deepest groans could smother,Had he seen the holy MotherBy her Son with grief oppressed!
Who is he his tears concealing,
Could have seen such anguish stealing
Through the Saviour-mother’s breast?
Who his deepest groans could smother,
Had he seen the holy Mother
By her Son with grief oppressed!
IV.Pro peccatis suæ gentisVidit Jesum in tormentis,Et flagellis subditum;Vidit suum dulcem natumMorientem, desolatum,Dum emisit spiritum.
Pro peccatis suæ gentis
Vidit Jesum in tormentis,
Et flagellis subditum;
Vidit suum dulcem natum
Morientem, desolatum,
Dum emisit spiritum.
IV.Christ for Israel’s transgressionSaw she suffer thus oppression,Torment, and the cruel blow:Saw Him desolate and dying;Him she loved, beheld Him sighingForth His soul in deepest woe.
Christ for Israel’s transgression
Saw she suffer thus oppression,
Torment, and the cruel blow:
Saw Him desolate and dying;
Him she loved, beheld Him sighing
Forth His soul in deepest woe.
V.Eja mater, fons amoris,Me sentire vim dolorisFac, ut tecum lugeam.Fac ut ardeat cor meum,In amando Christum Deum,Ut sibi complaceam.
Eja mater, fons amoris,
Me sentire vim doloris
Fac, ut tecum lugeam.
Fac ut ardeat cor meum,
In amando Christum Deum,
Ut sibi complaceam.
V.Source of love, thy grief, O Mother,Grant with thee to share another—Grant that I with thee may weep:May my heart with love be glowing,All on Christ my God bestowing,In His favor ever keep.
Source of love, thy grief, O Mother,
Grant with thee to share another—
Grant that I with thee may weep:
May my heart with love be glowing,
All on Christ my God bestowing,
In His favor ever keep.
VI.Saneta mater, istud agas,Crucifixi fige plagasCordi meo valide:Tui nati vulnerati,Jam dignati pro me pati,PÅ“nas mecum divide.
Saneta mater, istud agas,
Crucifixi fige plagas
Cordi meo valide:
Tui nati vulnerati,
Jam dignati pro me pati,
PÅ“nas mecum divide.
VI.This, oh holy Mother! granting,In my heart the wounds implantingOf His cross, oh let me bear:Pangs with which thy Son when woundedDeigned for me to be surrounded,Grant, oh grant that I may share.
This, oh holy Mother! granting,
In my heart the wounds implanting
Of His cross, oh let me bear:
Pangs with which thy Son when wounded
Deigned for me to be surrounded,
Grant, oh grant that I may share.
VII.Fac me vere tecum flere,Crucifixo condolere,Donec ego vixero:Juxta crucem tecum stare,Te libenter sociareIn planctu desidero.
Fac me vere tecum flere,
Crucifixo condolere,
Donec ego vixero:
Juxta crucem tecum stare,
Te libenter sociare
In planctu desidero.
VII.Be my eyes with tears o’erflowing,For the crucified bestowing,Till my eyes shall close in death:Ever by that cross be standing,Willingly with thee demandingBut to share each mournful breath.
Be my eyes with tears o’erflowing,
For the crucified bestowing,
Till my eyes shall close in death:
Ever by that cross be standing,
Willingly with thee demanding
But to share each mournful breath.
VIII.Virgo virginum præclara,Mihi jam non sis amaraFac me tecum plangere;Fadut portem Christi mortem,Passionis ejus sortem,Et plagas recolere.
Virgo virginum præclara,
Mihi jam non sis amara
Fac me tecum plangere;
Fadut portem Christi mortem,
Passionis ejus sortem,
Et plagas recolere.
VIII.Thou of virgins blest forever,Oh deny I pray thee neverThat I may lament with thee:Be my soul His death enduring,And His passion—thus securingOf His pains the memory.
Thou of virgins blest forever,
Oh deny I pray thee never
That I may lament with thee:
Be my soul His death enduring,
And His passion—thus securing
Of His pains the memory.
IX.Fac me plagis vulnerari,Cruce hac inebriari,Ob amorem filii:Inflammatus et accensusPer te, virgo, sim defensusIn die judicii.
Fac me plagis vulnerari,
Cruce hac inebriari,
Ob amorem filii:
Inflammatus et accensus
Per te, virgo, sim defensus
In die judicii.
IX.With those blows may I be smitten,In my heart that cross be written,For thy Son’s dear love alway:Glowing, burning with affection,Grant me, Virgin! thy protection,In the dreaded judgment-day.
With those blows may I be smitten,
In my heart that cross be written,
For thy Son’s dear love alway:
Glowing, burning with affection,
Grant me, Virgin! thy protection,
In the dreaded judgment-day.
X.Fac me cruce custodiri,Morte Christi præmuniri,Confoveri gratia:Quando corpus morietur,Fac ut animæ doneturParadisi gloria.
Fac me cruce custodiri,
Morte Christi præmuniri,
Confoveri gratia:
Quando corpus morietur,
Fac ut animæ donetur
Paradisi gloria.
X.May that cross its aid extend me,May the death of Christ defend me,With its saving grace surround;And when life’s last link is riven,To my soul be glory given,That in Paradise is found.
May that cross its aid extend me,
May the death of Christ defend me,
With its saving grace surround;
And when life’s last link is riven,
To my soul be glory given,
That in Paradise is found.
St. Paul’s College.G. H. H.
OurPine-street correspondent, who addresses us upon the ‘Fashionable Society in New-York,’ writes from the promptings of an honest-hearted frankness,thatis quite clear; but he has not yet acquired that sort of useful information which is conveyed by the term, ‘knowing the world.’ The ‘fashionable circles’par excellence, whose breeding and bearing he impugns, are of theBeauvoirschool; persons who ‘are of yourgens de cotorie; your people of the real ‘caste’ and ‘tone;’ that is, your people who singly would be set down as nought in society, but who, as a ‘set,’ have managed to make their joint-stock impudence imposing.’ Our correspondent, we suspect, has one important lesson to learn in his intercourse with such persons; and it is a lesson which has been felicitously set forth by a late English essayist. There is a recipe in some old book, he says, ‘How to avoidbeing tossed by a bull;’ and the instruction is, ‘Toss him.’ Try the experiment upon the first coxcomb who fancies that you are his inferior; charge first, and give him to understand at once that he is yours. Be coldly supercilious with all ‘important’ catiffs, and most punctual be your attention to any matter in debate; but let no temptation prevail with you to touch on any earthly point beyond it. In the case alluded to, a pompous old baronet comes down stairs loaded to the very muzzle to repress ‘familiarity’ on the part of a young man, who from an estate of dependence has recently mounted by inheritance to a princely fortune; but the cool, quiet young gentleman finds the old baronet guilty of ‘familiarity’ himself, and makes him bear the penalty of it, before six sentences are exchanged between them. The secret of the whole thing was, a quiet look directly in the eye, and the preservation of a deliberate silence; the true way to dissolve your pompous gentleman or affected ‘fashionable’ lady. The baronet’s long pauses the young heir did not move to interrupt. His merelisteningdrew the old aristocrat gradually out; his auditor replied monosyllabically, and made him pull him all the way. It was pitiful to see the old buzzard, who thought himself high and mighty, compelled to communicate with one who would have no notion of any body’s being high and mighty at all; getting gradually out of patience at the obstinate formality he was compelled to encounter, which he was sure any direct overture toward intimacy on his part would remove; and at last, in the midst of his doubts whether he should be familiar with the young man, being struck with a stronger doubt whether such familiarity would be reciprocated; it was a rich scene altogether, and worthy of being remembered by our correspondent.•••TheMay issue of the ‘Cultivator’ agricultural Magazine, which under the supervision of the lateWillis Gaylordreached a circulation of between forty and fifty thousand copies, contains an elaborate notice of its lamented editor, in which we find (in a letter fromH. S. Randall, Esq.,) the following passage:‘Hisreading was literally boundless. He was as familiar with the natural sciences, history, poetry, and belles-letters, as with agriculture, and nearly if not quite as well qualified to discuss them. It was difficult to start any literary topic which you did not at once perceive had been examined by him with the eye of a scholar and critic. In one of my letters, half sportively, yet in a serious tone, I asked him ‘what he thought of the German Philosophy?’ In his answer,KantandFichte, and I thinkSchellingandJacobi, were discussed with as much familiarity as most scholars would find themselves qualified to make use of in speaking ofLocke, orStewart, orBrown. In commenting on the report of mine, (on Common School Libraries,) alluded to by him in the last Cultivator, he betrays an extensive knowledge of the literature of nearly every nation in Europe. As a writer, the public have long been acquainted with Mr.Gaylord. He wrote on nearly every class of topics connected with human improvement; in papers, magazines, and not unfrequently in books. But it is as an agricultural writer that he is best known. Here, taken all in all, he stands unrivalled. There are many agricultural writers in our country who are as well or better qualified to discuss a single topic, than he was. But I deem it not disrespectful to say, that for acquaintance with and ability to discuss clearly and correctly every department of agricultural science, he has not, he never has had, an equal in this State. He was every way fitted for an editor. Placable and forgiving in his temper; modest, disinterested, unprejudiced; never evincing a foolish credulity; above deception, despising quackery; with an honesty of motive that was never suspected.’No one who knew intimately our lamented relative and friend, but will confirm the justice of this encomium. We trust that a collection ofWillis Gaylord’swritings, literary, scientific, and agricultural, will be made by some competent hand. They are demanded, we perceive, by various public journals throughout the country.