EDITOR'S TABLE.

The late William Abbott: his Autobiographical Journal.—In briefly noticing, some months since, the decease of William Abbott, Esq., late of the Park Theatre, we promised again to advert to his career in England and this country; and the perusal with which we have recently been favored of an exceedingly entertaining autobiography of this excellent actor and accomplished gentleman, has 'whetted our almost blunted purpose.' We learn from a brief obituary in the London 'Gentleman's Magazine,' that Mr. Abbott was born at Bath, England, in 1788, and began his theatrical career in that city, whence his varied talent caused his being transported to Covent-Garden Theatre, at the age of twenty-four. He remained there twelve years, continuing all the time to grow in reputation. In social life, his house at Knightsbridge, near London, was long the scene of meetings in which good taste and refinement increased their attraction, by being blended with less ceremonious pastimes, and the constant flow of fanciful recreations. Thus he traversed a flowery time until 1824, when ambition tempted him to become the lessee of the Dublin Theatre. He lost money by the speculation; and his next move was to Paris, where with an English company he entertained the Parisian public with éclat for two years. In the French capital his enjoyment of society was of a very gratifying kind; and he spoke the language with so much purity as to escape all the usual inconveniences attendant upon foreign disclosure. In 1828 he returned to Covent-Garden to enable Miss Fanny Kemble to appear as Juliet with an adequate Romeo. Subsequently, untoward events of a pecuniary nature, connected with the management of one of the minor theatres of the metropolis, induced him to try his fortunes in America. The professional and social qualities which had won for him reputation and friends in his own country, gained him both in this, in an equal degree; while the same experience as a manager attended him here that was 'his destiny' abroad. The Charleston (S. C.) Theatre, the management of which he assumed, proved worse than valueless to his interests; and at the time of his death he had resumed his place upon the boards of the Park Theatre, where he had always given ample satisfaction to the public. He was the author of several successful dramatic productions in England, and was known on both sides of the Atlantic as a gentleman of fine literary taste and acquirements. He was a person of the most gentleman-like manners, cheerful disposition, ready wit in the play of conversation, and possessed a kindly and liberal heart. Few men were more welcome to society, or more entertaining within its bounds. He was full of anecdote; and the humorous stories of the stage found in him a most amusing reciter. He had also the song, the jest, or the repartee, which never failed to add mirth to the festive board. Above all, shone the unclouded cheerfulness of his nature, over which even his own misfortunes apparently never suffered a shadow to pass; and that good-will toward others which defied the taint of envy, (either in private life or in an envious profession,) which was happy in contributing to happiness, and would not tread on a worm, or even injure an enemy. 'Such,' says our London contemporary, 'was William Abbott, who for many years was a popular favorite in the principal theatres of London, and who performed the second class of characters better than any actor we ever saw. His walk too was unconfined. In tragedy, not of the sterner sort, he was graceful and impressive; in genteel comedy, equal to any of his contemporaries in that line; in the more unlicensed exuberance of farce, a laughable and jocular actor; and in all, he was ever perfect in his part.'

We proceed now to select a few passages, almost at random, from the delightful manuscript volume to which we have referred; a work which we have no doubt will speedily be in the hands of a publisher, since it cannot fail to prove one of the most various and entertaining books of the season. We commence our extracts with the annexed sketch of personal misadventure, which will remind the reader of the somewhat similar scene in 'The Antiquary' of Scott. The locale is Tenby, in South Wales, opposite the Devonshire coast:

'What vivid recollections throng my mind, when I recall the perilous situation in which I was once placed there! It was my constant custom, whenever I had a character of importance to study, to wander on the 'Sands' in front of the town; not like Demosthenes, with a pebble in my mouth, but seating myself on some jutting rock, listen to the roar of old Ocean in storms, or watch its gentle undulations, like an infant rocking itself to sleep. On one occasion I pursued my path greatly beyond all former wanderings; passed each inlet I encountered, and again emerged on the broad Sands; and on turning, the town met my eye, and appeared, although three miles distant, to be almost within my grasp. The waters kept at a respectful distance, while I reclined upon an isolated rock, not unlike a rude arm-chair. Like another Canute, I wanted to see if the waters would dare approach me. My mind was full of 'meditation and the thoughts of love;' and many a chateau en Espagne was peopled with delightful visions of air-born spirits, paying homage to my towering theatrical genius! Casually turning round, to my utter confusion I saw the water laving the base of a high projecting rock which intercepted my return. I felt that no time was to be lost. I rushed back, and knee-deep, cleared the obstacle. Another, still more formidable, stood before me. Beyond, the golden Sands, tinged by the beams of the setting sun, gave life and hope; at my feet lay despair and death. Not a soul was in sight; and the opposing obstacle that separated me from the path by which I could reach the town, was rising perpendicularly from the deep. I was young in years; and in an instant all my previous life flashed upon me, in one dreary perspective. No escape, no hope! Death himself stood before me! The very rocks on which I had so often gazed with a romantic delight, now oppressed me with terror. Grim visages with demoniac smiles started into life from the surrounding cliffs, to mock my helplessness. The roaring waves, dashing upon the sharp rocks, uttered a voice of fearful warning. Despair was almost at its height, when suddenly my nerves became iron. I rushed to the opposing rock; I reached, and how I know not, a fearful height; I clung to some stunted brushwood, which found a frail hold in the fissures of the rock. One point of safety was visible, but as I attempted to reach it, loose particles crumbled and rolled beneath my feet, and I heard the crackling of the branches. The yawning gulf was ready to receive me! One last effort, one convulsive spring, enabled me to reach the desired refuge; and although in comparative safety, I sat there shaking with terror, and watched the rapid approach of the waves, which, although fortunately not violently agitated, covered me with the 'salt sea-foam.' The excitement prevented my feeling the cold, though I was wet to the skin. The heavens were calm and blue above, and the stars shone in all their splendor; but the restlessness of the waters, through the dim obscurity, kept me in perpetual agitation. For hours I remained in this situation; at length the early morning dawned upon me, and the receding tide lifted a weight from my heart.'

Many of our readers will remember sundry anecdotes, from theatrical persons and works upon the drama of 'Romeo Coates,' of Bath, England. Mr. Abbott gives a very amusing account of the manner in which this soubriquet, which attached to the subject of it throughout his life, was obtained:

'Though an unmitigated ass, he was the lion of the day. He came from one of the West-India islands, was very wealthy, and on all occasions wore brilliants of the first water. In a place like Bath, where ennui will step in occasionally, he was a godsend. He was followed, courted, fooled to the top of his bent. The sprigs of fashion 'drew him in' to give at the York Hotel the most expensive entertainments; and at one party, when I was present, they insisted upon his mounting a table covered with decanters and glasses, to give a specimen of his skill in the small-sword exercise, and display his figure to the best advantage. One of the party, Bacchi plenus, became his opponent, and the result was, the destruction of a most superb chandelier. His face was like a baboon's, and the twistings and distorted attitudes into which he threw himself were alike indescribable and irresistible. One pleasant morning there appeared an announcement in the theatre-bills which shook the city of Bath to its foundation. It was like the precursor of a volcanic eruption: 'Romeo, by an Amateur of Fashion!' The doors were beset at an early hour in the afternoon by those who had failed to secure places at the box-office. Box-admittance was paid by crowds of gentlemen, to enable them, by jumping over, to secure places in the pit. Men of rank and distinction did not disdain to occupy seats in the gallery. The fever of excitement was at its pitch, when the gentle Romeo appeared, dressed in the most fantastic and absurd style, in consonance with the advice of his fashionable friends. He wore diamonds to the value of thirty thousand pounds! I was one of his instructors, and entered into the joke with a keen relish for the ridiculous. It was hardly to be expected that his acting would be tolerated by the true judges of art, and I was obliged to be dressed for the character, in order to finish the part. But no! The appetite of the audience grew by what it fed on; and when the dying scene came, a tremendous burst of mock enthusiasm rang from all parts of the house, and he was universally encored. He bowed most graciously, while Juliet (Miss Jamieson) was lying on the stage, not dead, but literally 'in convulsions' of laughter. Oranges were thrown upon the stage, with a request that the actor would not hurry, but refresh his energies before he recommenced his death. He kissed his hand to the ladies in graceful acquiescence with their wishes, and deliberately proceeded to suck two oranges! His second death was infinitely more extravagant than the first, and drew down repeated and prolonged bravos, and a second encore, which however was not complied with. Showers of bouquets now fell upon the stage, and 'closed one of the most extraordinary dramatic exhibitions I ever beheld in a regular theatre.'

A singular circumstance is mentioned by Mr. Abbott as having occurred to a professional friend of his at Bath, named Sidly. It is authenticated beyond all peradventure. 'Can such, things be, and overcome us like a summer-cloud, without our special wonder?'

'He was quietly seated in his arm-chair, at his lodgings in Beaufort-square, after his return from the theatre; his wife had retired to her bed-chamber, adjoining their drawing-room; while he remained, for the purpose of reading over a character for the ensuing evening. His mother resided a short distance from London, and so far as he knew, was at the time in perfect health. His mind was not preöccupied with the thoughts of home, and an unusual calmness pervaded his spirit. After reading a passage, and trying to see if he had mastered it, he raised his eyes, and on a chair opposite sat his mother, smiling benignantly upon him. His agitation was extreme. He hastily turned round, and saw that the door was closed. He struggled to speak, but his lips were sealed; and with a beating heart and hair erect, he rushed to the bed-side of his wife, and in broken sentences, and with thick-starting perspiration rolling down his face, he detailed what he had seen. His wife endeavored to persuade him that it was all a dream; and to convince him, quietly walked into the drawing-room, and found the apartment precisely as she had left it, the fire burning and the candles lighted; but nothing could do away the illusion; and in two days afterward poor Sidly received the intelligence of his mother's death at the very hour of the occurrence here narrated. He seldom referred to the circumstance, and never without deep and melancholy emotion.'

Liston, the great comedian, as most readers are aware, was an inveterate wag. He was never more happy than when successful in making a fellow-actor lose his 'power of face' upon the stage. Mr. Abbott relates a pleasant anecdote of one of his efforts in this kind:

'In Newcastle, under the management of Stephen Kemble, (who played the part of Falstaff without stuffing,) Liston on one occasion took the character of Pizarro. When he is lying on the couch, Rolla enters, apostrophizes his defenceless situation, and then rouses and drags him in front of the stage. Judge of the surprise of the actor, at finding one half of Liston's face painted in imitation of a clown! This portion of his features was of course studiously turned from the audience, who were indulged only with the simple profile. Rolla burst into a fit of laughter, and rushed instantly from the stage, to the great scandal of the audience, who had not the slightest suspicion of the cause of such ridiculous conduct.'

Our excellent friend John Wilson, that most mellow of vocalists, once gave us a similar anecdote of Liston. In the play of 'Guy Mannering,' he is deputed to relieve the suffering Lucy Bertram. He places a well-filled purse in her hand, which he clasps cordially in his own, while she looks up in his face, her eyes brimming with tears of gratitude at relief so unexpected. On the occasion alluded to, a remarkable change was observed in Miss Bertram's face, when the purse was handed to her. She shrank back, and struggled, as if to liberate her hand from his grasp: and after looking imploringly at his imperturbable face for a moment, she found relief in a sort of hysterical laughter, which was very far from bespeaking the emotion of the character she represented. Instead of a purse, Liston had placed in her hand a large raw oyster, as cold as ice, and pressed her acceptance of it in a way that was irresistible! There ensues a comparison between those different but equally matchless artistes, Mesdames Siddons and O'Neil, which we have reason to believe expresses the general verdict of the time:

'From all my recollections of Mrs. Siddons, it would be absurd to attempt to draw a parallel between her performances and those of Miss O'Neil; the unapproachable grandeur and dignity of the one and the feminine tenderness and endearment of the other exhibiting widely different expressions, not formed by the same code. You approached Mrs. Siddons with a feeling of awe, bordering on reverence. With Miss O'Neil, all your hopes and fears were excited, and certain to meet with a response. Her bursts of agony and distress agitated every nerve, and would plunge her audience in tears; while the power of Siddons would choke your very utterance, and deny you all relief. What Miss O'Neil required in strong expression, she made up in exaggeration. Every nerve was strained, and her whole frame convulsed; in short, her great fault was exuberance; yet nothing could be more quietly (though distressingly) beautiful, than her performance of 'Mrs. Haller.'

The reader should have heard Mr. Abbott present the subjoined 'limning from life,' and seen him imitate the snuff-taking of the noble tragedian. The story loses much of its force in being transferred to paper. The anecdote is of Harlowe, who painted the celebrated trial-scene of 'Henry the Eighth,' in which the Kemble family figured so conspicuously:

'He had, by his ill conduct, lost the esteem of his great master, Sir Thomas Lawrence, who was the intimate friend of John Kemble; and the latter had in consequence resolutely refused to sit to him for his portrait as 'Cardinal Wolsey' in the picture alluded to. 'Mrs. Siddons and Charles and Stephen Kemble had sat to the artist, but the great tragedian was immovable. At length a friend of the painter (Mr. Thomas Welsh, the celebrated singing-master,) who had received many marks of attention and kindness from Mr. Kemble, and who had great confidence in the force of his influence with him, waited upon Mr. Kemble at his residence in Great Russel-street. He was shown into the library, and was most cordially received: 'My dear Tom, to what am I indebted for the favor of this visit?' 'My dear Sir, I come a humble suppliant to you, and I really don't know how to commence.' 'Well, well; make excuses for your modesty: and then, my good friend, come to the point.' The commencement was auspicious; but the first plunge in a cold-bath is always hard to take. 'I assure you, Mr. Kemble, I feel most grateful for your kind reception; and if I could only hope the favor I am going to ask——' 'Pooh! pooh! you know, Tom, I always told you, from a boy, there was nothing you could ask of me that I would refuse you. Now say what it is you wish; consider it as done; and I really am very much occupied; so, to the point, to the point, Tom.' 'Oh, Sir, you have made me the happiest person in the world. Will you be kind enough to sit to Mr. Harlowe for your portrait?' In an instant a deep cloud passed over the noble countenance of the great actor; and deliberately taking up his snuff-box, he applied a large pinch to his nose, and quickly replied: 'My dear Tom I'll see you d—d first!' Notwithstanding his denial, however, the Cardinal is one of the best portraits, and was caught only by occasional glances from the orchestra, during Mr. Kemble's performance.'

