Think what associations cluster around the hearth-stone- | aspiration; that it is multitudinous in its forms, and manythink what pure simple delights it has fostered, and cling to it as a holy and a sacred thing. Every generous virtue flourishes by its side. Its noble pleasures are the surest bars you can erect against the growth of vice or dissipation. No man could be reared under its happy glow and go forth into the world hard, selfish, cruel, or vicious.

Poetry never had a sweeter or a nobler theme than the fireside. It has sung of it in all ages. History, too, has recorded its glories and its virtues-telling us how men, inspired by its name, have fought in its defence, as men for naught else have fought. It has been the talisman to make heroes-it has moved to deeds of valor more heroic than ever those in the name of glory or fame. We know how our own fathers fought for its sacred purity, and how many times their blood was shed by its very side. "Fight for your altars and your hearths!" has ever been the patriot's war-cry. What, shall the new one be, in the words of a modern author, "Fight for your stoves!"

Stern iconoclasts as we are, we pull down and break up all the old sacred images which Poetry and Fancy have consecrated and made holy. Our harsh and soulless utilitarianism crushes out of our way of life everything that is graceful, picturesque, and poetic. We extract from existence all harmony, color, feeling, beauty, pleasure, and immolate ourselves upon the rugged altar of the Practical. Human nature revolves in cycles, so they say. The civilization of which we boast so much, and which strides on so formidably towards the useful and the material, treading down a thousand wayside flowers, crushing out a thousand attributes of humanity, is in danger, in its insane devotion to mere utility, of bringing us back to the dead level of the old barbarism.

sided; that it is the language which goes to human hearts, and lifts them up-the one touch of nature which makes the whole world kin; of course that it is these things, is an absurd error, and that we are all wrong; that the poets have all been wrong, and everybody wrong, and nobody right but our critic and the early Greeks with their first lyrie efforts!

"What is poetry ?" Rather, what is it not? We are sick of theories about it, of curious dissections, of learned disquisitions, crammed with fantastic unintelligibility. Poets will write, out of the abundance, fullness, and richness of their being, saying that which they can say best, speaking according to their nature-and the world will catch up their words, if true and earnest, and practically put the critics to contempt-critics, who would have poetry like cheeses, all of one stamp and mould.

-ALL things have their uses-it is said, and we will not dispute it, although we shall cling to a few mental reservations long since made, but which are not worth mentioning, however. But one of these same reservations has just been shaken, and even threatens to go over in support of the proverb. Flirts (we are referring to those of the feminine gender) we were always firm in the belief, and supported too, no doubt, by an abundance of wise heads, whom we will not quote-for wisdom somehow got awkwardly wed to loquaciousness a long time ago-firm in the belief, as we were saying, that they were of no mortal use, excepting to break hearts, and the like. But, in a singular statistical table now under our eye, we discover that all this while they have been serving the country in a way which is only one degree removed from the patriotic. Nine-tenths of the army recruits, so this statistical document in cold figures declares, are driven to the extremity of rations, barracks, drills, &c., in consequence of women! This is an extraordinary state of affairs. Are we to conclude that if the fair ones were all true, honest, and sincere, we should be deprived of a public defence? Would we be minus an army! Would the War Secretary, in the case of any such contingency, lay before the Congress a plan to reproduce the cause, and offer premiums for hard-hearted women-for accomplished flirts, and successful coquettes? Would our statesmen be impelled to look around for some other heart-breaking first cause, as a means of army replenishment? In case of war, would mischievous women rise so far in the social scale as to over-top the true and faithful ones? And will faithlessness on the part of women, in the view of the great service it renders the state, become a political and patriotic virtue? A hun