•••Professor Gouraud’sextraordinary exposition ofPhreno-Mnemotechnyseems to be winning him ‘fame and fortune’ wherever he goes. He was in Philadelphia at the last advices, where his success was to the full as signal as in this city. It is obvious, we think, that the advantages of this great system will hereafter be chiefly enjoyed by the rising generation, who will thus be enabled to attain in six months an amount of information which in the ordinary way could scarcely be mastered in as many years. Still, the science has already been studied by hundreds of highly-endowedmen, persons eminent in their own peculiar walks, who have cheerfully yielded their tributes of admiration to its vast resources. Several excellent articles upon this theme have from time to time appeared in the columns of the ‘New World’ weekly journal, from the pen of Mr.Mackay, one of the editors; who, being himself a pupil of Mr.Gouraud, writes from personal experience of the matterin question. ‘A thousand dollars,’ he avers, ‘would not be a fair equivalent for the great advantages obtainable by Phreno-Mnemotechny;’ and in this opinion there is a general concurrence of ProfessorGouraud’spupils in this city.•••Whata power there is in much of the occasional music one hears, to stir the heart! Perhaps you never heardBrough, to the ‘instrumentation’ of that fine composer and most facile performer, ‘Frank Brown,’ singBarry Cornwall’s‘King Death,’ or ‘The Admiral and the Shark?’ No? Then never let the opportunity to do so slip, if you should ever be so fortunate as to enjoy it. Listen to the words of the first-named:I.King Deathwas a rare old fellow,He sat where no sun could shine;And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wine!II.There came to him many a maiden,Whose eyes had forgot to shine,And widows with grief o’er laden,For a draught of his sleepy wine.III.The scholar left all his learning,The poet his fancied woes;And the beauty her bloom returningLike life to the fading rose.IV.All came to the rare old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,As he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them inDeath’sblack wine.Weshould reluct at consorting with any citizen who could hear this song executed, in the manner ofBrough, without feeling the electric fluid coursinguphis vertebra, and passing off at the points of his hair, as the hollow tones waver down the chromatic, or wail in low and spondaic monotones. ‘F. B.’ was ‘rich’ in ‘Over There,’ a song which, like the numerous platitudes of the ‘Brigadier-General,’ is indebted to its music for its popularity. There ensues a verse that is very striking:‘Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there! over there!Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there!‘Oh I wish I was a geese,’Cause they lives and dies in peace,And accumulates much grease,Over there!’Nothing by the author ofThomas Campbell’s‘Woodman Spare that Beechen-Tree’ amended, equals the foregoing in the melody of its language or ‘breadth of effect.’ Speaking of songs: what can be more delightful than those of our fair correspondent Mrs.Hewitt? Her translations are excellent; and the words she has written for the use of that great musical genius,Wallace, in his romance of ‘Le Réve,’ are ‘beautiful exceedingly.’ Mrs.Bailey, a most pleasingartiste, well remembered here, has recently produced them at her concerts in Baltimore, with greatéclat.•••The ‘Spirit of the Times,’ with its numerous and ample pages, filled to overflowing with a variety which always seems to embrace ‘every thing that’s going;’ whether relating to all sorts of matters interesting to all sorts of sportsmen, or to literature, the drama, agricultural science, and the fine arts; this same widely popular journal is now afforded atFIVE DOLLARS A YEAR! ‘Ask that gentleman to sit down; he’s said enough!’•••Every-bodymust remember the ‘Boots’ who figures in one ofDickens’stories, who was wont to designate all the lodgers by the names of their different kinds of boots, shoes, slippers, etc. The author of ‘The Two Patrons,’ a capital tale in the last number ofBlackwood’sMagazine, has a serving-man of a similar kind, who in commenting upon the visitors at his master’s house, compares them to diverse dishes, as shadowing forth the relative degrees of aristocracy. He establishes some one supereminent article of food as a high ideal, to which all other kinds of edibles are to be referred; and the farther removed from this imaginary point of perfection any dish appears, the more vulgar and common-place it becomes: ‘They are low, uncommon low; reg’lar b’iled mutton and turnips. They may be rich, but they a’nt genteel. Nothink won’t do but to be at it from the very beginning; fight after it as much as they like; wear the best of gownds, and go to the fustest of boarding-schools; though they plays ever so well on the piando, and talks Italian like a reg’lar Frenchman, nothink won’t do; there’sthe b’iled mutton and turnips sticking out still. LadyCharlotte, now, is a werry different affair; quite the roast fowl and bl’mange; how unlikeouryoung ladies!—b’iled veals and parsley and butters—shocking wulgarity! And look at the father: I never see no gentleman with so broad a back, except p’raps a prize-ox.’ There is another very amusing character in the same story; one of those stupid matter-of-fact persons, who can never appreciate a figure of speech, or understand the simplest jest. A ‘benign cerulean,’ enthusiastic for the ‘rights of the sex,’ remarks that woman’s rights and duties are becoming every day more widely appreciated. ‘The old-fashioned scale must be readjusted; and woman, noble, elevating, surprising woman, ascend to the loftiest eminence, and sit superior on the topmost branch of the social tree.’ The ear of the matter-of-fact man catches the last simile, and he ventures to say: ‘Uncommon bad climbers, for the most part in general, is women. Their clothes isn’t adapted to it. I minds once I seen a woman climb a pole after a leg of mutting!’ If looks could have killed the mal-apropos speaker, he would not have survived the reception which this ridiculous remark encountered from every guest at the table. He was himself struck with the mournful silence that followed his observation, and added, by way of explanation: ‘That was a thing as happing’d on a pole; in coors it would be werry different on a tree, because of the branches.’ At length, however, the theme of woman is renewed by the former advocate: ‘Woman has not yet received her full development. The time will come when her influence shall be universal; when, softened, subdued, and elevated, the animal now called Man will be unknown. You will be all women: can the world look for a higher destiny?’ ‘In coors,’ observed the old spoon, ‘if we are all turned into woming, the world will come to an end. For ‘spose a case; ‘spose it had been my sister as married my wife, instead of me; it’s probable there would’nt have been no great fambly; wich in coors, if there was no population——’ What the fearful result of this supposed case would have been, was not permitted to transpire. The feminine ‘b’iled veals and parsley and butters’ immediately rose and left the table, and the matter-of-fact man to the ridicule of the male guests.•••If our metropolitan friend ‘S.,’ who has disappointed us in a paper intended for the present number, ‘by reason of that contemptible disorder, dyspepsia,’ will take our advice, he will not be likely to fail us again, from a similar cause. Let him walk, as we do, some six or eight miles every day; and above all, pay frequent visits to our old friend Dr.Rabineau’sspacious and delightfulSalt-Water Swimming Bath, near Castle-Garden; always remembering to make free use of his ‘crash towels.’ Dyspepsia never made a call upon us; and it ‘doesn’t associate with any body’ that keeps company with that public benefactor, Dr.Rabineau.•••We should be reluctant to introduce the annexed profane story to our readers, but that it forcibly illustrates a characteristic vice of the wandering natives of a little island across the water, who are never at a loss for ‘themes of disgust’ in relation to America, and the ‘revolting habits’ of American citizens. On the continent, an Englishman is universally known by thesoubriquetof ‘SignorGoddam; and many of our readers wilt rememberByron’sanecdote of the pompous Italian in London, who was desirous of imitating the English style in the British metropolis. ‘Bring me,’ said he, with an imperious tone, ‘bring me some wine! Why don’t you bring him?’ The servant answered: ‘I will, Sir.’ ‘Youwill?’ rejoined the Italian; ‘youwill, eh?Goddam, youMUSHT!’ And this settled the question. But to the story ‘under notice,’ which was picked up by our correspondent at Cairo, in Egypt:‘An impetuous Englishman, unacquainted with any language but his own, was desirous of seeing Egypt, and satisfying himself by occular demonstration of the truth of the many wonders which he had heard of that celebrated land. To get to Alexandria was easy enough; and some acquaintances whom he had picked up on the way, kindly facilitated his journey to the Nile, and saw him fairly afloat in hiscangeafor Cairo. But here, left with an Arab captain, and five swarthy Egyptians, his difficulties commenced, and without knowing a single word of Arabic, he had to depend on his own resources. The boats on the Nile are very ticklish flat-bottomed affairs, wretchedly handled. Before the wind they rush up like steamers, but on a wind, go to lee-ward like feathers; while in consequence of the Nile being full of shifting sand-banks, with a daily varying depth of water, they are continually running aground in the middle of the river. To this add the laziness of the captain andcrew, to whom time was of no consequence; to-day, to-morrow, the next day, or a week hence, was all the same to them; they had no preferment to look forward to, no release from labor but death; and wisely enough, perhaps, exerted themselves as little as they could. ‘Inshalla!Godwas great, and the sun was hot! Why should they weary themselves?’ And so they took every opportunity to rest, cook their miserable fare, and dawdle the listless hours away. Of these dilatory habits of the natives the Englishman had been warned, and that whenever it happened, he was to prevent them from stopping, and force them to go on.‘The opportunity was not long wanting. Without any reason sufficiently apparent to him, the huge stone fastened to a coir cable, and doing duty for an anchor, was dropped overboard, and the crew betook themselves to sleep. What was to be done? Of Arabic he had not a word to tell them to proceed; but he had plenty of English; so by dint of shaking his stick at the captain, and a somewhat boisterous ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ roared out in a tone sufficiently indicative of his wishes, the primitive ‘anchor’ was got up, and onward they proceeded. Delighted to find his most British remonstrance succeed, he did not let it rust for want of practice; but every time the lazy crew attempted to ‘bring to,’ the stamp, the roar, and the shake of the stick, with the never-failing objurgation, were resorted to, and invariably with the same results. The passage up to Cairo averages three days, but vessels have been known to be as many as nine. Seven, eight, nine days past; twelve, fourteen; yet as if by magic, Grand Cairo seemed to recede before them. No time had been lost by him, for the wind had been strong in their favor, and he scarcely allowed the crew to take the necessary rest. It was very odd how greatly had he been misinformed in the distance! The very maps too seemed leagued against him; his manifold measurings and calculations were of no apparent avail. At last, at rising on the morning-of the fifteenth day, he found himself at anchor off a strange tumble-down-looking town, which by signs the captain gave him to understand was the place of his destination. Could that be ‘Grand Cairo!’ How odd! But then he was in a country of oddities; and on stepping ashore, he encountered a sun-burnt English-looking man gazing earnestly at the new arrival.‘Is this Grand Cairo, Sir?’ inquired the astonished novice.‘Grand Cairo, Sir! GoodGod, no! This is Kennah, a thousand miles beyond! Why, how the devil did you manage to get up here without knowing it? Do you speak Arabic?’‘Not a word!’‘Umph! What language thendidyou speak?’‘No other than English; but when they stopped, I d—d their eyes soundly, and they seemed to understand very well whatthatmeant, for they were up anchor and off in a jiffy!’The stranger, who spoke Arabic fluently, sought an explanation of the native captain, and the mystery was quickly solved.‘How did you contrive to get up here,Ryis, instead of stopping at Cairo?’‘Why, Effendim, the Frank was the most impatient man in the world: no sooner did we stop to cook, to rest, or for the wind, than stick in hand, and raving with passion, he stamped on the deck, and with a gesture too imperious to be mistaken, shouted the only Arabic sentence which he seemed to know, which was ‘GoddamRyis!’—and ‘Inshallah!’ we got no rest, but were forced to work like devils. We passed Bourlac (Cairo) in the night, andAllah Kherim!here we are at a town which none of you Christians pass without stopping.’‘God-dam’ is very good Arabic for ‘go on;’ and ‘Ry-i-s,’ means ‘captain.’ ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ however thoroughly English it may seem to cockneys, is very tolerable Arabic for ‘Go on, captain!’ (en avant.)
OurPine-street correspondent, who addresses us upon the ‘Fashionable Society in New-York,’ writes from the promptings of an honest-hearted frankness,thatis quite clear; but he has not yet acquired that sort of useful information which is conveyed by the term, ‘knowing the world.’ The ‘fashionable circles’par excellence, whose breeding and bearing he impugns, are of theBeauvoirschool; persons who ‘are of yourgens de cotorie; your people of the real ‘caste’ and ‘tone;’ that is, your people who singly would be set down as nought in society, but who, as a ‘set,’ have managed to make their joint-stock impudence imposing.’ Our correspondent, we suspect, has one important lesson to learn in his intercourse with such persons; and it is a lesson which has been felicitously set forth by a late English essayist. There is a recipe in some old book, he says, ‘How to avoidbeing tossed by a bull;’ and the instruction is, ‘Toss him.’ Try the experiment upon the first coxcomb who fancies that you are his inferior; charge first, and give him to understand at once that he is yours. Be coldly supercilious with all ‘important’ catiffs, and most punctual be your attention to any matter in debate; but let no temptation prevail with you to touch on any earthly point beyond it. In the case alluded to, a pompous old baronet comes down stairs loaded to the very muzzle to repress ‘familiarity’ on the part of a young man, who from an estate of dependence has recently mounted by inheritance to a princely fortune; but the cool, quiet young gentleman finds the old baronet guilty of ‘familiarity’ himself, and makes him bear the penalty of it, before six sentences are exchanged between them. The secret of the whole thing was, a quiet look directly in the eye, and the preservation of a deliberate silence; the true way to dissolve your pompous gentleman or affected ‘fashionable’ lady. The baronet’s long pauses the young heir did not move to interrupt. His merelisteningdrew the old aristocrat gradually out; his auditor replied monosyllabically, and made him pull him all the way. It was pitiful to see the old buzzard, who thought himself high and mighty, compelled to communicate with one who would have no notion of any body’s being high and mighty at all; getting gradually out of patience at the obstinate formality he was compelled to encounter, which he was sure any direct overture toward intimacy on his part would remove; and at last, in the midst of his doubts whether he should be familiar with the young man, being struck with a stronger doubt whether such familiarity would be reciprocated; it was a rich scene altogether, and worthy of being remembered by our correspondent.•••TheMay issue of the ‘Cultivator’ agricultural Magazine, which under the supervision of the lateWillis Gaylordreached a circulation of between forty and fifty thousand copies, contains an elaborate notice of its lamented editor, in which we find (in a letter fromH. S. Randall, Esq.,) the following passage:
‘Hisreading was literally boundless. He was as familiar with the natural sciences, history, poetry, and belles-letters, as with agriculture, and nearly if not quite as well qualified to discuss them. It was difficult to start any literary topic which you did not at once perceive had been examined by him with the eye of a scholar and critic. In one of my letters, half sportively, yet in a serious tone, I asked him ‘what he thought of the German Philosophy?’ In his answer,KantandFichte, and I thinkSchellingandJacobi, were discussed with as much familiarity as most scholars would find themselves qualified to make use of in speaking ofLocke, orStewart, orBrown. In commenting on the report of mine, (on Common School Libraries,) alluded to by him in the last Cultivator, he betrays an extensive knowledge of the literature of nearly every nation in Europe. As a writer, the public have long been acquainted with Mr.Gaylord. He wrote on nearly every class of topics connected with human improvement; in papers, magazines, and not unfrequently in books. But it is as an agricultural writer that he is best known. Here, taken all in all, he stands unrivalled. There are many agricultural writers in our country who are as well or better qualified to discuss a single topic, than he was. But I deem it not disrespectful to say, that for acquaintance with and ability to discuss clearly and correctly every department of agricultural science, he has not, he never has had, an equal in this State. He was every way fitted for an editor. Placable and forgiving in his temper; modest, disinterested, unprejudiced; never evincing a foolish credulity; above deception, despising quackery; with an honesty of motive that was never suspected.’