At Edinburgh, Mr. Abbott would seem to have attained great popularity. He mingled in the best circles of the Northern metropolis, and was for some days a guest of Sir Walter Scott. He narrates many pleasant anecdotes connected with his engagements in 'Auld Reekie;' and among them is the following, which is capital:

'I had no personal knowledge of Stephen Kemble, but I cannot refrain from mentioning a circumstance which happened when he was manager of the Edinburgh Theatre. The exiled family of the Bourbons were residing at the Palace of Holyrood, and great respect and attention were shown by the nobility in the neighborhood to the unfortunate descendants of a long line of kings. Mr. Kemble thought the patronage of the Comte D'Artois, afterward Charles the Tenth, would be a source of great attraction. Application was made at the palace, and with success. His Royal Highness left the selection of the play to the manager, who fixed upon 'Henry the Fourth,' for the purpose of exhibiting himself in his own popular character of Sir John Falstaff. One can scarcely conceive a duller play for a Frenchman, almost ignorant of the English language, and wholly unable to enter into the subtilties of such a being as the Fat Knight. The great desideratum, however, was obtained. The house was crowded, and the manager was satisfied. His Royal Highness bore the infliction in a most exemplary manner, and retired amidst the respectful greetings of the audience. A week had hardly elapsed, when Kemble (probably not from any selfish motive, but with the laudable view of affording some amusement to the illustrious exile,) again presented himself at Holyrood, and suggested another visit to his theatre. The Comte D'Artois received him most graciously; indeed, it was not in his nature to do otherwise, for he was one of the most accomplished gentlemen in Europe. He declined the invitation, however, in nearly the following words: 'I am vara mosh oblige, Monsieur Kemble; it was vara nice, indeed; I laugh mosh; bot von sosh fun, it ees enoff!'

This dubious compliment of the Count is not unlike the praise awarded by a polite French officer to a battalion of rather inferior provincial volunteers in England. He was pressed for his opinion, which he gave as follows: 'Gentlemens, I 'av seen de Garde-Royal and de Garde-Napoleon; I 'av seen de Russ and de Pruss; but by Gar! I 'av nevare see such troops as dese!—no, nevare!' With the two passages annexed, the one describing an annoyance to which popular actors are not unfrequently exposed, and the other the tricks of which they are sometimes made the subjects, we take our leave of Mr. Abbott's 'experiences' at Edinburgh:

'In passing through the gallery at Holyrood, where the miserable daubs of the Scottish kings are exhibited, I was accosted by a legitimate cockney, whom I discovered to be a traveller for some furniture-maker's establishment. He had not been long enough in his vocation to acquire the shrewdness for which that class of persons are celebrated, but made up in unsophisticated simplicity what they possess in assurance. He recognized me immediately, having, as he said, 'frequently seen me at Covent-Garden Theatre;' and without any extra ceremony he fastened himself upon me. When he came to the portrait of Macbeth, he turned quickly round upon our cicerone, and said: 'Lord bless you! that's not a bit like him; for I saw John Kemble do it, and it isn't so much like him as the moon is like a Cheshire cheese.' But the climax of his sage remarks occurred when the old woman came to the spot where David Rizzio was murdered, and pointed out the stain of his blood, which still remains, and which neither time nor soap, she said, would ever efface. Our cockney rubbed his hands with delight, and said: 'Why, my good woman, I'll give you some stuff that will take it out in half an hour!' * * * One morning I lounged into the box-office, which was crowded with persons taking places; and on looking at the playbill of the night's performance, I saw the tragedy of Isabella announced, 'Carlos by Mr. Abbott, with his celebrated hornpipe in fetters, as performed by him at the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden!' This was one of the practical jokes of my friend Murray, (who married a sister of Thomas Moore.) He had given the printer directions to strike off some half a dozen bills of this stamp, for the purpose of raising a laugh against me!'

Soon after the retirement of John Kemble from the London stage, a great event, and well described by Mr. Abbott, that great tragedian gave a memorable dinner to some eighteen or twenty of the most distinguished members of the corps-dramatique of Covent-Garden Theatre. Among the guests, also, was Talma, of whom we have this graphic account:

'On this occasion we had a fine trait of the tragic powers of Talma; not a bombastic display of French acting, but a grand and simple narrative of facts, connected with that frightful epoch, the French Revolution. He himself was suspected, watched; and his profession alone saved him from the blood-hounds who were on his track. During the most terrific period, he did not dare to sleep at his hotel, but lived in the outskirts of the metropolis; and when called in town by his professional avocations, he would steal like a culprit to the gate of his residence, and in an under tone inquire of the old Swiss porter the bloody news of the day. On one occasion he was told that some thirty or forty of his most intimate friends had that very morning perished by the guillotine. Feeling that the crisis of his own fate had arrived, he went tremblingly to the theatre; and during the performance the overwhelming anguish of his soul was relieved only by the tears coursing down his cheeks; and the very expression of which feeling every moment endangered his life. There was a cold, creeping chilliness about the hearts of all present as he spoke, which was perfectly thrilling; and not a sound was heard till he had ceased.'

Here is a brace of anecdotes of an absent-minded brother-actor, which will perhaps 'agitate the risible organs' of some of our readers:

'Henry,' in 'Speed the Plough,' was a character in which he had gained some reputation. At the closing scene of the play, he rushes into a wing of the castle, which is in flames, in quest of papers likely to disclose the secret of his birth. He returns in fearful agitation, with his right hand concealed in his bosom, and which in fact should contain the bloody dénouement of the plot, a towel dipped in blood, alias rose-pink, and a knife, also properly stained for the occasion. The climax of his speech ran thus: 'In vain the angry flames flashed their vengeance around me! Among many other evidences of blood and guilt, I found these!'—producing his fingers and hand! He had entirely forgotten the essential accompaniments * * * His first appearance was before Mr. Dimond had quitted the stage, and who enacted the part of 'Belcour' in 'The West Indian.' In the scene with his sister the debutant should say: 'Are you assured that Mr. Belcour gave you no diamonds?' The question however was rendered thus: 'Are you assured that Mr. Dimond gave you no Belcours?'

Such errors, we believe, are not infrequent upon the stage. The reader will perhaps remember the blunder of the Ghost in Hamlet, on one occasion; who, instead of saying that the 'knotted and combinéd locks' of the young prince would 'stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine,' reversed the terms in this ludicrous manner: 'Your twisted and combinéd locks shall stand up straight, like forks upon the fretful quillcopine!' A single passage more must close our extracts from this delightful autobiography. It is a short story, touching 'the immortal Townsend, the first of Bow-street officers, the favorite of Royalty, and the dread of all coachmen and flambeau'd footmen:'

'I think I see him now, with his flaxen wig, his low-crowned hat, long gaiters, and half-Quaker suit,' discoursing most eloquent music.' It was a source of great amusement to the young sprigs of nobility to extract from him in conversation some of his most characteristic slang expressions; nor did Royalty itself disdain to be amused at his expense. About the period of the connection between the Duke of Clarence and Mrs. Jordan, public opinion was rife on the subject. His Royal Highness was at the opera, surrounded by the world of fashion; and when he encountered Townsend, who was on duty there, he said, in his brusque, off-hand manner: 'Ah! Townsend, Townsend, how d' ye do, Townsend?' 'Why, your Royal Highness, pretty bobbish, I thank you,' replied the functionary. 'Well, Townsend, what news, what news?' 'Why, nothink, your Royal Highness, of any consequence.' 'Oh, nonsense! nonsense! The people must have something to talk about.' 'Why then, if your Royal Highness pleases, the talk is principally about you and Mrs. Jordan.' The sailor-prince was here a little thrown 'aback.' 'Never mind, never mind; let them talk; I don't care.' Observe the simplicity of the answer: 'Your Royal Highness is a d—d fool if you do!'

