EDITOR'S TABLE (continued 2)

SUMMER TIME IN GERMANY. FROM JEAN PAUL.

The summer alone might elevate us! Heaven! what a season! In sooth, I often know not whether to stay in the city, or go forth into the fields, so alike is it every where, and beautiful. If we go outside the city gate, the very beggars gladden our hearts, for they are no longer a-cold; and the post-boys can pass the whole night merrily on horse-back; and the shepherds lie asleep in the open air. We want no gloomy house. We make a chamber of every bush; and so have my good industrious bees before us, and the most gorgeous butterflies. In gardens on the hills sit school-boys, and in the open air look out words in the dictionary. On account of the game-laws there is no shooting now; and every living thing in bush and furrow and on the green branches, can enjoy itself right heartily and safely.

In all directions come travellers along the roads. They have their carriages, for the most part, thrown back. The horses have branches stuck in their saddles, and the drivers roses in their mouths. The shadows of the clouds go trailing along, and the birds fly between them up and down. Even when it rains do we love to stand out of doors, and inhale the quickening influence; and the wet does the herdsman harm no more!

And is it night, so sit we only in a cooler shadow, from which we plainly discern the day-light on the northern horizon, and on the sweet, warm stars of heaven. Whithersoever I look, there do I find my beloved blue; on the flax in blossom, on the corn-flowers, and the godlike, endless heaven, into which I would fain plunge as into a river!

And now if we turn homeward again, we find only fresh delight. The whole street is one great nursery; for in the evening after supper, the little ones, though they have but few clothes upon them, are again let out into the open air, and not driven to bed as in winter. We sup by day-light, and hardly know where the candle-sticks are. In the bed-chambers the windows are open day and night, and likewise most of the doors, without danger. The oldest women stand by the window without a chill, and sew. Flowers lie about every where; by the ink-stand, on the lawyer's papers, on the judge's desk, and the tradesman's counter. The children make a great noise, and one hears the rolling of nine-pin alleys. Half the night through, one walks up and down the street, and talks loud, and sees the stars shoot in the high heaven. The foreign musicians, who wend their way homeward toward midnight, go fiddling along the street, and the whole neighborhood runs to the window. The extra posts arrive late, and the horses neigh. One sits in the noise by the window, and drops asleep, and the post-horns awake him; and the whole starry heaven hath spread itself open. Oh, God! what a joyous life, on this little earth!

Cambridge, July 20.

Longfellow.

The following we derive from the same source with the above. It is placed in type from the MS. of Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler:

THE PARTING PLEDGE.

I.

II.

III.