‘Hisreading was literally boundless. He was as familiar with the natural sciences, history, poetry, and belles-letters, as with agriculture, and nearly if not quite as well qualified to discuss them. It was difficult to start any literary topic which you did not at once perceive had been examined by him with the eye of a scholar and critic. In one of my letters, half sportively, yet in a serious tone, I asked him ‘what he thought of the German Philosophy?’ In his answer,KantandFichte, and I thinkSchellingandJacobi, were discussed with as much familiarity as most scholars would find themselves qualified to make use of in speaking ofLocke, orStewart, orBrown. In commenting on the report of mine, (on Common School Libraries,) alluded to by him in the last Cultivator, he betrays an extensive knowledge of the literature of nearly every nation in Europe. As a writer, the public have long been acquainted with Mr.Gaylord. He wrote on nearly every class of topics connected with human improvement; in papers, magazines, and not unfrequently in books. But it is as an agricultural writer that he is best known. Here, taken all in all, he stands unrivalled. There are many agricultural writers in our country who are as well or better qualified to discuss a single topic, than he was. But I deem it not disrespectful to say, that for acquaintance with and ability to discuss clearly and correctly every department of agricultural science, he has not, he never has had, an equal in this State. He was every way fitted for an editor. Placable and forgiving in his temper; modest, disinterested, unprejudiced; never evincing a foolish credulity; above deception, despising quackery; with an honesty of motive that was never suspected.’
No one who knew intimately our lamented relative and friend, but will confirm the justice of this encomium. We trust that a collection ofWillis Gaylord’swritings, literary, scientific, and agricultural, will be made by some competent hand. They are demanded, we perceive, by various public journals throughout the country.•••Professor Gouraud’sextraordinary exposition ofPhreno-Mnemotechnyseems to be winning him ‘fame and fortune’ wherever he goes. He was in Philadelphia at the last advices, where his success was to the full as signal as in this city. It is obvious, we think, that the advantages of this great system will hereafter be chiefly enjoyed by the rising generation, who will thus be enabled to attain in six months an amount of information which in the ordinary way could scarcely be mastered in as many years. Still, the science has already been studied by hundreds of highly-endowedmen, persons eminent in their own peculiar walks, who have cheerfully yielded their tributes of admiration to its vast resources. Several excellent articles upon this theme have from time to time appeared in the columns of the ‘New World’ weekly journal, from the pen of Mr.Mackay, one of the editors; who, being himself a pupil of Mr.Gouraud, writes from personal experience of the matterin question. ‘A thousand dollars,’ he avers, ‘would not be a fair equivalent for the great advantages obtainable by Phreno-Mnemotechny;’ and in this opinion there is a general concurrence of ProfessorGouraud’spupils in this city.•••Whata power there is in much of the occasional music one hears, to stir the heart! Perhaps you never heardBrough, to the ‘instrumentation’ of that fine composer and most facile performer, ‘Frank Brown,’ singBarry Cornwall’s‘King Death,’ or ‘The Admiral and the Shark?’ No? Then never let the opportunity to do so slip, if you should ever be so fortunate as to enjoy it. Listen to the words of the first-named:
I.King Deathwas a rare old fellow,He sat where no sun could shine;And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wine!II.There came to him many a maiden,Whose eyes had forgot to shine,And widows with grief o’er laden,For a draught of his sleepy wine.III.The scholar left all his learning,The poet his fancied woes;And the beauty her bloom returningLike life to the fading rose.IV.All came to the rare old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,As he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them inDeath’sblack wine.
King Deathwas a rare old fellow,He sat where no sun could shine;And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wine!
King Deathwas a rare old fellow,
He sat where no sun could shine;
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And poured out his coal-black wine!
There came to him many a maiden,Whose eyes had forgot to shine,And widows with grief o’er laden,For a draught of his sleepy wine.
There came to him many a maiden,
Whose eyes had forgot to shine,
And widows with grief o’er laden,
For a draught of his sleepy wine.
The scholar left all his learning,The poet his fancied woes;And the beauty her bloom returningLike life to the fading rose.
The scholar left all his learning,
The poet his fancied woes;
And the beauty her bloom returning
Like life to the fading rose.
All came to the rare old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,As he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them inDeath’sblack wine.
All came to the rare old fellow,
Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,
As he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them inDeath’sblack wine.
Weshould reluct at consorting with any citizen who could hear this song executed, in the manner ofBrough, without feeling the electric fluid coursinguphis vertebra, and passing off at the points of his hair, as the hollow tones waver down the chromatic, or wail in low and spondaic monotones. ‘F. B.’ was ‘rich’ in ‘Over There,’ a song which, like the numerous platitudes of the ‘Brigadier-General,’ is indebted to its music for its popularity. There ensues a verse that is very striking:
‘Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there! over there!Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there!‘Oh I wish I was a geese,’Cause they lives and dies in peace,And accumulates much grease,Over there!’
‘Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there! over there!Oh! I wish I was a geese,Over there!
‘Oh! I wish I was a geese,
Over there! over there!
Oh! I wish I was a geese,
Over there!
‘Oh I wish I was a geese,’Cause they lives and dies in peace,And accumulates much grease,Over there!’
‘Oh I wish I was a geese,
’Cause they lives and dies in peace,
And accumulates much grease,
Over there!’