The foregoing is the result of a merely casual dipping, here and there, into the teeming pages of Mr. Abbott's manuscript volume. Whoever the fortunate publisher of the work may be, he may calculate with certainty upon its acquiring instant popularity.

'The Dial' for the October quarter is a very excellent and lifeful number of that greatly-improved journal. Among the articles which most attracted our attention and admiration, are the 'Youth of the Poet and Painter,' 'A Winter Walk,' an essay on 'The Comic,' and the 'Letter' of the Editor to his correspondents. The first of these papers is characterized by several thrusts of a trenchant satire. We should rather infer, from the recorded 'experiences' of the writer, that when he first entered college, his bump of reverence for collegiate institutions and men of learning could hardly have been developed. Hear him, how he saith:

'I saw that in reciting our lessons to the conceited tutors, who think College is the Universe, and the President Jupiter, they had the impudence to give us marks for what we did, as if we, paying them for so much aid in our lessons, were therefore to be rewarded by them with a couple of pencil scratches. I found we were treated, not only as machines, but to be set up or down, at the discretion of these tutors, who had merely to scratch down a mark, and thus decide our fates. This foolery I felt I could not agree to.' 'I found here no scholars whatever. Some young men deficient in grace, were wearing out the elbows of their coats, in getting by heart some set lessons of some little text-books, and striving which should commit them the most perfectly to memory. This perfection lay in the point of a tutor's pencil, and was at last decided on by the votes of a band of professors, who loved wine and puddings better than literature or art, and whose chief merit lay in keeping their feet dry.'

Perhaps 'these be truths.' Certain it is, that the annexed passage partakes of the veritable. It is a 'picture in little' of the morning routine of a briefless lawyer; and the sitter has many a counterpart in this metropolis of Gotham:

'In the morning, you enter your office at half-past eight, read the paper till nine, and then, if you feel able, walk as far as the court-house. There you are provided with a seat by the sheriff, and cold water by the deputy-sheriff. You next stare at the Court, consisting of one or more judges, twelve jurymen, a criminal or civil case, four baize tables, and a lot of attorneys. You next begin to make motions, which consists in getting a case put off, or put on, as you happen to feel, and run your eye over the docket, which is kept at the clerk's table, in a ledger, for the accommodation of the county, and the clerk's family. If it is your case which comes on, you open your eyes wide, talk a great deal about nothing, and dine with the bar. Occasionally you will feel sleepy after dinner, but awake yourself by smoking a cigar, or driving into the country.'

Here is an extract which will be appreciated for its graceful diction, the love and observation of nature which it displays, and the pensive train of thought which its tone engenders:

'To-day has been pure golden sun-shine since morning; and how the day-god played with the trunks of the trees, as if the forest were one great harp! In the morning, as I sat among golden-rods, under the shade of a pine, where on every side these sunny flowers grew, it seemed as if the sunlight had become so thickly knotted and intertwined with the roots and stems of the plants and grasses, that it could not escape, but must remain and shine forever; yet the pine tree's shadow, at sunset and before, fell long across the place, and the gay light had fled, like the few bright days of life, which fly so rapid by. The old tell us we are young, and can know nothing of life; to me it seems I have lived centuries, out of which I can reckon on my fingers the days of pleasure, when my heart beat high. I fancy there is a race of men born to know only the loss of life by its joys; to live by single days, and to pass their time for the most part in shadowy vistas, where there is neither darkness nor light, but perpetual mist. I am one of these; and though I love nature; the river, the forest, the clouds, she is only a phantom, like myself, and passes slowly, an unexplained mystery, like my own consciousness, which shows through a want of perfect knowledge. I see myself, only as what I do not know, and others, as some reflection of this ignorance, an iceberg among other icebergs, slowly drifting from the frozen pole of birth to the frozen pole of death, through a sunny sea.'

Well pleased should we have been to accompany our observant and thoughtful essayist, when he fetched his 'Winter Walk.' Mark his delicate appreciation of the little accessories of the season. We thank him for awakening vivid glimpses of the past, that go strait to the fresh scenes of boyhood:

'There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes out, and which no cold can chill. It finally melts the great snow, and in January or July is only buried under a thicker or thinner covering. In the coldest day it flows somewhere, and the snow melts around every tree. This field of winter rye, which sprouted late in the fall, and now speedily dissolves the snow, is where the fire is very thinly covered. We feel warmed by it. In the winter, warmth stands for all virtue, and we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods, with as much eagerness as rabbits and robins. The steam which rises from swamps and pools, is as dear and domestic as that of our own kettle. What fire could ever equal the sunshine of a winter's day, when the meadow mice come out by the wall-sides, and the chicadee lisps in the defiles of the wood? The warmth comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from the earth, as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our back as we are treading some snowy dell, we are grateful as for a special kindness, and bless the sun which has followed us into that by-place. This subterranean fire has its altar in each man's breast, for in the coldest day, and on the bleakest hill, the traveller cherishes a warmer fire within the folds of his cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A healthy man, indeed, is the complement of the seasons, and in winter, summer is in his heart.' * * * 'In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and merry, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends. The imprisoning drifts increase the sense of comfort which the house affords, and in the coldest days we are content to sit over the hearth and see the sky through the chimney top, enjoying the quiet and serene life that may be had in a warm corner by the chimney side, or feeling our pulse by listening to the low of cattle in the street, or the sound of the flail in distant barns all the long afternoon. No doubt a skilful physician could determine our health by observing how these simple and natural sounds affected us.'

We commend the following to those who seem to think that a thorough love of the comic or the burlesque argues an ill-regulated mind or a perverted taste. That there are such persons, the reader who has done us the honor to peruse our late confabulations with correspondents, will not need to be informed:

'A perception of the comic seems to be a balance-wheel in our metaphysical structure. It appears to be an essential element in a fine character. Wherever the intellect is constructive, it will be found. We feel the absence of it as a defect in the noblest and most oracular soul. It insulates the man, cuts down all bridges between him and other men. The perception of the comic is a tie of sympathy with other men, is a pledge of sanity, and is a protection from those perverse tendencies and gloomy insanities into which fine intellects sometimes lose themselves. A man alive to the ludicrous is still convertible. If that sense is lost, his fellow-men can do little for him.'

In the subjoined, which we take from the 'Letter' of the Editor, already alluded to, may be seen one beneficial result of the 'hard times,' which, driving men out of cities and trade, forced them to take off their coats and go to work on the land, which has rewarded them not only with wheat, but with habits of labor:

'Speculation is no succedaneum for life. What we would know, we must do. As if any taste or imagination could take the place of fidelity! The old Duty is the old God. And we may come to this by the rudest teaching. A friend of ours went five years ago to Illinois to buy a farm for his son. Though there were crowds of emigrants in the roads, the country was open on both sides, and long intervals between hamlets and houses. Now after five years he has just been to visit the young farmer and see how he prospered, and reports that a miracle has been wrought. From Massachusetts to Illinois, the land is fenced in and builded over, almost like New-England itself, and the proofs of thrifty cultivation every where abound.'