'What is more ridiculous to a dandy than a philosopher, or to a philosopher than a dandy?' We thought of this query, while reading a description, in a communication before us, of a knot of fourth-rate dandies, the 'apes of apes,' which the writer encountered in the bar-room of an inn, in one of the fourth-rate towns of Maryland. Doubtless these artificial 'humans' looked upon our friend as quite to be pitied that he was not 'one of us:' 'In their ultra dress, affected manners, drawling tones, and whey-faces, you might read the foolish inanity of an existence parallel in every respect to that of Beau Brummel, except that his was original absurdity, and theirs was folly on loan. It was Parisianism adulterated in London, qualified in Broadway, weakened in Chestnut-street, reduced in Baltimore, and at last in these provincial decoctions diluted to the lowest possible degree of insipidity, with scarce a perceptible tincture of the original liquid. These had no souls by nature; and the only idea they could inspire was one of humiliation, that apes were permitted to wear the likeness of God's image.' * * * We annex below a few random comments from an old and favorite contributor, (a 'scholar ripe and good,' who holds a felicitous pen,) upon three or four papers in our May number: 'John Quod is beyond all praise. I read the May chapters throughout with unqualified delight. The passage describing the old lawyer's affixing his own name, in his confusion, to the blind man's will, aroused me to unseemly, uproarious laughter; and the painting of Kornicker's manner, particularly his laugh, is scarcely inferior to Cooper's account of Leatherstocking's noiseless, inward laugh, the impression of which could not fade from my fancy in a thousand years. I'll wager my head that the May number of no Magazine in the world contains a sketch of more power and humor. As for the 'Lay of Ancient Rome,' I cannot praise it too highly. The imitations of ancient manners, and the keeping with ancient ideas, is excellent, excellent indeed; far better than the efforts of Bulwer, in his 'Last Days of Pompeii,' or than any other late imitations which I just now remember to have seen. Fresh from the perusal of Anthon's 'Horace,' (Anthon's classics are entirely unequalled,) and with Livy in my reach, the verisimilitude strikes me as almost perfect. You cannot fail either, to observe that, as in the 'Three Passages in the History of a Poet,' there is a great deal of sweet poetry scattered about among the jewels of delicate criticism and mirthful wit. I believe my love for the old Greeks and Romans is a little unreasonable; but it is my first love. I often woo other mistresses, but I always return to my 'prima donna.' Twelve or fourteen years ago I ingorged all of Smollet, Fielding, Richardson, Scott, and Cooper, at one intemperate meal, and then lay some months inert and drowsy, like a huge boa-constrictor after swallowing a bullock. Then again for several years I dieted on Greek and Roman and early English literature. Once more I devoured all then published of Edgeworth, Bulwer, James, Marryat, and I know not how many others, rolled up in one monstrous mass. I wonder it had n't killed me; but the process of digestion brought me again to a state of healthful depletion, and my natural appetite revived. So, although I am delighted with genius, or talent, or wit, or mere taste, no matter when or where I encounter it, yet I cannot forget my youthful worship, or forego my early gods. The death-scene in 'The Young Englishman,' I do declare, went to my very heart. I have had since continually before my eyes the poor youth, flying from his destroyer, whose unerring dart was already in his bosom. What a mournful comment on that most affecting passage of Virgil, where the wounded deer flies from the pursuer, (who is in truth her companion,) with the arrow for ever in her side—hæret lateri lethalis arundo—flies through the summer forests, all heedless of their greenness, and lies down by some blue streamlet, helpless and hopeless to die! Seeing the other day a number of 'Graham's Magazine,' I read in it an article by E. A. Poe, who comes down on your old correspondent 'Flaccus' like a mountain of lead! It is clear that 'Flaccus' has in many places exposed himself to the charge of unmelodious rhymes, incongruous figures, and occasionally faulty taste. But there is a difference between a Pope that sometimes nods, and a Cibber that never wakes! I am not easily moved, in the matter of poetry; I think, at least, that it must have merit to please me; and I well remember that Flaccus's metrical love-tale in your pages seemed to me very sweet and original, and strongly redolent of the early English odor. His 'Epistle from my Arm-chair' was in good hexameters, and his 'Address to the President of the New-England Temperance Society' had a Tom Moore-ish spice of elegant wit about it, and might have been written by Mr. Poe in about a century of leap-years.' * * * The venerable Noah Webster, full of years and full of honors, has gone down to his grave, 'like a shock of corn fully ripe in its season.' Our very earliest associations, like those of millions of others, are associated with his name. That blue-covered spelling-book of his, with its progressive lessons of learning and morality; its pleasant fables and pretty pictures; its large type and dingy paper—the very smell of that spelling-book—all are as vivid in our mind as when we first took it to bed with us, in an ecstacy of enjoyment, some score and a half of years agone. And then his great philological work, which is now so well known in both hemispheres, what a monument it is of careful research, discriminating judgment, laborious industry! It will die only with the 'land's language.' Mr. Webster has been a frequent and always a welcome contributor to these pages; and we have even now in our possession late communications from his pen, of which our readers will know more hereafter. Noah Webster was an honor to his country. He was a scholar; a 'gentleman of the old school,' who lived a life void of offence toward God and toward man; and he died in the full assurance of a blessed immortality. May he rest in peace! * * * 'Poetry run Mad' is inadmissible, on two accounts. In the first place, it strikes us we have met parts of it at least before; and in the second, the style has 'outlived our liking.' Nobody but Hood manages well this ragged species of verse; a very clever specimen of which is contained in his 'Custom-House Breeze,' the story of a lady-smuggler who would not go ashore at Dover, because there was 'a searching wind' blowing, which might expose the lace-swathings of her person:

We have given no notice of Carlyle's 'Past and Present,' for the reason, let us inform the publishers, that we received no copy of the work. We have perused the book, however; and are compelled to say that in its style it exhibits no improvement upon the previous writings of its distinguished author. It is even less clear, to our comprehension, (or perhaps from the lack of it,) than any of his former productions. We are sorry to see, moreover, that he is obliged to repeat himself so frequently. Yet is there much matter for deep thought in his pages, and sometimes a whole sermon in a single sentence. His heart bleeds for his suffering fellow-men in England, Ireland, and Scotland; 'twelve hundred thousand workers, their cunning right hand lamed, lying idle in their sorrowful bosoms; asking only for work, and such return for it in food, clothes, and fuel, as shall enable them to live, that they may still work on;' yet we do not see that Mr. Carlyle points out any means by which these many 'workers' may obtain redress of the 'crowned, coronetted, shovel-hatted, quack-heads' whose rule he stigmatizes so severely. Here is a fine passage illustrating the fact that he only is successful who is 'fortunate for good:' 'Success! If the thing is unjust, thou hast not succeeded, no, not though bonfires blazed from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote leading articles, and the just thing lay trampled out of sight, to all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing. Success! In a few years thou wilt be dead and dark; all cold, eyeless, deaf; no blaze of bonfires, ding-dong of bells, or leading articles, visible or audible to thee again for ever! What kind of success is that?' It is not possible for Mr. Carlyle to write a stupid or an unreadable volume; and it can only be affirmed, in dispraise of the present work, that it is less forceful and attractive than one or two of its immediate predecessors. * * * You are wrong, Sir 'P. F.,' altogether wrong. The 'competence' of the tiller of the soil, the 'abundance' of the successful mechanic, and the 'sufficiency' of the tradesman, we conceive to be better calculated to promote happiness than 'great wealth,' even when unencumbered. We are not insensible to the value of money. Our remark was pointed as to the wants that wealth brings; but the cares of it are not less exacting. 'Don't you know me?' said a western millionaire, soon after 'the crisis,' to a friend of ours, with whom he had formerly been intimately acquainted; 'don't you remember me? My name is ——.' 'Good heavens! it can't be possible!' exclaimed our friend; 'why, what has wrought such a change in your appearance? Where's your flourishing head of hair? where's your flesh gone? what's put that bend in your back?' 'The times! the times!' replied the 'poor rich man;' as for my back, I broke that last year, lifting notes; some of them were very heavy.' A grievous and unnecessary burden no doubt they were; and how much better was the rich man's 'wealth,' with its carking cares, than the 'abundance' of the contented mechanic?' * * * A MOST forcible warning to 'nations that know not God' is contained in the following passage from a recent discourse by Rev. Geo. B. Cheever:

'This world has been the theatre of a mighty experiment—whether nations could be prosperous and permanent in pride and sin. The result has been overwhelming. Empire after empire has fallen to the ground. I have passed over the ruins of dead and buried kingdoms; have seen the shades of departed monarchies, and conversed with them, haunting the spots of their former glory; and the hollow voice, as if the wind were moaning from earth's central sepulchres, has spoken in the words of Scripture, deep unto deep, in my hearing, The nation and kingdom that will not serve Thee shall perish; yea, those nations shall be utterly wasted! It is a solemn thing to stand in the Colosseum at Rome, beneath the shadow of the Parthenon at Athens, within the crumbling shrine of the temple of Karnak in Egypt, and to listen to the echo of those awful words. These historical materials and monuments are so many intelligent chords, which men's iniquities have wrought for that great harp of the past, across which God's Spirit sweeps with its majestic, awful utterance! God grant that the history of our nation may not add another tone of wailing to the melancholy voices of dead empires!'