Nothing by the author ofThomas Campbell’s‘Woodman Spare that Beechen-Tree’ amended, equals the foregoing in the melody of its language or ‘breadth of effect.’ Speaking of songs: what can be more delightful than those of our fair correspondent Mrs.Hewitt? Her translations are excellent; and the words she has written for the use of that great musical genius,Wallace, in his romance of ‘Le Réve,’ are ‘beautiful exceedingly.’ Mrs.Bailey, a most pleasingartiste, well remembered here, has recently produced them at her concerts in Baltimore, with greatéclat.•••The ‘Spirit of the Times,’ with its numerous and ample pages, filled to overflowing with a variety which always seems to embrace ‘every thing that’s going;’ whether relating to all sorts of matters interesting to all sorts of sportsmen, or to literature, the drama, agricultural science, and the fine arts; this same widely popular journal is now afforded atFIVE DOLLARS A YEAR! ‘Ask that gentleman to sit down; he’s said enough!’•••Every-bodymust remember the ‘Boots’ who figures in one ofDickens’stories, who was wont to designate all the lodgers by the names of their different kinds of boots, shoes, slippers, etc. The author of ‘The Two Patrons,’ a capital tale in the last number ofBlackwood’sMagazine, has a serving-man of a similar kind, who in commenting upon the visitors at his master’s house, compares them to diverse dishes, as shadowing forth the relative degrees of aristocracy. He establishes some one supereminent article of food as a high ideal, to which all other kinds of edibles are to be referred; and the farther removed from this imaginary point of perfection any dish appears, the more vulgar and common-place it becomes: ‘They are low, uncommon low; reg’lar b’iled mutton and turnips. They may be rich, but they a’nt genteel. Nothink won’t do but to be at it from the very beginning; fight after it as much as they like; wear the best of gownds, and go to the fustest of boarding-schools; though they plays ever so well on the piando, and talks Italian like a reg’lar Frenchman, nothink won’t do; there’sthe b’iled mutton and turnips sticking out still. LadyCharlotte, now, is a werry different affair; quite the roast fowl and bl’mange; how unlikeouryoung ladies!—b’iled veals and parsley and butters—shocking wulgarity! And look at the father: I never see no gentleman with so broad a back, except p’raps a prize-ox.’ There is another very amusing character in the same story; one of those stupid matter-of-fact persons, who can never appreciate a figure of speech, or understand the simplest jest. A ‘benign cerulean,’ enthusiastic for the ‘rights of the sex,’ remarks that woman’s rights and duties are becoming every day more widely appreciated. ‘The old-fashioned scale must be readjusted; and woman, noble, elevating, surprising woman, ascend to the loftiest eminence, and sit superior on the topmost branch of the social tree.’ The ear of the matter-of-fact man catches the last simile, and he ventures to say: ‘Uncommon bad climbers, for the most part in general, is women. Their clothes isn’t adapted to it. I minds once I seen a woman climb a pole after a leg of mutting!’ If looks could have killed the mal-apropos speaker, he would not have survived the reception which this ridiculous remark encountered from every guest at the table. He was himself struck with the mournful silence that followed his observation, and added, by way of explanation: ‘That was a thing as happing’d on a pole; in coors it would be werry different on a tree, because of the branches.’ At length, however, the theme of woman is renewed by the former advocate: ‘Woman has not yet received her full development. The time will come when her influence shall be universal; when, softened, subdued, and elevated, the animal now called Man will be unknown. You will be all women: can the world look for a higher destiny?’ ‘In coors,’ observed the old spoon, ‘if we are all turned into woming, the world will come to an end. For ‘spose a case; ‘spose it had been my sister as married my wife, instead of me; it’s probable there would’nt have been no great fambly; wich in coors, if there was no population——’ What the fearful result of this supposed case would have been, was not permitted to transpire. The feminine ‘b’iled veals and parsley and butters’ immediately rose and left the table, and the matter-of-fact man to the ridicule of the male guests.•••If our metropolitan friend ‘S.,’ who has disappointed us in a paper intended for the present number, ‘by reason of that contemptible disorder, dyspepsia,’ will take our advice, he will not be likely to fail us again, from a similar cause. Let him walk, as we do, some six or eight miles every day; and above all, pay frequent visits to our old friend Dr.Rabineau’sspacious and delightfulSalt-Water Swimming Bath, near Castle-Garden; always remembering to make free use of his ‘crash towels.’ Dyspepsia never made a call upon us; and it ‘doesn’t associate with any body’ that keeps company with that public benefactor, Dr.Rabineau.•••We should be reluctant to introduce the annexed profane story to our readers, but that it forcibly illustrates a characteristic vice of the wandering natives of a little island across the water, who are never at a loss for ‘themes of disgust’ in relation to America, and the ‘revolting habits’ of American citizens. On the continent, an Englishman is universally known by thesoubriquetof ‘SignorGoddam; and many of our readers wilt rememberByron’sanecdote of the pompous Italian in London, who was desirous of imitating the English style in the British metropolis. ‘Bring me,’ said he, with an imperious tone, ‘bring me some wine! Why don’t you bring him?’ The servant answered: ‘I will, Sir.’ ‘Youwill?’ rejoined the Italian; ‘youwill, eh?Goddam, youMUSHT!’ And this settled the question. But to the story ‘under notice,’ which was picked up by our correspondent at Cairo, in Egypt:
‘An impetuous Englishman, unacquainted with any language but his own, was desirous of seeing Egypt, and satisfying himself by occular demonstration of the truth of the many wonders which he had heard of that celebrated land. To get to Alexandria was easy enough; and some acquaintances whom he had picked up on the way, kindly facilitated his journey to the Nile, and saw him fairly afloat in hiscangeafor Cairo. But here, left with an Arab captain, and five swarthy Egyptians, his difficulties commenced, and without knowing a single word of Arabic, he had to depend on his own resources. The boats on the Nile are very ticklish flat-bottomed affairs, wretchedly handled. Before the wind they rush up like steamers, but on a wind, go to lee-ward like feathers; while in consequence of the Nile being full of shifting sand-banks, with a daily varying depth of water, they are continually running aground in the middle of the river. To this add the laziness of the captain andcrew, to whom time was of no consequence; to-day, to-morrow, the next day, or a week hence, was all the same to them; they had no preferment to look forward to, no release from labor but death; and wisely enough, perhaps, exerted themselves as little as they could. ‘Inshalla!Godwas great, and the sun was hot! Why should they weary themselves?’ And so they took every opportunity to rest, cook their miserable fare, and dawdle the listless hours away. Of these dilatory habits of the natives the Englishman had been warned, and that whenever it happened, he was to prevent them from stopping, and force them to go on.‘The opportunity was not long wanting. Without any reason sufficiently apparent to him, the huge stone fastened to a coir cable, and doing duty for an anchor, was dropped overboard, and the crew betook themselves to sleep. What was to be done? Of Arabic he had not a word to tell them to proceed; but he had plenty of English; so by dint of shaking his stick at the captain, and a somewhat boisterous ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ roared out in a tone sufficiently indicative of his wishes, the primitive ‘anchor’ was got up, and onward they proceeded. Delighted to find his most British remonstrance succeed, he did not let it rust for want of practice; but every time the lazy crew attempted to ‘bring to,’ the stamp, the roar, and the shake of the stick, with the never-failing objurgation, were resorted to, and invariably with the same results. The passage up to Cairo averages three days, but vessels have been known to be as many as nine. Seven, eight, nine days past; twelve, fourteen; yet as if by magic, Grand Cairo seemed to recede before them. No time had been lost by him, for the wind had been strong in their favor, and he scarcely allowed the crew to take the necessary rest. It was very odd how greatly had he been misinformed in the distance! The very maps too seemed leagued against him; his manifold measurings and calculations were of no apparent avail. At last, at rising on the morning-of the fifteenth day, he found himself at anchor off a strange tumble-down-looking town, which by signs the captain gave him to understand was the place of his destination. Could that be ‘Grand Cairo!’ How odd! But then he was in a country of oddities; and on stepping ashore, he encountered a sun-burnt English-looking man gazing earnestly at the new arrival.‘Is this Grand Cairo, Sir?’ inquired the astonished novice.‘Grand Cairo, Sir! GoodGod, no! This is Kennah, a thousand miles beyond! Why, how the devil did you manage to get up here without knowing it? Do you speak Arabic?’‘Not a word!’‘Umph! What language thendidyou speak?’‘No other than English; but when they stopped, I d—d their eyes soundly, and they seemed to understand very well whatthatmeant, for they were up anchor and off in a jiffy!’The stranger, who spoke Arabic fluently, sought an explanation of the native captain, and the mystery was quickly solved.‘How did you contrive to get up here,Ryis, instead of stopping at Cairo?’‘Why, Effendim, the Frank was the most impatient man in the world: no sooner did we stop to cook, to rest, or for the wind, than stick in hand, and raving with passion, he stamped on the deck, and with a gesture too imperious to be mistaken, shouted the only Arabic sentence which he seemed to know, which was ‘GoddamRyis!’—and ‘Inshallah!’ we got no rest, but were forced to work like devils. We passed Bourlac (Cairo) in the night, andAllah Kherim!here we are at a town which none of you Christians pass without stopping.’‘God-dam’ is very good Arabic for ‘go on;’ and ‘Ry-i-s,’ means ‘captain.’ ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ however thoroughly English it may seem to cockneys, is very tolerable Arabic for ‘Go on, captain!’ (en avant.)
‘An impetuous Englishman, unacquainted with any language but his own, was desirous of seeing Egypt, and satisfying himself by occular demonstration of the truth of the many wonders which he had heard of that celebrated land. To get to Alexandria was easy enough; and some acquaintances whom he had picked up on the way, kindly facilitated his journey to the Nile, and saw him fairly afloat in hiscangeafor Cairo. But here, left with an Arab captain, and five swarthy Egyptians, his difficulties commenced, and without knowing a single word of Arabic, he had to depend on his own resources. The boats on the Nile are very ticklish flat-bottomed affairs, wretchedly handled. Before the wind they rush up like steamers, but on a wind, go to lee-ward like feathers; while in consequence of the Nile being full of shifting sand-banks, with a daily varying depth of water, they are continually running aground in the middle of the river. To this add the laziness of the captain andcrew, to whom time was of no consequence; to-day, to-morrow, the next day, or a week hence, was all the same to them; they had no preferment to look forward to, no release from labor but death; and wisely enough, perhaps, exerted themselves as little as they could. ‘Inshalla!Godwas great, and the sun was hot! Why should they weary themselves?’ And so they took every opportunity to rest, cook their miserable fare, and dawdle the listless hours away. Of these dilatory habits of the natives the Englishman had been warned, and that whenever it happened, he was to prevent them from stopping, and force them to go on.