There is much less of the new style of verbal affectations in the present than in preceding numbers of 'The Dial,' and it is just in this proportion the more readable and attractive. We see something indeed of 'externality.' 'reäction inward,' 'unitive ideas;' and certain compound terms, which are meant to be forcible, but are only foolish; such as 'flesh-meat' for meat, 'foot-tread' for tread, and other the like words; but they are scarcely worth mentioning; the infrequency of their occurrence being a sufficient proof of the decadence into which they are already falling.

'Memoirs of the Court of England.'—We have in three handsome volumes, from the press of Messrs. Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia, an accurate memoir of the Court of England, from the Revolution in 1668 to the death of George the Second. The work proceeds from the pen of John Henease Jesse, author of 'Memoirs of the Court of England during the Reign of the Stuarts.' There are numerous and fruitful themes of instruction and warning in these volumes; lessons which have not been lost upon the world, and which are of especial interest to the citizens of a republic; aside from which, the details of the private history of some score of eminent persons, who left their impress on the eras in which they flourished, must needs have attraction for the general reader, who may only peruse them with an eye to lively entertainment. We observe, by the journals of the day, that the work is heartily welcomed and duly appreciated by the public.

THE DRAMA.

Park Theatre.—We congratulate the friends of the drama upon the bright auspices under which this establishment has commenced the present season. Those who have long predicted the downfall of things theatrical, and the utter extinction of the legitimate drama, find but little in the present aspect of affairs at this house to flatter their spirit of prophecy. So long as we continue upon the civilized side of barbarism, so long will a true taste for the drama remain with us. It is the natural food of an intellectual society, and as such will be cherished wherever that society exists; the vagaries of fashion on the one hand, and the railings of fanaticism on the other, to the contrary notwithstanding.

Mr. Wallack.—The engagement fulfilled by this gentleman, after an absence of some years, proved to his admirers that the vigor and vivacity of his acting have lost none of their former charms. In those personations which he has long since made his own, he displayed the same excellence which ever characterized his performance. To say that Mr. Wallack stands at the head of melo-dramatic actors, is not awarding him full praise. He is immeasurably beyond all rivalry in this branch of the art. Melo-dramatic performances by other artists bear about the same relation to the chaste acting of tragedy that the art of scene-painting in water-colors does to that other art which embraces alike the power of tracing upon canvass the most delicate as well as the most magnificent works of nature, in the bold and imperishable figures of a Michael Angelo or a Claude Lorraine. The outlines, the sketchy prominences, of the landscape are what the best of the melo-dramatic actors have delineated; but Wallack has gone a distance beyond them, and added a grace and a finish to the picture, of which his subjects were before thought incapable of receiving. And yet Mr. Wallack is no tragedian. With the high regard which we entertain for his talents, we have never seen them exerted in tragedy, without lamenting their sad misdirection. In the enviable station which he occupies as the first melo-dramatic actor of the age, fearless of rivalry, he should be satisfied, and consider the dignity of third-rate tragedian as entirely beneath his ambition.

Mr. Macready.—Sixteen years ago the American public were first gratified by the performance of this great tragedian—great even then; and those who remember the peculiar character of his style at that time, have recognized it again with all its beauties improved by long study and practice, and not entirely devoid of blemishes. Mr. Macready's acting presents the effect of great study; it shows the result of sound judgment, and bears witness to the absence of all feeling. Great as was Edmund Kean, and great as is the subject of this notice, in the same department of the drama, never were two artists, on or off the stage, more completely the antipodes of each other. Kean, all soul; reckless of art, and apparently despising even the most common and long-received rules and usages of the stage; rushed before his audience, embodying as he advanced the very soul of the character which he had put on with his dress; warming with it, feeling the sensations which he expressed; with

There was no study there; nothing farther than the mere committing to memory of the words of his part. He identified himself with the character, and for the time was that character, to all intents and purposes; entering into its sensations, and actually feeling its joys and its sorrows. And what are the effects of such acting? Let those whose tears have flowed at his bidding, answer! Kean did not create admiration; he awakened enthusiasm. Mr. Macready is so chaste and perfect, so artistical, to use a cant term, that admiration is the usual feeling which he creates. His acting is like a beautiful piece of mechanism, where every wheel and spring performs its perfect work. There is no jarring, no clog, to mar the exquisite regularity of its movements. But it is a piece of machinery, after all. It is man's work, to say the best of it. The power which Kean possessed was no more a merit to the man, as being the work of study, than the genius of Byron was a creation of his own. Nature made him an actor—a thing of feeling; and he could not shut within himself the rays of that divine influence. It could not be cribbed, narrowed down, or fashioned by study, but it shone forth in all its native effulgence—dazzling and unshaded. Therefore it is fairly maintained, that the high station which Mr. Macready occupies as the first tragedian of his time is more to his honor than would be the same position, if gained for him by nature alone. The profession to which he belongs has reason to be proud of its head. He has done more to elevate the drama to its true position than any of his contemporaries, if John Kemble alone be excepted. We have observed during this engagement of Mr. Macready's many new and beautiful readings, many striking effects, and many bold points, which together with the unusual care and fitness in the 'dressing' of the stage, will form the subject of some future notice. We can foresee much benefit that is to grow out of his visit to the American stage. We can already perceive the good effects produced both upon the actors and the stage-manager by Mr. Macready's first engagement at the Park; and we sincerely hope that any suggestions which he may be induced to make, may be liberally and promptly acted upon.

C.

Apropos of the foregoing: Here is our friend the 'Mail-Robber,' with a most timely and apposite paper, in his

FIFTH POETICAL EPISTLE.

TO J. VANDENUOFF, ESQUIRE, OF COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, LONDON.

T. W. P.

Mr. Placide, the universal favorite, who requires not a word of praise from any one who has ever seen him upon the stage, leaves us soon, we learn, for the South-west. As an actor and a gentleman, we commend him to the especial regards of our play-going readers, and editorial and personal friends, in that meridian. Gentlemen, he is 'a trump!' Mr. Chippendale is cordially welcomed back to the Park. In his rôle, by no means a limited one, he is not second to any of his confréres. How admirably he personated the 'Intendant' in 'Werner!' It was a faultless performance, by common consent of his gratified auditors. The same may be said, and was said, indeed, and very unanimously, of his excellent representation of 'Col. Damas' in the 'Lady of Lyons.' Mr. Chippendale has been greatly missed, during his absence; and he 'can't be spared' again. We are glad of an opportunity to pay a deserved tribute to the talents of Mr. Wheatley. 'That first appeal which is to the eye' is most satisfactorily sustained by the manly person and fine features of this gentleman; and we know of no one in the profession whose improvement has been more marked. To our fancy, his performance of 'Ulrick,' in 'Werner,' was a study. The last scene won the most applause, perhaps; but the previous conception and execution of the actor, though less outwardly manifested, were certainly not less felicitous. As 'Icilius,' in 'Virginius,' also, Mr. Wheatley won golden opinions. Indeed, it seems quite certain, that with continued study and attention to the minutiæ of his characters, this young gentleman is destined to attain a high rank in his profession. Mr. Vache, the new Charleston acquisition, seems a very self-possessed, correct, and gentleman-like performer. All that we have seen him essay, has been well sustained. His success is no longer doubtful.