We are glad to perceive that the 'American Book Circular,' recently put forth by Mr. Geo. P. Putnam, of the Anglo-American house of Wiley and Putnam, London, has been received with a becoming spirit by the English press. It has been most favorably noticed in the 'London Review,' 'Examiner,' 'Athenæum,' 'Literary Gazette,' and other influential journals; and its publication has secured to the writer the attention and friendship of several of the most distinguished literary and scientific gentlemen of the British metropolis. This timely pamphlet, in fact, has opened the eyes of the English people to the progress of science and belles-lettres in America, and has served to enlighten them as to the extent of their literary obligations to this country. Widely noticed by the press, and stitched in all the principal reviews and periodicals of England, the 'American Book-Circular' has already been productive of great good to the reputation of our vigorous but infant 'republic of letters.' * * * 'Flaneur,' whom we welcome, has made sundry inquiries in preceding pages concerning certain terms and sayings which have long and generally obtained among pen-and-ink writers of romances and novels, native and foreign. There are other common sayings and comparative-adages, toward one or two of which we should be glad to direct the researches of the reader, 'on the present occasion.' 'Poor as Job's turkey,' has always puzzled us. Is there any authentic record of the personal condition of that afflicted bird, or of the causes which threw it into a decline? Why has it been handed down to us as the very Calvin Edson of its tribe? 'Not worth a Tinker's d—n' is another adage, whose origin is involved in mystery. When was the standard of value established for that intangible commodity of this particular artizan? Was there ever a 'sliding scale' for it, or such a thing as a 'first-quality' article in its kind, before it became a synonym for nothing? We have already asked who that 'Dick' was, who wore such an 'odd hat-band' that its memorial has been perpetuated even unto this day? 'We shall resume this important subject in our next discourse.' * * * The sudden death of William Abbott, Esq., of the Park Theatre, has been announced in nearly all the public journals of the United States. We had the pleasure to know Mr. Abbott well. He was first introduced to us, on his arrival in America, by a private letter from Miss Landon, who spoke of his literary and social qualities in terms of cordial admiration and praise, which subsequent acquaintance convinced us were well deserved. To marked amenity and cheerfulness of manner, Mr. Abbott united literary acquirements of great extent and variety; a thorough knowledge of society; and a frankness of deportment which won, and a sincerity which retained, many friends. He was a most gentleman-like actor; and will be missed and mourned not less by his professional brethren than by those whose acquaintance with his talents and many good qualities was unconnected with his dramatic career. * * * How very prettily this little Love-passage is rendered! Our correspondent lets us hear from him quite too seldom:

TO ALMEDA: FROM THE SPANISH.

Boston, June, 1843.

J. T. F.

The appearance on our table of an exquisitely beautiful card of invitation to the great Dinner at Faneuil Hall on the Seventeenth of June (a kindness of the 'Committee of Arrangements,' for which, although unfortunately adscititious, we desire to render our cordial acknowledgments) reminds us to speak of another species of card, from the same press, which we must believe is little known, but which only requires to be known, to be found in the possession of every tasteful lover of the Beautiful. Mr. Dickinson, of Boston, has recently completed a variety of ornamental cards, of various sizes, large, medium, and petite, one use of which we desire to indicate to our metropolitan readers; not without the hope also that the information will not come amiss to our readers every where; for the cards are 'awaiting' as well as 'under orders.' As frames for medium and small engravings, we certainly know of nothing so tasteful and so appropriate. In color various; of tints inconceivably delicate; and with borderings of the most chaste yet elaborate and distinct bas-relief; they are 'just the thing' for the purpose we have indicated. We shall be happy to afford 'the ocular proof' to any one who may doubt the justice, or impugn the good taste, which we conceive to characterize as well the cards as our encomiums! These admirable specimens of American taste and skill may be found at the establishment of the Messrs. Woodworth's (late Bonfanti's) and at Nesbitt's in this city. * * * The interest still excited by the slightest object connected with the name of Napoleon has recently been curiously illustrated by the opening of a 'Napoleon Museum' in London, consisting of a vast collection of mementos of the great hero and his associates, from the day of his birth to the time of his burial. Among them is a morceau of his penmanship in his latter days, on the back of a card, the ominous nine of diamonds, which has caused a good deal of merriment to the cockneys, although it strikes us they should 'laugh on the wrong side of the mouth.' The imperial prisoner appears to have been making an attempt to commit some English words to memory, and to have noted down the difference between hungry and angry—words which must have sounded marvellously similar in his ears, from the mouths of his English visitors: 'Are you 'ungry?—are you angry?' We do not wonder at his perplexity. His memorandum runs thus upon the card: 'Are you 'ungry?'—'Avez vous faim?' 'Are you angry?—'Etes vous en colere?' * * * 'Polemics' is an article catholic and cogent in spirit and argument, but it is TOO LONG for an essay. (We wish we could impress upon our didactic correspondents the necessity of at least comparative brevity!) Rev. Theodore Parker, in the following, has expressed every fact and argument which our correspondent has expanded over eight letter-sheet pages! Indeed, himself shall be the judge:

'Who shall tell us that another age will not smile at our doctrines, disputes, and unchristian quarrels about Christianity? Who shall tell us they will not weep at the folly of all such as fancied Truth shone only in the contracted nook of their school, or sect, or coterie? Men of other times may look down equally on the heresy-hunters and men hunted for heresy, and wonder at both. The men of all ages before us were quite as confident as we, that their opinion was truth; that their notion was Christianity, and the whole thereof. The men who lit the fires of persecution, from the first martyr to Christian bigotry down to the last-murder of the innocents, had no doubt their opinion was divine. No doubt an age shall come, in which ours shall be reckoned a period of darkness, like the sixth century, when men groped for the wall, but stumbled and fell, because they trusted a transient notion, not an eternal truth. But while this change goes on; while one generation of opinions passes away and another rises up; Christianity itself, that pure religion, which exists eternal in the constitution of the soul and the mind of God, is always the same.'

'Fancy's Vision,' says a correspondent, in a running commentary upon the poetry of our May number, 'is very well done for a Scotch song; although I think Burns and others have too well occupied that field, for foreign imitators to expect to glean much. It seems a little unnatural for Americans to compose in the Scottish dialect, however simple and well-adapted to love-lyrics that English-Doric may be thought. Some Scotticisms, such as 'bonnie,' 'burnie,' 'wimplin,' etc., are very sweet; but others, in my view, such as 'hame,' 'drap,' etc., are inferior to the English. Perhaps, however, the writer is a Caledonian.' To be sure she is; and 'that makes a difference;' yet we do not disagree in the main with our correspondent. By the by, speaking of Scottish poetry, here is a specimen of the true thing. It is from the pen of an esteemed friend and contributor, and has been widely circulated, and as widely admired, both at home and abroad:

THE WEE VOYAGER.

WRITTEN ON SEEING IN A GLASGOW NEWSPAPER THAT THE CREW OF A VESSEL DISCOVERED A HARE FLOATING IN THE FRITH OF FORTH UPON A SHEET OF ICE TO THE OCEAN.

BY JAMES LAWSON.

This would be 'ower Scotch,' perhaps, for an English ear, but that the very sound of the doubtful words is expressive of their meaning. * * * The 'Reminiscence of Little Burke' is not to our taste. He was an extraordinary urchin, certainly; but like all very precocious children, he grew to—nothing. We have always utterly detested infant theatricals. We know of no more ridiculous a sight than one of these dramatic juveniles 'strutting like a Lilliputian grenadier; trying to knit its brow, and flourish its little falchion at an over-grown victim of its vengeance,' who is bending half way down, to hear more distinctly the penny-trumpet tones in which he is threatened. 'Little Burke's' father had no very exalted opinion of his son's genius! 'Oh, no! by no means! oh, certainly not!' * * * We cannot resist the employment of a line or two, though sadly pressed for space, to commend to citizens and strangers the establishment of the American Museum, as conducted by its present indefatigable proprietor. It was our intention to have particularized some of the numerous attractions of this very popular resort; but as these are constantly changing, our intelligence would be likely to prove 'Johnny Thompson's news' at the end of the month in which we write. The corps of gentlemen-singers, for example, who adopted the 'Ethiopian' garb, were alone worth a walk of miles to hear. Think of a charming duet, in the most perfect time and harmony, on a pair of tongs and an accordion! * * * We derive from a lady-friend, to whose kindness our readers have heretofore been indebted, the stanzas translated from the German by Fitz Greene Halleck, Esq., in preceding pages. They were withheld originally from publication; the fastidious taste of the writer suggesting infelicities, which we are certain will escape the scrutiny of less refined critics of 'the gentle art of song.' * * * Some newspaper 'down east' has been instigated to hint that the lively and gossipping New-York correspondence of the Washington 'National Intelligencer' is written by John Neal! As if it were possible to mistake the pleasant style of Mr. Willis, for the labored yet slovenly no-style of 'Omnium Scriblerius!' One might as well attribute the authorship of 'Thanatopsis' to 'Sir William Marsh, of Apple Island, Boston Harbor!' * * * The paper elicited by the article upon 'Forensic Eloquence' in our last number, is somewhat too kindred in character with that excellent performance, to be at present admissible. As the MS. is left to our option, however, with permission to 'add, clip, or destroy,' we annex a passage which will be new to many of our readers:

'Cæsar, who was himself an accomplished orator, and knew all the windings of the art, was so shaken on the occasion of Tully's oration, that he trembled, dropped his papers, and acquitted the prisoner. Many attributed this to the force of Tully's elocution; but it seems rather to have been the effect of Cæsar's art. He played back the orator's art upon himself. His concern was feigned, and his mercy artificial; as he knew that nothing could so effectually win Tully to his party, as giving him the pride of having conquered Cæsar.' In relation to the different styles of eloquence, the same writer observes: 'The pathetic orator who throws a congregation of enthusiasts into tears and groanings, would raise affections of a very different nature, should he attempt to proselyte an American congress; and on the other hand, the finest speaker that ever commanded the House, would in vain point the thunder of his eloquence on a Quaker meeting. Voltaire tells us, that 'in France a sermon is a long declamation, spoken with rapture and enthusiasm; in Italy, it is a kind of devotional comedy; in England, it is a solid dissertation, sometimes a dry one, which is read to the congregation without action or elocution.' A discourse which would raise a French audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, would throw an English one into a fit of laughter.'

D.'s story of 'The Whistling Bridegroom' is very good, but 'drawn too fine' for the strength of the fabric. Briefly, it is this: A clergyman is uniting two persons in marriage; and when he arrives at the point in the service where he directs the bridegroom to 'take the bride by the hand,' the former pays no attention to him, but looks steadfastly upon the floor, and indulges in a subdued whistle. The direction is repeated, but again the only notice taken of it is a continuation of the whistling, sotto voce. A third time the command is given, and the only response is the unique musical accompaniment aforesaid. The clergyman pauses, thinking himself intentionally insulted, when the blushing bride, who had doubtless been thinking of other things, raised her eyes, saying: 'He's deaf, Sir; and it's his way to whistle to himself, when he's any thing on his mind!' The explanation was satisfactory; and 'the deaf was made to hear' the next repetition of the important direction. * * * 'Pretty good,' but not quite probable, we think, the wonderful 'Lusus Naturæ' described by our Kentucky correspondent! Did he really think we should nibble at that hook? There is a wind-mill, we are informed, on the coast of Holland, which lays eggs and breeds young ones; but its family is not near so remarkable as the Kentucky wonder of our new contributor! Would he have the goodness to 'try again?' We fancy it must have been with him that the western story of the 'Prock' originated; a singular animal, with its legs, on one side of its body, very short, to enable it to 'graze on the inclined planes of nature!' It was caught, we remember, by 'heading it,' which reversed the animal, and rendered his legs useless, by changing their position! Vive la Bagatelle! * * * The recent death of Hon. Hugh S. Legare is an event which deserves a particular record in these pages. He was one of the ripest scholars of whom the Union could boast; and in all regards reflected high honor upon our literature. He always wrote from a full mind. Let any one turn to the papers which he furnished for the 'Southern Review' and our own New-York Quarterly, and it will be seen how forcibly they illustrate the justice of this encomium. Had Mr. Legare lived, our readers would soon have had an opportunity of admiring his literary performances in the pages of the Knickerbocker. In a late letter to the Editor, written only a few days previous to his leaving Washington for the last time, Mr. Legare incidentally exhibits the patient research of which he was about to reap an adequate reward, in the new and high career of public service upon which he had entered. 'My studies,' he writes, 'have for many years been of a very severe and serious cast, looking all of them, more or less, to useful results in active life, and most of them connected with political economy and jurisprudence.' Works of recondite research and striking views, such as those of Niebur, Savigny, and others of that illustrious German line, had richly furnished his adversaria and port-folios; and it was from these that he was to have enriched and diversified our pages. The death of such a man, in the prime of life and in the midst of his usefulness, is a public loss, which cannot fail to be widely and deeply felt. Honorable and high-minded in all the relations of life, Mr. Legare met his last hour with perfect composure. In dying as in living, he was the admiration of his friends. * * * We saw the other day what its possessor termed a 'Dogberry-o'-type likeness' of Miller, the Prophet—a counterfeit presentment of a cunning old humbug, 'on its very face.' Its exhibition led to a story of one of Miller's converts, which we thought worth remembering. A matter-of-fact old gentleman in New England, whose wife was a thoroughgoing 'Destructionist,' was awakened out of his sleep by his 'possessed' rib, one cold and stormy March night, with: 'Husband! did you hear that noise? It's Gabriel a-comin'! It's the sound of his chariot-wheels!' 'Oh, psha! you old fool!' replied the gude man; 'do you s'pose Gabriel is such an ass as to come on wheels, in such good sleighing as this? I tell you it's the wind; turn over, and go to sleep!' We believe she did. * * * The 'Confessions of a Belle' is not a new title, and it strikes us that we have encountered some of its incidents before. The lesson, howbeit, is an excellent one. Theodore Hook speaks forcibly to this point, in a portrait of one of his female characters: 'With all this blaze of notoriety, did any body esteem her particularly? Was there any one man upon earth who on his pillow could say, 'My God! what an angel is Fanny Wilding!' Had she ever refused an offer of marriage? No! for nobody ever had made her one. She was like a fine fire-work, entertaining to look at, but dangerous to come near to; her bouncing and cracking in the open air gave a lustre to surrounding objects, but there was not a human being who could be tempted to take the exhibition into his own house.' * * * If 'J. P. S.' will look once more at our remarks, touching which he 'begs leave to demur,' he will find that we differ very little from himself. His pride of opinion runs to a point, and reminds us of a reply we once heard a quaint old Friend make to the eager question of a group around him, touching the relative speed of two steam-boats which were running a race, and a very even one, through Long Island Sound. 'Don't you think we've gained on her, in coming the last forty miles?' 'Yes,' replied the Quaker, with great gravity; 'I should say we had.' 'Well, how much, should you think?' 'I maybe mistaken,' responded our Friend, 'but, I should say, about an inch!' We believe this 'close observer' was not again appealed to for his judgment in the premises. * * * We do not much affect parodies, generally, but the following, from the London 'Charivari,' is too good to be lost. It is entitled 'The Macadamized,' and is set to the air of 'The Monks of Old:'