"WHAT is Poetry ?" is a question asked in a recent issue of a critical contemporary, and answered in a long disquisition which ends by discovering that, after all, there is no poetry-nor poets! We shall not attempt to set up our poor opinion against this mighty discovery. We will try and accept it with what faith we can. It would be presumption for us to insinuate the possibility of an error in this sweeping assertion, for we do not pretend to be wise or learned in the anatomy of literature. We confess to very little sympathy with that feeling which travels through the realm of creative art, as if it were a museumpeering among ribs, and sockets, and joints-interested and animated only by the skeletons and dry bones of literature. We prefer the creations of art and genius with flesh and blood immunity from the scalping-knife and dissectingroom. This miserable weakness, of course, unfits our judg-dred such questions suggest themselves. ment, and deprives us of the right to any respect for our impressions. At the same time, with becoming modesty, and with all that awe and deference the great and learned critic demands and expects, we cannot quite accept the arbitrary definition of his question-"What is Poetry? The language of enthusiasm," he says, nothing more. Come down from your pedestals Shakspeare, Milton, and all ye Titans, and if a rapturous and boisterous Bacchanalian song can be found, lift it up with bay and laurel, and worship it, world-worship it, ye poor, mistaken Byrons, and Shelleys, and Dantes, and the rest of you mis-crowned ones!

Of course the critic's opinion is right, for he has studied the matter--and we have not. Of course the impression (which will linger in spite of the critic) that poetry is the language of beauty, of emotion, feeling the language of

And not only these, but others in another vein. Why is the army so favored by these unfortunate Corins? Is it because of the old and romantic association of war and love two things once wedded, and now supposed to be divorced? Was the old affinity true, and the separation unnatural? And do these fellows, roughly tumbled out of love, rush to its next of kin, glorious war?

Venus and Mars always have jostled each other. But the old way was, for gallants to draw sword (and blood) in behalf of love; now, it appears, the pomp and circumstance of glorious war is not the incentive and friend of love, but its antidote.

But who would have thought that so much romance underlay these uncouth fellows-and who cannot help suspecting that, after all, the statistics may have taken a romantic

the funds designed for each department disposed of as we thought to the greatest advantage, both for ourselves and our readers. Thus but little room was left for chance contributions, consequently we are in no position to offer any remuneration to those that may be forwarded to us, unless of the most remarkable merit. The truth is, our pages are already full of the best talent that can be obtained, and without increasing the size we cannot enter into any more engagements.

We are pained every day by this necessity of rejecting articles, often of real worth, without explaining the reason, for to attempt that, personally, would be to exhaust our selves in answering business letters, when other and import ant duties are imperative.

If we had the power to please ourselves, no appeal for sympathy or advise, no offer of literary contributions should

be met with disappointment. We know how hard a path that of literary labor is, and among females, how few occasions there are for female industry and talent; but commercial rules must be enforced in business, though they go against every sympathy of the heart, if that business is expected to prosper. To purchase more manuscript than we can print would be pleasant to our feelings, but ruinous, like every other extravagance, to our enterprise. But for this drain upon the feeling-for to reject or neglect an article is always with us a pang-the life of an editor would be comfortably pleasant—as it is we must take the evil with the good, and be grateful. In order to divide the literary duties, that threaten to be very heavy, Mr. Oliver Bunce has been associated in the editorship of this magazine. To his decision all manuscripts will be submitted, and all letters regarding them should be sent to his address.

LITERARY.

Recollections of a Life Time; or, Men and Things I have Seen, by S. G. Goodrich, is one of the most agreeable and entertaining books we have read this season. S. G. Goodrich, it is scarcely necessary for us to remark, is the veritable and renowned Peter Parley, the classic of the nursery, the delight and wonder of the little folks. Over seven millions of the Parley books have been sold, so the author informs us; and this mercantile test of their value and excellence, we consider the best that can be given. The genius for juvenile writing is more rare than supposed, and we have seen in recent years how the highest intellects have not disdained to employ their pens in this species of composition. Dickens, Hawthorne, Thackeray, Mary Howitt, and the Swedish Anderseen, are among the most exalted examples. But, Mr. Goodrich was the pioneer in this branch of literatureand, although his success was extraordinary, he had to encounter not a few prejudices, and to experience a species of contempt and disdain for his labors.

strong colors and sharp outlines. Mr. Goodrich is a Federalist, and adheres to the old party with tenacious courage, and defends it with spirit and eloquence. The political chapters in his work will be accused of partisanship. For our part, we like the book all the better, because its opinions are bold and decided-and, with all his partisan feeling, the author evidently seeks and desires to do justice.