'American Theatre,' Bowery.—We have nothing but abundant success to chronicle of this spacious establishment. It has been crowded nightly, we are informed, to its utmost capacity, by admiring audiences, to witness the representation of Shakspeare's heroes and heroines by Mr. Hamblin, and that gifted actress, Mrs. Shaw. This fact sufficiently bespeaks the character of the personations of these two popular performers.

Mitchell's Olympic.—Full, every night, of wide-mouthed laughers, who go grinning homeward 'by the light of the moon' or the gas-lamps. What could we say more? The only thing necessary to add is, 'Go early, if you desire to enjoy with comfort the capital acting of Mitchell, in the amusing travestie of 'Macbeth,' the charming voice of Miss Taylor, or the clever personations of Walcott.'

The Chatham.—'E'yah! yah! yah!—e'look-o'-'ere!' James Crow, Esquire, has recently delighted his 'friends and fellow-citizens' at this commodious and well-appointed establishment, which has partaken, during the month, of the general prosperity of theatricals in the metropolis. Mr. Burton, a low comedian, formerly of Philadelphia, followed him in his round of characters, with satisfaction to his admirers; and 'at this present writing,' Yankee Hill is amusing crowded audiences with his unique representations of 'down-east' life and manners.

Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—It is many years since we first perused the thoughtful 'Vision of Mirza.' We have been pondering it again this wailing autumn evening; and as we read, we remembered how many companions, who went hand-in-hand with us through the valley of youth, had entered upon the bridge which spans the stream of time, and one after another disappeared in the ever-flowing tide below. Amidst the beating of the 'sorrowing rains' against the window-panes, and the fitful sighing of the night-wind, we thought of One who held with Nature an affectionate fellowship, and who loved this melancholy season as a poet only could love it; of one who stepped upon that bridge at the same moment with ourselves, but who, while yet in the first stages of his journey, growing weary and faint with the toil and strife, reached with gradually-faltering pace one of the concealed pit-falls, and was 'lost for ever to time;' leaving his companion alone, to press on toward the dark cloud which ever broods over the onward distance. Strange power of memory!

Something there is in the autumn season which reaches back into those recesses of the spirit, where lie the sources whence well out the bitter or the sweet waters; recollections of the hopes, the fears, the sorrows and the happinesses, of our incomprehensible being! Enter with us, reader, upon Mirza's Bridge, and listen to the teachings of this matchless allegory of the mysterious shepherd:

'Cast thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.' 'What is the reason,' said I, 'that the tide and sea rise out of a thick mist at one end, and again lose themselves in a thick mist at the other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life; consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of three-score and ten arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me farther,' said he, 'what discoverest thou on it?' 'I see multitudes of people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon farther examination, I perceived that there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner toward the middle, but multiplied and lay close together toward the end of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons, but then their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

'I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood by, to save themselves. Some were looking toward the heavens, in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often, when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I observed some with cimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them.'

The misty expanse which was spanned by this bridge opened at length, it will be remembered, at the farther end; where, thronging the Islands of the Blessed, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and 'interwoven with shining seas that ran among them,' were seen 'innumerous persons, dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers;' and there was a confused harmony of singing-birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. 'Gladness,' exclaims the rapt dreamer, 'grew in me, upon the discovery of so delightful a scene! I longed for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats!' But there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death, that were opening every moment upon the bridge. Happy are they who can say, in the fullness of faith and hope, 'Come the hour of reünion with the loved and lost on earth! and the passionate yearnings of affection shall bear us to that blessed land! Come death to this body!—this burthened, tempted, frail, failing, dying body!—and to the soul, come freedom, light, and joy unceasing!—come the immortal life!' * * * The 'Tale' of our Zanesville (Ohio) friend is too long for our pages. It is well written, however; and especially the third chapter, which describes the progress of a Yankee pedler through the 'Buckeye State,' thirty-five years ago. But for the injunction of the writer, we should have ventured to appropriate this chapter entire. The ''cute trick' upon the honest farmer was capital, and a fair quid pro quo. It was not better, however, than the following, which is equally authentic. A gentleman from New-York, who had been in Boston for the purpose of collecting some moneys due him in that city, was about returning, when he found that one bill of a hundred dollars had been overlooked. His landlord, who knew the debtor, thought it 'a doubtful case;' but added, that if it was collectable at all, a tall raw-boned Yankee, then dunning a lodger in another part of the room, would 'annoy it out of the man.' Calling him up, therefore, he introduced him to the creditor, who showed him the account. 'Wal, 'Squire, 'tan't much use tryin', I guess. I know that critter. You might as well try to squeeze ile out o' Bunker-Hill monument, as to c'lect a debt o' him. But any how, 'Squire, what'll you give, s'posin' I do try?' 'Well, Sir, the bill is one hundred dollars. I'll give you—yes, I'll give you half, if you can collect it.' ''Greed!' replied the collector; 'there's no harm in tryin', any way.' Some weeks after, the creditor chanced to be in Boston, and in walking up Tremont-street, encountered his enterprising friend: 'Look o' here!' said he, ''Squire, I had considerable luck with that bill o' your'n. You see, I stuck to him like a dog to a root, but for the first week or so 't wan't no use—not a bit. If he was home, he was 'short;' if he wasn't home, I couldn't get no satisfaction. By and by, says I, after goin' sixteen times, 'I'll fix you!' says I; so I sot down on the door-step and sot all day, and part o' the evenin'; and I begun airly next day; but about ten o'clock, he g'in in. He paid me my half, an' I 'gin him up the note!' * * * We invite the attention of our readers to the following spirited lines. We shall be glad to hear again from the writer, when he returns to his 'several places of abode.' He tells us that his physician, 'after giving him a little of every thing in his shop, and doubly jeopardizing his life by a consultation, has advised a change of air.' We shall less regret his temporary indisposition, if we can be made the recipient of his pleasant letters from the Southern Springs. In the stanzas annexed, not unmixed with one or two infelicities, are several fine pictures. The chant pealing from the choir of the North Winds; the fierce armies of the pole issuing from their battlements of snow to ravage the fair fields of the temperate regions; the hail-stones beating the march of Winter on the hollow trees; the snow falling silently in the garden of the dead; all these are poetical conceptions, graphically expressed:

WINTER. BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

The 'Tribune' daily journal finds the October number of the Knickerbocker 'well filled with readable and pleasant papers, upon a gratifying variety of topics;' its 'Literary Notices extended and interesting;' and 'its Editor's Table admirably filled, as usual, with whatever is light, graceful, and pleasing.' We hold ourselves bound to be duly grateful for praise so much beyond our deserts; but we cannot permit the young associate-editor of that print, howsoever prompted, to misrepresent us, as he has done, in the notice from which we derive the encomiastic tributes we have quoted. We are accused of 'going out of our way' to attack the writings and the fame (Heaven save the mark!) of the author of 'Puffer Hopkins;' and of being actuated in this by a spirit of malevolence and personal pique. We choose, for the nonce, to occupy space which we could much better employ, in opposing a point-blank denial to this charge. Such a course is not the wont of the Knickerbocker; a fact no better known to our readers themselves than to the absent senior editor of the 'Tribune,' with whom for ten years and upward we have walked hand-in-hand in the support and encouragement of such native literature as was worthy of the name. Were this Magazine accustomed to be swayed in its judgments by private pique, its adverse opinions would need no corrective; its 'sneers' would be impotent; its 'satire' unavailing. No; our sin consists in exposing, without fear, favor, or hope of reward, the literary pretensions of one who has no claim to be regarded as an 'American author;' who has foisted upon the community such works as we have elsewhere considered; and whose efforts to establish a literary reputation are of a kind to heighten rather than to lessen the effect of his uniform failures. We are gravely told, that this writer has 'just conceptions of what an American literature ought to be; of the mission of the American writer,' and so forth. We have had and have nothing to say of his 'conceptions' of what our literature should be, nor of his ideas of literary 'missions;' but we have had something to say of his performances, and of the manner in which they have been presented to and received by the public; and for this reason, and this alone, are we accused of being actuated by private prejudice. But so it has always been. 'Tell these small-beer littérateurs,' says Christopher North, 'that they are calves, and sucking calves too, and they low against you with voices corroborative of the truth they deny.' We should like to know whether all who hold our own opinions touching 'Puffer Hopkins' and the other 'writings' of its author are also actuated by 'personal pique.' If so, there is a goodly number of us! ''Fore Heaven,' as Dogberry says, 'we are all in a case;' for we can truly say, that we never heard an individual speak of these productions, who did not agree with us entirely in the estimate we had formed of them. 'Personal pique!' Was it this which led the kindly 'Boston Post' to pronounce 'Puffer Hopkins' 'about as flat an affair as it ever tried to wade through?' and the 'Poem on Man' a 'mere pile of words,' in which even poetical thoughts were 'completely spoiled by verbiage?' Was it this which prompted our own lively 'Mercury' to say that Mr. Mathews had 'no more humor than a crying crocodile,' and that his short-lived Arcturus 'died of a lingering 'Puffer Hopkins?'' Was it this which caused a monthly metropolitan contemporary to declare, that his writings were 'characterized by an air of pretension, and an eternal succession of futile attempts at humor, which at once disposed the reader to dislike him and his works?' Was it 'malevolence' which prompted the publishers of 'Behemoth,' (over whom the writer had 'come the evil eye,') when they saw his proposals for a 'new edition,' to advertise their's—'four years old and complete'—at half the money? Was it 'personal pique' which caused the house whose name appears as publishers on the title-page of his last work, to complain that it had previously been used by him without their consent, and to object to its being again employed?—on the ground, too, that they did not desire their names to appear upon any of his productions? Was it 'malevolence' which suggested a new title-page, at the publisher's expense, from which their names might be omitted? As well might 'the disaffected' upon whom a humorous 'work' of the author had been inflicted abroad, be accused of acting from 'personal pique' in deciding that for them at least 'one such fun, it was enough!' Æsop is dead, but his frog is still extant; and if we were not at the end of our tether, we could 'illustrate this position' to the satisfaction of every body save Mr. Mathews himself. As it is, we take our leave of him, with no fear that he will write less creditably, and no hope that he will print less frequently, than heretofore; for such is his cacoëthes scribendi, that we verily believe he would be an author, if he were the only reader in the world. Indeed, we even hear of another edition of his writings, 'at the risk of the owner,' to be sent forth from his stereotype-plates, by our friends the Harpers! We had intended a word or two touching Mr. Mathews's position in the 'Copy-right Club'—for we hear there are two sides to that matter—but we wish well to a cause of which this Magazine was the earliest, and has been a constant advocate, and to Mr. Mathews's efforts in it; and if he is to prepare an address to the public, we earnestly hope that it may be clear, simple, and direct, as becomes the plain truths it should present; and that 'giants, elephants, 'tiger-mothers,' and curricles, angels, frigates, baronial castles, and fish-ponds,' will be carefully excluded from its arguments and its expostulations. By the by: this reminds us that we have an error to correct, alike unintentional and immaterial. It was at the Society Library, not the Tabernacle, that Mr. Mathews's great lecture on copy-right was delivered. On this point, the following passage from an editorial paragraph in the 'New World' may be deemed pertinent by many readers, and impertinent, perhaps, by one or two: 'The 'Tribune' accuses the Knickerbocker of mistaking the Tabernacle for the Society Library, as the place where Mr. Mathews delivered his lecture on copy-right to a beggarly account of empty benches, last winter, after placarding the town with the fact that 'the author of 'Puffer Hopkins' was to be heard and seen at that place. But is the fact altered by this trifling error? Was there not a 'capacious edifice' almost empty, and tickets numbered as high as twelve hundred, and not fifty persons in the room?—and half of those 'dead heads?'—as dead as the lecturer's? If this is denied, it can easily be proved.' * * * We are obliged for the kind wishes and intentions of our friend and correspondent 'F.;' but he must allow us to say, that his 'Sketch of Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell' embodies many anecdotes of that learned and eccentric person, which are already familiar to the public. The story of the semi-black man is 'as old as the hills.' The following, however, which we segregate, is quite new, at least to us: 'Jarvis, celebrated no less as an artist than as a pleasant social companion, walking one sultry summer morning with a friend down Murray-street, encountered the Doctor, with a pound of fresh butter upon a cabbage-leaf. 'I'll lay you a small wager,' said he to his companion, 'that I'll cross over on the sunny side, and engage the doctor in conversation, until his butter has melted completely away!' No sooner said than done. Jarvis entertained him with inquiries upon abstruse themes, which Dr. Mitchell took great delight in answering in detail, as well as the objections which Jarvis occasionally urged against the correctness of his conclusions. Meanwhile, the butter dripped slowly away upon the walk, until it was utterly wasted. The waggish painter then took leave of the Doctor, who now for the first time glanced at his cabbage-leaf, exclaiming: 'You've almost made me forget my errand, Jarvis; I started to get some fresh butter from Washington-market!' * * * We shall venture to hope that in declining the 'Stanzas to my Boy in Heaven' we shall give no pain to the bereaved author. The feeling of the lines is itself eloquent poetry; but their execution is in certain portions marked by deficiences in rythm and melody. Will the writer permit another to express for her the very emotions which she evidently depicts with her 'heart swelling continually to her eyes?'

The 'Lines to Niagara Falls' are very far from being worth double-postage from Buffalo. They are termed 'descriptive;' but they afford about as much of an idea of the Great Cataract as the 'magnificent model' of the Falls which was 'got up at an enormous expense' at the American Museum last winter. That was a sublime spectacle! We saw it, it is true, under very favorable circumstances. The whole hogshead of water had just been 'let on,' and the wheezing machine that represented the 'sound of many waters' was in excellent wind. Indeed, so abundant was the supply of cataract, (as we were afterward informed,) that a portion of the American fall, to the amount of several quarts, leaked down into the barber's-shop below. A lisping young lady present was quite carried away with the exhibition. Some one inquired if she had ever seen 'the real falls, the great original?' She had not, she said, 'but she had heard them very highly thpoken of!' They are clever, certainly; and if their real friends would occasionally 'say a good word for them,' they would doubtless soon become very 'popular!' * * * We were struck (and so we recorded it at the time) with the felicitous remarks of Mr. Consul Grattan, on 'Saint Patrick's Day in the' evening. He said he could not help wondering sometimes how the dear old country looked in her new temperance dress; remembering as he did how becoming to her was the flush of conviviality and good fellowship. 'When I picture to myself,' said he, 'the Irishman of the present day seeking for his inspiration at the handle of a pump, I cannot help thinking of the Irishman I once knew, who couldn't bear cold water at all, unless the half of it was whisky; without which they considered it as a very depreciated currency; a sort of liquid skin-plaster, in comparison with the healthful circulating medium of grog and punch.' This is both lively and witty; and we do not wish to derogate from either quality; but if the reader will permit us, we will ask him to glance at the following passage from Charles Lamb's 'Confessions of a Drunkard:'