'The Croton Fever,' by 'Straws, Jr.' has good points. Some of its humor is 'rather fine,' certainly, but only because it is strained. The satire, however, is in one instance just. A friend in a sister city, recently returned home from a visit to New-York, writes us that he is henceforth a Baptist, greatly preferring immersion to sprinkling, of which latter practice of ours, he entertains a vivid recollection. 'In short,' he writes, 'I never saw such a set of incorrigible squirts as you have in Gotham. Morning and evening, every householder, who can afford it, stands before his door, playing with his machine; now deluging the walk, now the pavement, and anon flooding his doors, windows, and blinds with hissing streams of Croton. When you write Dickens next, just tell him that the application of the douche to the pigs, from hundreds of Croton-pipers, has well-nigh driven those quadrupedal republicans from the thoroughfares. That's one comfort!' Ah! yes; and clean streets, and murmuring fountains, and cool side-walks, are 'comforts' also, 'which they of the adverse faction want.' The grapes are not sweet, and 'that's the humor on't!' * * * The Idleberg 'chronicle' will be concluded in our next. The loss of a sheet of the copy (which has now been re-supplied by the author) is the cause of the delay. The fourth number of 'Meadow Farm' will also appear in our August number. The following papers are filed for insertion, or awaiting adequate consideration: 'Greek Epitaphs and Inscriptions;' 'The Doomed Ship;' 'Thales of Paris;' 'Chronicles by an Antiquary;' 'My Leg, a Sketch;' 'A Defence of the Pythagorean System;' 'The Novel-Reader;' 'Disguised Derivative Words in English;' 'Mary May, the Newfoundland Indian;' 'An Old Man's Reminiscence;' 'Polygon Papers,' Number Ten; 'The Birth-Day,' by 'W. C.;' 'New Version of an Old Fable;' 'The Count of Paris;' 'The Painted Rock;' 'The Hour of Rest;' 'Sing,' by Lady Alicia Jane Sparrow, Ireland; 'Orators and Bells;' 'The Maiden's Burial,' etc. 'The Consumptive' is both labored and common-place. 'Neanias' of Kentucky is not deemed admissible. * * * Several publications, among them a Lecture by Eugenius A. Nisbet, delivered before the Georgia Historical Society at Savannah, in March last; 'A Voice from the Vintage,' by Mrs. Ellis, etc., will receive attention in our next. Our Philadelphia Friend, in reply to 'N. S. D.,' shall have a place in the August number.