His defense of the Hartford Convention is convincing. He lifts it above all suspicion of treasonable design, but does not clear it entirely from the charge of inexpediency, nor prove it to have been necessary or wise. His picture of the rise of Jeffersonian Democracy is amusing. According to him, the decadence of politeness and good breeding began with the decline of Federalism. Jefferson affected to be very simple in his dress, taste, and manners, which was praised in him as evidence of his democratic feeling. A certain coarseness of manner began to be apparent, to be defended, justified, and encouraged by the democratic The present work is Mr. Goodrich's life history, an epi- leaders-or Republicans, as they were then called. Rudetome of what he has seen and experienced; and embraces a ness and irreverence grew to be recognized as the test of vast range of incident, anecdote, and observation. Mr. Good-democracy-and our author illustrates his position by the rich is over sixty years of age. He was contemporary with following anecdote, which he declares to be historical: the great intellects of the early part of the present century— an eye-witness of many events that have now become matters of history-the friend and companion of distinguished litterateurs, divines, and statemen; and his volumes are crowded with anecdotes and personal incident of notables no less distinguished than Walter Scott, Lord Jeffrey, Lockhart, Talma, Hannah More, Madison, Jefferson, Monroe, Adams, Duke of Wellington, Chalmers, Cooper, Percival-in fact, almost every conspicuous personage of America, England, and France, during the present century. Mr. Goodrich was born in Connecticut. The early part of his work affords us a fine and faithful picture of New England life fifty years ago. His father was a clergyman, upon a salary of four hundred dollars a year, out of which he managed to raise a large family, to educate one of his sons at college, and to die worth four thousand dollars! This was in the time of old-fashioned frugality and simplicity. The manners, life, and habits of that period, are daguerreotyped by our author with fidelity and spirit; and the portraits of Con- The portion of the book devoted to literary men, is, hownecticut celebrities, such as Dr. Dwight, Otis, Oliver Wal-ever, the most interesting. There is a chapter describing cott, Brainerd, Percival, Professor Silliman, are rendered in an evening spent with Walter Scott, which is of peculiar

"About this time there was in the eastern part of Con. necticut a clergyman, by the name of Cleveland, who was noted for his wit. One summer day, as he was riding along, he came to a brook. Here he paused to let his horse drink. Just then, a stranger rode into the stream from the opposite direction, and his horse began to drink also. The animals approached, as is their wont under such circumstances, and thus brought the two men face to face.

"How are you, priest?' said the stranger.
"How are you, democrat?' said the parson.

"How do you know that I am a democrat?' said one.
"How do you know that I am a priest?' said the other.
"I know you to be a priest by your dress,' said the
stranger.

"I know you to be a democrat by your address,' said the parson."

But this social distinction between the parties soon passed away.

interest. There are several pages devoted to Percival, so recently deceased, with characteristic anecdote; some very amusing insights into the habits of Brainard, and his mode of literary composition-an appreciative chapter upon Hawthorne and Willis, both of whom made their literary advent under Mr. Goodrich's auspices. In fact, the whole work is a rich repertoire of literary anecdote.

of this kind, than Frank Forester (H. W. Herbert). His name is sufficient guarantee of its excellence. We, of course, are not a sportsman, but, notwithstanding this, we can truly say, that we have been greatly interested in reading some portions of this book; that it seems just the thing for our young friends, and undoubtedly will be a favorite volume with them; that it is copiously and finely illustrated, and very beautifully gotten up in the way of print and paper; and, added to these advantages, it is comparatively cheapa 12mo. volume of 480 pages. Price, $1 50. (Stringer &

We are compelled to bring our notice to a close, without touching upon many points which we had designed to do. The book is a charming one, let us say-appreciative, discriminating, marked by rare good sense, simple and agreea-Townsend.) ble in style, and altogether a success. It is published in two volumes, in good style, and illustrated. (Miller, Orton & Mulligan.)