'The waters have gone over me. But out of the black depths, could I be heard, I would cry out to all those who have but set a foot in the perilous flood. Could the youth to whom the flavor of his first wine is delicious as the opening scenes of life, or the entering upon some newly-discovered paradise, look into my desolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it is when a man shall feel himself going down a precipice with open eyes and a passive will; to see his destruction, and have no power to stop it, and yet to feel it all the way emanating from himself; to perceive all goodness emptied out of him, and yet not be able to forget a time when it was otherwise; to bear about the piteous spectacle of his own self-ruin; could he see my fevered eye, feverish with last night's drinking, and feverishly looking for this night's repetition of the folly; could he feel the body of the death out of which I cry hourly with feebler and feebler outcry to be delivered; it were enough to make him dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the pride of its mantling temptation; to make him clasp his teeth,

'Oh! if a wish could transport me back to those days of youth, when a draught from the next clear spring could slake the heats which summer suns and youthful exercise had power to stir up in the blood, how gladly would I return to thee, pure element, the drink of children, and of child-like holy hermit! In my dreams I can sometimes fancy thy cool refreshment purling over my burning tongue. But my waking stomach rejects it. That which refreshes innocence, only makes me sick and faint.'

How many thousands in Great Britain, whose experience is here described as with a pencil of light, has Father Matthew rescued from 'slippery places,' and placed once more within the charmed circle of sobriety and virtue! * * * The grammatical blunder recorded by 'S. T.,' and 'suggested by the sixth claw of the constitution,' reminds us of a clever anecdote which we derive from Mr. Robert Tyler. The old negro who receives and ushers visitors at the President's mansion is always very precise in his announcements. On one occasion a gentleman named Foot, with a daughter on each arm, was shown into the drawing-room with this introduction: 'Mr. Foot and the two Miss Feet!" * * * 'Cry you mercy!' gentlemen of the long robe and of the bar; we have neither 'abused the law' nor yet 'the lawyers,' though by your wincing you would seem to say so; at least some score of law-students would, if we may judge from the communications which have thickened upon us since our last. Saving the sordid and obscure tricksters of abused law; such, for example, as may be seen any day in the week, holding their sanhedrim of babble around or within the miscalled 'Halls of Justice;' and the undignified personal bickerings of the members of the bar; nothing of a local character, in a legal point of view, deserves the whip and the branding-iron. The latter matter, too, is generally understood, we believe, by the public. A pair of lawyers, like a pair of legs, may thoroughly bespatter each other, and yet remain the best of friends and brothers. Our allusion to courts implied no reflection upon Judges. We hold in proper respect and reverence these sacred depositories of the people's rights. 'The criminal, and the judge who is to award his punishment, form a solemn sight. They are both men; both the 'children of an Universal Father, and sons of immortality;' the one so sunken in his state as to be disowned by man; the other as far removed by excellence from the majority of mankind.' No function can be more honorable, more sacred, or more beneficial, than that of an upright judge. With his own passions and prejudices subdued; attentive to the principles of justice by which alone the happiness of the world can be promoted, and by the rectitude of his decisions affording precedent and example to future generations; he presents a character that must command the reverence and love of the human race. * * * The 'London Charivarri,' or 'Punch,' maintains its repute—for which it is partly indebted to the high indorsement of the 'Quarterly Review,' 'Examiner,' 'Spectator,' etc.,—undiminished. It really overflows with genuine humor, not unmixed, certainly, with many failures. We condense from it a few items of metropolitan intelligence, commencing with an office-seeker's 'begging letter' to Lord Lyndhurst: 'My Lord: I am an Irishman, in the direst distress. To say that I am an Irishman, is I know a passport to the innermost recesses of your soul. I want something of about three hundred pounds per annum; I will not refuse four hundred. At present, however, I am destitute, and terribly out of sorts. You will have some idea of my condition, when I tell you that I have not tasted food these six weeks, and that I am so disastrously off for clothing, that the elbows of my shirt are hanging out of the knees of my breeches! P. S. Don't mind the hole in the bearer's trowsers; he is trustworthy.' To this missive the 'noble lord' replied: 'Sir: That you are an Irishman, is a sufficient passport to my fire-side, my purse, my heart. Come; never mind the shirt. With or without that conventional ornament, you will be equally well received by your devoted Lyndhurst.' The writer 'went very often to the house of his lordship, but as often as he went, just so often was his lordship not at home!' Curious, wasn't it? The plan of the 'Joke Loan Society' reminds us of Sanderson's joke-company for the Opera-Comique in Paris, several members of which, with due economy, managed to live for an entire quarter upon the 'eighth of a joke' which they had furnished to the management! 'The object of the institution is, to supply those with jokes who may be temporarily distressed for the want of them. The directors invite the attention of barristers to a very extensive stock of legal jokes, applicable to every occasion. The society has also purchased the entire stock of a retired punster, at a rate so low that the jokes—among which are a few that have never been used—can be let out on very moderate terms. Damaged jokes repaired, and old ones taken in exchange. Dramatic authors supplied on easy terms, and a liberal allowance on taking a quantity. Puns prepared at an hour's notice for large or small parties!' Under the 'Infantry Intelligence' head we find the following: 'The Twelfth Light Pop-guns acquitted themselves very creditably, and discharged several rounds of pellets with great effect and precision. The First Life Squirts also highly distinguished themselves, and kept up a smart fire of ditch-water for upward of a quarter of an hour; and the Hop-Scotch Grays went through their evolutions in admirable order.' A 'commercial problem' must close our excerpts: 'How can a junior partner be taken into a house over the senior partner's head? By the senior partner sitting in the shop, and the junior partner being taken in at the first-floor window!' * * * The eulogy entitled 'Mr. Webster's Noble Speech at Rochester' is from the pen of an Englishman, or we have for the first time in our life mistaken the 'hand-write' of John Bull, Esq. The spirit of the paper is not in the main unjust to this country; yet it touches with severity upon those culprit States of our Republic, that abroad are considered remarkable for their 'swaggering beginnings that could not be carried through; grand enterprises begun dashingly, and ending in shabby compromises or downright ruin;' and for their treasuries, filled with evidences of 'futile expectations, fatal deficit, wind, and debts.' Cruel words, certes; but are they wholly groundless? 'Guess not!' But Sir Englishman, pr'ithee, don't despond—don't be scared! Look at the progress of our western States, as evinced in the growth of their towns. Louisville, in three years, has gained eight thousand additional inhabitants; Saint Louis twelve thousand; Pittsburgh nearly the same amount; Cincinnati has erected within that period nearly three thousand houses, and gained seventeen thousand inhabitants. Four western cities have added to them nearly fifty thousand inhabitants in three years; and the adjacent country has kept pace with the towns. And the like progress is visible elsewhere. Truly, this is 'a great country!'

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

Aug. 30,11.25P. M.Pleasant.

" 31,11.22""

Sept. 1,11.7½"Cloudy.

" 3,11.27"Pleasant.

" 4,12.24"Moonlight.

" 6,11.30"Rainy.

" 7,11.29"Cloudy.

" 9,11.20"Moonlight.

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