‘The opportunity was not long wanting. Without any reason sufficiently apparent to him, the huge stone fastened to a coir cable, and doing duty for an anchor, was dropped overboard, and the crew betook themselves to sleep. What was to be done? Of Arabic he had not a word to tell them to proceed; but he had plenty of English; so by dint of shaking his stick at the captain, and a somewhat boisterous ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ roared out in a tone sufficiently indicative of his wishes, the primitive ‘anchor’ was got up, and onward they proceeded. Delighted to find his most British remonstrance succeed, he did not let it rust for want of practice; but every time the lazy crew attempted to ‘bring to,’ the stamp, the roar, and the shake of the stick, with the never-failing objurgation, were resorted to, and invariably with the same results. The passage up to Cairo averages three days, but vessels have been known to be as many as nine. Seven, eight, nine days past; twelve, fourteen; yet as if by magic, Grand Cairo seemed to recede before them. No time had been lost by him, for the wind had been strong in their favor, and he scarcely allowed the crew to take the necessary rest. It was very odd how greatly had he been misinformed in the distance! The very maps too seemed leagued against him; his manifold measurings and calculations were of no apparent avail. At last, at rising on the morning-of the fifteenth day, he found himself at anchor off a strange tumble-down-looking town, which by signs the captain gave him to understand was the place of his destination. Could that be ‘Grand Cairo!’ How odd! But then he was in a country of oddities; and on stepping ashore, he encountered a sun-burnt English-looking man gazing earnestly at the new arrival.
‘Is this Grand Cairo, Sir?’ inquired the astonished novice.
‘Grand Cairo, Sir! GoodGod, no! This is Kennah, a thousand miles beyond! Why, how the devil did you manage to get up here without knowing it? Do you speak Arabic?’
‘Not a word!’
‘Umph! What language thendidyou speak?’
‘No other than English; but when they stopped, I d—d their eyes soundly, and they seemed to understand very well whatthatmeant, for they were up anchor and off in a jiffy!’
The stranger, who spoke Arabic fluently, sought an explanation of the native captain, and the mystery was quickly solved.
‘How did you contrive to get up here,Ryis, instead of stopping at Cairo?’
‘Why, Effendim, the Frank was the most impatient man in the world: no sooner did we stop to cook, to rest, or for the wind, than stick in hand, and raving with passion, he stamped on the deck, and with a gesture too imperious to be mistaken, shouted the only Arabic sentence which he seemed to know, which was ‘GoddamRyis!’—and ‘Inshallah!’ we got no rest, but were forced to work like devils. We passed Bourlac (Cairo) in the night, andAllah Kherim!here we are at a town which none of you Christians pass without stopping.’
‘God-dam’ is very good Arabic for ‘go on;’ and ‘Ry-i-s,’ means ‘captain.’ ‘G-d d—n your eyes!’ however thoroughly English it may seem to cockneys, is very tolerable Arabic for ‘Go on, captain!’ (en avant.)
‘A Story of Sorrow and Crime’ is an affecting monitory sketch, devoid of that mawkishness which is sometimes the characteristic of kindred performances. The writer’s reflections upon the career of his hero, remind us of that beautiful passage in one ofBlair’sessays: ‘Life is short: the poor pittance of seventy years is worth being a villain for. What matters it if your neighbor lies in a splendid tomb? Sleep you with innocence! Look behind you through the track of time; a vast desert lies open in the retrospect; through this desert have your fathers journeyed on, until wearied with years and sorrows, they sunk from the walks of men. You must leave them where they fell, and you are to go a little farther, where you will find eternal rest. Whatever you may have to encounter between the cradle and the grave, every moment is big with innumerable events, which come not in slow succession, but bursting forcibly from a revolving and unknown cause, fly over this orb with diversified influence.’•••‘F. P.’s ‘Western Adventures’ have goodpointsabout them, but if published entire, would we think disappoint himself perhaps as much as his readers. Here is an anecdote, however, which is worth ‘jotting down’ in types: ‘I met not long after in New-York a man who had just been induced to rent the very hotel in Kentucky which was the scene of the reverses I have been describing. Aware that I had at one time kept the establishment, he was anxious to know my opinion of its pecuniary promise. ‘I don’t expect to make much the first year,’ said he; ‘I shall be satisfied if I ‘realize’ all expenses. But do you think I shall clear myself the first year?’ ‘I haven’t the slightest doubt of it,’ I replied; ‘I cleared myselfbefore the first six months were up, and was d—dgladto get off so; and I rather guess thatyou’llbe too, in about half that time.’ And he was!’•••Could there be a more affecting picture than that of a fond mother learning for the first time from the tell-tale prattle of her little ones thatshe is ‘given over to darkness and the worm’ by her friends, who had disguised from her the fatal truth? Such is the scene depicted in these pathetic lines:‘Hespeaketh now: ‘Oh, mother dear!’Murmurs the little child:And there is trouble in his eyes,Those large blue eyes so mild:‘Oh, mother dear! they say that soon,When here I seek for theeI shall not find thee—nor out there,Under the old oak-tree;‘Nor up stairs in the nursery,Nor any where, they say:Where wilt thou go to, mother dear?Oh, do not go away!’There was long silence, a deep hush,And then the child’s low sob:Herquivering eyelids close: one handKeeps down the heart’s quick throb.And the lips move, though sound is none,That inward voice is prayer.And hark! ‘Thywill, OLord, be done!’And tears are trickling there—Down that pale cheek, on that young head;And round her neck he clings;And child and mother murmur outUnutterable things.Hehalf unconscious,shedeep-struckWith sudden, solemn truth,That number’d are her days on earth—Her shroud prepared in youth:That all in life her heart holds dearGodcalls her to resign:She hears, feels, trembles—but looks up,And sighs ‘Thywill be mine!’’
‘A Story of Sorrow and Crime’ is an affecting monitory sketch, devoid of that mawkishness which is sometimes the characteristic of kindred performances. The writer’s reflections upon the career of his hero, remind us of that beautiful passage in one ofBlair’sessays: ‘Life is short: the poor pittance of seventy years is worth being a villain for. What matters it if your neighbor lies in a splendid tomb? Sleep you with innocence! Look behind you through the track of time; a vast desert lies open in the retrospect; through this desert have your fathers journeyed on, until wearied with years and sorrows, they sunk from the walks of men. You must leave them where they fell, and you are to go a little farther, where you will find eternal rest. Whatever you may have to encounter between the cradle and the grave, every moment is big with innumerable events, which come not in slow succession, but bursting forcibly from a revolving and unknown cause, fly over this orb with diversified influence.’•••‘F. P.’s ‘Western Adventures’ have goodpointsabout them, but if published entire, would we think disappoint himself perhaps as much as his readers. Here is an anecdote, however, which is worth ‘jotting down’ in types: ‘I met not long after in New-York a man who had just been induced to rent the very hotel in Kentucky which was the scene of the reverses I have been describing. Aware that I had at one time kept the establishment, he was anxious to know my opinion of its pecuniary promise. ‘I don’t expect to make much the first year,’ said he; ‘I shall be satisfied if I ‘realize’ all expenses. But do you think I shall clear myself the first year?’ ‘I haven’t the slightest doubt of it,’ I replied; ‘I cleared myselfbefore the first six months were up, and was d—dgladto get off so; and I rather guess thatyou’llbe too, in about half that time.’ And he was!’•••Could there be a more affecting picture than that of a fond mother learning for the first time from the tell-tale prattle of her little ones thatshe is ‘given over to darkness and the worm’ by her friends, who had disguised from her the fatal truth? Such is the scene depicted in these pathetic lines:
‘Hespeaketh now: ‘Oh, mother dear!’Murmurs the little child:And there is trouble in his eyes,Those large blue eyes so mild:‘Oh, mother dear! they say that soon,When here I seek for theeI shall not find thee—nor out there,Under the old oak-tree;‘Nor up stairs in the nursery,Nor any where, they say:Where wilt thou go to, mother dear?Oh, do not go away!’There was long silence, a deep hush,And then the child’s low sob:Herquivering eyelids close: one handKeeps down the heart’s quick throb.And the lips move, though sound is none,That inward voice is prayer.And hark! ‘Thywill, OLord, be done!’And tears are trickling there—Down that pale cheek, on that young head;And round her neck he clings;And child and mother murmur outUnutterable things.Hehalf unconscious,shedeep-struckWith sudden, solemn truth,That number’d are her days on earth—Her shroud prepared in youth:That all in life her heart holds dearGodcalls her to resign:She hears, feels, trembles—but looks up,And sighs ‘Thywill be mine!’’