Matthews, has been re-published this season in a very pretty -Chanticleer, a Thanksgiving Story, by Cornelius style, with illustrations, and makes a neat and acceptable --"The Complete Manual for Young Sportsmen: with holiday book. "Chanticleer" was first published about two directions for Handling the Gun, the Rifle, and the Rod; the years ago, and was a success. It was, and is, ranked with Art of Shooting on the Wing; the Breaking, Management, the Vicar of Wakefield, not without some degree of jusand Hunting of the Dog; the Varieties and Habits of Game; tice. It is well marked in its characters, felicitous in tone, River, Lake, and Sea Fishing, &c., &c. Prepared for the and if not as genial as we might expect from such a subject, instruction and use of the Youth of America. By Frank it illustrates, fairly and truthfully, the great festival of New Forester, author of 'Fish and Fishing,' The Field Sports,' England. The greatest fault of the book, we think, is its &c." We have copied the title page of this valuable, inte- melo-dramatic plot, which removes it from the sphere of resting, and beautiful work in full, as nothing we could say ordinary Thanksgiving experiences. But we rejoice in the in its behalf would so fully explain its nature and purpose. book, and wish we had more like it. (Brown, Loomis & There is no man in the country better able to prepare a book | Co.)

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FASHIONS FOR JANUARY.

Illustrations supplied by Frank Leslie, proprietor of "Leslie's Gazette of the Fashions," and taken from Articles of Actual Costume, selected at the Various Establishments, given as Authority by the Editor of this Magazine.

OUR fashions for the season are now so nearly defined, that we can speak of them with considerable certainty; and though our room is limited, we will endeavor to give some idea of the novelties that have been given to the fashionable world during the present month.

Among a splendid variety of evening and street dresses, just completed in the dress-making department of Genin's Bazaar, 513 Broadway, we select two for description. One is a ball-costume of pink glacé silk, with three broad flounces. Over each flounce there is one of white tarletane, which, however, does not descend to the edge of the silk flounce, but leaves between two and three inches of the latter uncovered. The white tarletane flounces are edged with a double puff, through the middle of which runs a wreath of rose-buds, intermingled with bright green moss instead of foliage. The silk corsage is covered with white tarletane, and trimmed with puffs and narrow wreaths of rosebuds, forming bretelles. The bouquet du corsage is composed of roses and foliage. The sleeves, which are extremely short, are trimmed with puffs and narrow wreaths of roses. The front hair should be disposed in rouleau curls, between which are narrow wreaths of roses. A pocket handkerchief with a broad border of guipure corresponds with this dress.

The other costume, just completed for a reigning belle, at the same department, was an elegant street dress of heavy silk, with broad stripes, green and black, on which embroidered wreaths meandered. The skirt was plain, the body very long in the waist in the jacket style, but square in front à la Raphaël, and surrounded at the top by a green and black fringe with a galloon to match. The sleeves were not very long, plain down to the elbow, with a band made

of galloon, two flounces quite plain and cut slantwise of the velvet, purchased at Bell's. A large half-shawl of black, surrounded by a flounce of wide Brussel's lace gave an air of great richness to this toilet.

Bonnets without coming more upon the face, are extended downward by the cape; till they appear to have increased in size without having done so. In general style there is but little variety in the form, though it is as impossible to find two bonnets alike as it would be to match two autumn leaves, among the thousands that have been dropping away from our forest trees during the month. We give a description of two from the show rooms of Mrs. Cripps, 312 Canal st. One bonnet, intended for a young lady, which we admired for its simplicity and richness, was a white plush taffeta laid plainly on the foundation. The front was edged to the depth of two or three inches with puffings of tulle, which extended round a deep and slightly pointed cape. These puffs of tulle were scattered thickly with clusters of bluetts. The face trimming was a full ruche of blonde, enlivened on one side with a rich, blue cactus with long, flowing streamers and brown velvet leaves-on the other side was a cluster of bluetts.

A bridal bonnet at the same establishment, is still more beautiful than the one we have just described. The material is white satin, divided with shirrs and banded between each shirr with folds of white royal velvet. On the edge, are a rich border of white velvet, two rows of exquisite blonde, and a fold of velvet edge the cape. On the left side, perched near the edge, was a white bird of Paradise, with marabout plumage floating downward, a perfect torrent of feathery snow, which scattered its flashes profusely over that side of the bonnet to the curtain. On the right, was a magnificent