‘Hespeaketh now: ‘Oh, mother dear!’Murmurs the little child:And there is trouble in his eyes,Those large blue eyes so mild:
‘Hespeaketh now: ‘Oh, mother dear!’
Murmurs the little child:
And there is trouble in his eyes,
Those large blue eyes so mild:
‘Oh, mother dear! they say that soon,When here I seek for theeI shall not find thee—nor out there,Under the old oak-tree;
‘Oh, mother dear! they say that soon,
When here I seek for thee
I shall not find thee—nor out there,
Under the old oak-tree;
‘Nor up stairs in the nursery,Nor any where, they say:Where wilt thou go to, mother dear?Oh, do not go away!’
‘Nor up stairs in the nursery,
Nor any where, they say:
Where wilt thou go to, mother dear?
Oh, do not go away!’
There was long silence, a deep hush,And then the child’s low sob:Herquivering eyelids close: one handKeeps down the heart’s quick throb.
There was long silence, a deep hush,
And then the child’s low sob:
Herquivering eyelids close: one hand
Keeps down the heart’s quick throb.
And the lips move, though sound is none,That inward voice is prayer.And hark! ‘Thywill, OLord, be done!’And tears are trickling there—
And the lips move, though sound is none,
That inward voice is prayer.
And hark! ‘Thywill, OLord, be done!’
And tears are trickling there—
Down that pale cheek, on that young head;And round her neck he clings;And child and mother murmur outUnutterable things.
Down that pale cheek, on that young head;
And round her neck he clings;
And child and mother murmur out
Unutterable things.
Hehalf unconscious,shedeep-struckWith sudden, solemn truth,That number’d are her days on earth—Her shroud prepared in youth:
Hehalf unconscious,shedeep-struck
With sudden, solemn truth,
That number’d are her days on earth—
Her shroud prepared in youth:
That all in life her heart holds dearGodcalls her to resign:She hears, feels, trembles—but looks up,And sighs ‘Thywill be mine!’’
That all in life her heart holds dear
Godcalls her to resign:
She hears, feels, trembles—but looks up,
And sighs ‘Thywill be mine!’’
‘I camedown from Albany the other evening,’ writes a correspondent, ‘in that floating palace, theKnickerbockersteamer; I slept in yourKnickerbockerstate-room; arrived in town, I took after dinner aKnickerbockeromnibus, and rode up to the ‘Westminster Abbey Bowling Saloon,’ named ofKnickerbocker; I called on you with my article for theKnickerbockerMagazine; and on my way down, enjoyed a delightful ablution at theKnickerbockerBath; stepped into theKnickerbockerTheatre, and ‘laughed consumedly’ over an amusing play; and finally, closed with a cup of delicious tea, green and black, and anchovy-toast, atKnickerbockerHall. Every thing, I was glad to see, wasKnickerbocker.’ Very flattering; yet we dare say our friend was not aware that this Magazine was thepioneerin the use of this popular name in Gotham, and that its example has suggested, one after another, the namesakes to which he has alluded. Such, howbeit, is the undeniable fact.•••Weremarked the example ofcatachresisto which ‘L.’ alludes, and laughed at it, we venture to say, as heartily as himself. It was not quite so glaring however as the confused images of a celebrated Irish advocate: ‘I smell a rat; I see it brewing in the storm; and I will crush it in the bud!’•••Wefind several things to admire in our Detroit friend’s ‘Tale of Border Warfare;’ but he can’t ‘talk Indian’—that is very clear. The ‘abrogynes’ are not in the habit of making interminable speeches: they leave that to white members of Congress, who pump up a feeling in a day’s speech ‘for Buncombe.’ Do you remember whatHallecksays ofRed-Jacket?‘The spell of eloquence is thine, that reachesThe heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;And there’s one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,The secret of their mastery—they are short.’Not one man in a thousand can talk or write the true ‘Indian.’ Our friendSa-go-sen-o-ta, formerly known as Col.William L. Stone, is one of the best Indian writers in this country. His late letter ‘To the Sachems, Chiefs, and Warriors of the Seneca Indians,’ acknowledging the honor they had done him in electing him a chief, is a perfect thing in its kind. May it be long before the ‘Master of Breath’ shall call him to ‘the fair hunting-grounds, through clouds bright as fleeces of gold, upon a ladder as beautiful as the rainbow!’•••Ourentertaining ‘Dartmoor Prisoner’ has a pleasant story of a fellow-captive who on one occasion performed that ‘cautionary’ experiment which is sometimes denominated ‘putting your foot in it.’ The term is of legitimate origin, it should seem. According to theAsiatic Researches, a very curious mode of trying the title to land is practised in Hindostan. Two holes are dug in the disputed spot, in each of which the lawyers on either side put one of their legs, and remain there until one of them is tired, orcomplains of being stung by the insects, in which case his client is defeated. In this country it is the client and not the lawyer who ‘puts his foot into it!’•••Wehave commenced in the present, and shall conclude in our next number, a ‘Legend of the Conquest of Spain,’ byWashington Irving. We derive it from the same source whence we received the ‘Legend of DonRoderick,’ lately published in these pages. We commend its graphic limnings and stirring incidents to the admiration of our readers.•••A friendand correspondent in a sister city dashes in with a rich brush, in one of his familiar letters to us, a sketch of a boss-painter, who was renovating the writer’s house with sundry pots of paint; a conceited, half-informed prig, who having grown rich, talks of ‘going to Europe in the steam-boat,’ and has a huge fancy for seeing Italy. ‘Yes,’ said the house-and-signRaphael, ‘I must see Rome and Athens; them Romans allers made a great impression on me; the land ofApellesandXerxes; ah! that must be worth travelling for.’ ‘Would you not rather run over England?’ I asked; but the asspoohedat England, and on the strength of his daubing our house-blinds, claimed an interest in the Fine Arts abroad: ‘No, Sir, give me Italy—the Loover and the Vattykin; them’s the places for my money! Gods! how I should like to rummage over them old-masters! They beatusall hollow—that’s a fact. I’ll give in to them. There never was such painters before, nor never will be. I want to study ’em.’ ‘Yes,’ I rejoined; ‘’twould interest you, doubtless; and after having studied the great painters in Italy, you might return by way of Switzerland, and scrape acquaintance with theglaciers.’ The booby did nottake, but only stared and said: ‘Oh, they’re famous for glass-work there, be they?’ This lover of the Fine Arts had a counterpart in the man who having ‘made as much money as he wanted by tradin’ in Boston,’ went ‘a-travelling abroad;’ and while in Florence, called onPowersthe sculptor, with a design to ‘patronize’ him a little. After looking at his ‘Greek Slave,’ his ‘Eve,’ and other gems of art, he remarked that he ‘thought they’d look a good ’eal better if they had some clothes on. I’m pretty well off,’ he continued, ‘and ha’n’t a chick nor child in the world; and I thought I’d price astattyor two. What’s the damage, now, for that one you’re peckin’ at?’ ‘It should be worth from four to five thousand dollars, I think,’ answeredPowers. ‘What! five thousand dollars forthat ’are! I cal’lated to buy me a piece ofstattyarybefore I went home, butthat’sout of the question!Hasn’t stattyary riz lately?How’s paintin’s here now?’•••Justcomplaints are made by our city contemporaries of the exorbitant rates of postage upon weekly periodicals. Mr.Williscomplains, in the ‘New-Mirror’ weekly journal, that country postmasters charge so much postage on that periodical by mail, that in many cases it would make the work cost to its country subscribers something like ten dollars a year! All postage in this country is at too high a rate; and so long as it remains so, the law will continue to be evaded. ‘CheatingUncle Sam’ is not considered a very heinous offence. There is nothing one robs with so little compunction as one’s country. It is at the very worst robbing only eighteen millions of people.•••Thelines sent us in rejoinder to the stanzas of ‘C. W. D.,’ in a late issue, would not beoriginalin our pages; nor could we hope to have manynewreaders for them, after they have appeared in, and of course been copied from, that exceedingly pleasant and well-edited daily journal, theBoston Evening Transcript.•••Hauffman, the German poet, was recently expelled from the Prussian dominions, and all his works proscribed thenceforth. ‘Served him right;’ for in one of his works appears the ‘word following, to wit:’ ‘Sleuerverweigerungsverfassungsmassigberechtig!’—meaning a man who is exempt by the constitution from the payment of taxes. ‘Myscheeves thick’ must needs follow such terrific words. ‘We have heard,’ says a London critic, in allusion to this jaw-breaker, ‘of a gentleman, a member of theMarionettenschauspielhausengesellschaft, who was said to be an excellent performer on the ‘Constantinopolitanischetudelsackpfeife!’’•••Weowe a word of apology to our friends the publishers, for the omission of notices which we had prepared of their publications, and which are crowded out by our title-page and index, that were forgotten until the last moment. We shall ‘bring up arrears’ in our next.
‘I camedown from Albany the other evening,’ writes a correspondent, ‘in that floating palace, theKnickerbockersteamer; I slept in yourKnickerbockerstate-room; arrived in town, I took after dinner aKnickerbockeromnibus, and rode up to the ‘Westminster Abbey Bowling Saloon,’ named ofKnickerbocker; I called on you with my article for theKnickerbockerMagazine; and on my way down, enjoyed a delightful ablution at theKnickerbockerBath; stepped into theKnickerbockerTheatre, and ‘laughed consumedly’ over an amusing play; and finally, closed with a cup of delicious tea, green and black, and anchovy-toast, atKnickerbockerHall. Every thing, I was glad to see, wasKnickerbocker.’ Very flattering; yet we dare say our friend was not aware that this Magazine was thepioneerin the use of this popular name in Gotham, and that its example has suggested, one after another, the namesakes to which he has alluded. Such, howbeit, is the undeniable fact.•••Weremarked the example ofcatachresisto which ‘L.’ alludes, and laughed at it, we venture to say, as heartily as himself. It was not quite so glaring however as the confused images of a celebrated Irish advocate: ‘I smell a rat; I see it brewing in the storm; and I will crush it in the bud!’•••Wefind several things to admire in our Detroit friend’s ‘Tale of Border Warfare;’ but he can’t ‘talk Indian’—that is very clear. The ‘abrogynes’ are not in the habit of making interminable speeches: they leave that to white members of Congress, who pump up a feeling in a day’s speech ‘for Buncombe.’ Do you remember whatHallecksays ofRed-Jacket?
‘The spell of eloquence is thine, that reachesThe heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;And there’s one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,The secret of their mastery—they are short.’
‘The spell of eloquence is thine, that reachesThe heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;And there’s one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,The secret of their mastery—they are short.’
‘The spell of eloquence is thine, that reaches
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;
And there’s one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,
The secret of their mastery—they are short.’
Not one man in a thousand can talk or write the true ‘Indian.’ Our friendSa-go-sen-o-ta, formerly known as Col.William L. Stone, is one of the best Indian writers in this country. His late letter ‘To the Sachems, Chiefs, and Warriors of the Seneca Indians,’ acknowledging the honor they had done him in electing him a chief, is a perfect thing in its kind. May it be long before the ‘Master of Breath’ shall call him to ‘the fair hunting-grounds, through clouds bright as fleeces of gold, upon a ladder as beautiful as the rainbow!’•••Ourentertaining ‘Dartmoor Prisoner’ has a pleasant story of a fellow-captive who on one occasion performed that ‘cautionary’ experiment which is sometimes denominated ‘putting your foot in it.’ The term is of legitimate origin, it should seem. According to theAsiatic Researches, a very curious mode of trying the title to land is practised in Hindostan. Two holes are dug in the disputed spot, in each of which the lawyers on either side put one of their legs, and remain there until one of them is tired, orcomplains of being stung by the insects, in which case his client is defeated. In this country it is the client and not the lawyer who ‘puts his foot into it!’•••Wehave commenced in the present, and shall conclude in our next number, a ‘Legend of the Conquest of Spain,’ byWashington Irving. We derive it from the same source whence we received the ‘Legend of DonRoderick,’ lately published in these pages. We commend its graphic limnings and stirring incidents to the admiration of our readers.•••A friendand correspondent in a sister city dashes in with a rich brush, in one of his familiar letters to us, a sketch of a boss-painter, who was renovating the writer’s house with sundry pots of paint; a conceited, half-informed prig, who having grown rich, talks of ‘going to Europe in the steam-boat,’ and has a huge fancy for seeing Italy. ‘Yes,’ said the house-and-signRaphael, ‘I must see Rome and Athens; them Romans allers made a great impression on me; the land ofApellesandXerxes; ah! that must be worth travelling for.’ ‘Would you not rather run over England?’ I asked; but the asspoohedat England, and on the strength of his daubing our house-blinds, claimed an interest in the Fine Arts abroad: ‘No, Sir, give me Italy—the Loover and the Vattykin; them’s the places for my money! Gods! how I should like to rummage over them old-masters! They beatusall hollow—that’s a fact. I’ll give in to them. There never was such painters before, nor never will be. I want to study ’em.’ ‘Yes,’ I rejoined; ‘’twould interest you, doubtless; and after having studied the great painters in Italy, you might return by way of Switzerland, and scrape acquaintance with theglaciers.’ The booby did nottake, but only stared and said: ‘Oh, they’re famous for glass-work there, be they?’ This lover of the Fine Arts had a counterpart in the man who having ‘made as much money as he wanted by tradin’ in Boston,’ went ‘a-travelling abroad;’ and while in Florence, called onPowersthe sculptor, with a design to ‘patronize’ him a little. After looking at his ‘Greek Slave,’ his ‘Eve,’ and other gems of art, he remarked that he ‘thought they’d look a good ’eal better if they had some clothes on. I’m pretty well off,’ he continued, ‘and ha’n’t a chick nor child in the world; and I thought I’d price astattyor two. What’s the damage, now, for that one you’re peckin’ at?’ ‘It should be worth from four to five thousand dollars, I think,’ answeredPowers. ‘What! five thousand dollars forthat ’are! I cal’lated to buy me a piece ofstattyarybefore I went home, butthat’sout of the question!Hasn’t stattyary riz lately?How’s paintin’s here now?’•••Justcomplaints are made by our city contemporaries of the exorbitant rates of postage upon weekly periodicals. Mr.Williscomplains, in the ‘New-Mirror’ weekly journal, that country postmasters charge so much postage on that periodical by mail, that in many cases it would make the work cost to its country subscribers something like ten dollars a year! All postage in this country is at too high a rate; and so long as it remains so, the law will continue to be evaded. ‘CheatingUncle Sam’ is not considered a very heinous offence. There is nothing one robs with so little compunction as one’s country. It is at the very worst robbing only eighteen millions of people.•••Thelines sent us in rejoinder to the stanzas of ‘C. W. D.,’ in a late issue, would not beoriginalin our pages; nor could we hope to have manynewreaders for them, after they have appeared in, and of course been copied from, that exceedingly pleasant and well-edited daily journal, theBoston Evening Transcript.•••Hauffman, the German poet, was recently expelled from the Prussian dominions, and all his works proscribed thenceforth. ‘Served him right;’ for in one of his works appears the ‘word following, to wit:’ ‘Sleuerverweigerungsverfassungsmassigberechtig!’—meaning a man who is exempt by the constitution from the payment of taxes. ‘Myscheeves thick’ must needs follow such terrific words. ‘We have heard,’ says a London critic, in allusion to this jaw-breaker, ‘of a gentleman, a member of theMarionettenschauspielhausengesellschaft, who was said to be an excellent performer on the ‘Constantinopolitanischetudelsackpfeife!’’•••Weowe a word of apology to our friends the publishers, for the omission of notices which we had prepared of their publications, and which are crowded out by our title-page and index, that were forgotten until the last moment. We shall ‘bring up arrears’ in our next.