ment.

The same amusing journal confirms our own experience, in the following remarks on "Camphine Reading-Lamps:' 'The best lamp for a drawing-room is the camphine, as it gives the light of twelve candles and the soot of three kitchen-chimneys: it also emits a perfume equal to Patchouli. It is worthy of the attention of the philanthropists, who take such an interest in the blacks; for after a night with the camphine-lamp, a negro, upon entering the room, would certainly take every gentleman present to be a man and a brother." THE 'Broadway Journal' administers a wholesome lash to a very ambitious and very indifferent volume, entitled 'Letters from a Landscape-Painter,' the labored penand-ink work of a Mr. CHARLES LANMAN, who is even a worse writer than painter. Perhaps, however, the lovers of the 'serenely silent art' among our readers may never have encountered in any collection of pictures an 'original LANMAN.' If not, we fear they will find it difficult to appreciate the force of our comparison. His remarks on painters,' says the Journal,' are very inaccurate, or wholly unmeaning, and his descriptions of scenery are cold and colorless; they have neither outlines nor filling-up. Every picture that he sees is the very best that he has ever seen, and moreover the best, as he verily believes, that any body else has ever seen;' and the same remark is true of his literary criticisins. He lauds some very common blank verse of a friend as superior to any thing in the writings of a whole cited catalogue of distinguished poets, American and English. Some idea of the faithfulness of his descriptions may be gathered from his sketch of a 'real scene' in Nantucket; the impossibilities of which the editor of the Journal,' long a resident in that island, 'shows up' in a manner irresistibly amusing. The labored didacticism, pumped-up feeling, and assumed sentiment of the volume, and what is even more glaring, its frequent affectations of piety, lugged in by ear and horn,' are very justly condemned in the critique to which we have referred, and which may be found in the seventh number of the 'Journal,' which has (mistakenly, we think) deemed the volume worthy of elaborate judgMR. CHAWLS YELLOWPLUSH,' in one of his inimitable chapters, speaks rather lightly, as it seems to us, of a personal indignity which was once offered him by 'a honrable gent.,' who caught him doing something in his private apartment which offended him: 'Git out, Sir!' says he, as fierce as posbil; and I felt somethink (I think it was the tip of his to) touching me behind; and found myself nex minnit a-sprawlink among the wet flannings, and bukits, and things, of the suvants on the stares.' The author of the Occidental Reminiscences,' in the Spirit of the Times' literary and sporting journal, mentions the ejection from a theatre by a coup-de-pied, of a fellow who appears to have had as little idea of the spiritual character of the performance, reasoning à posteriori, as Mr. YELLOWPLUSH; for after he had been fairly kicked into the street, he bristled up to the bestower of the honor upon the 'seat' of that name, as he was about to reënter the house, and scored him with some very cutting remarks: Ye think ye 've done some d-d great thing, by kicking me out of a theatre, don't ye?' said he, clenching his fists with a very savage air: 'but, by thunder! ye haven't, I can tell ye! I've been kicked out of a theatre before today, and in a better fashion than that, I can tell ye. Ye don't know the first rudiments of kicking-ye do n't! 'Pon one occasion a married gen❜leman found me in his bed-chamber, and what do ye think he did, Dod rot ye! I can tell ye: he kicked me down stairs, out of his house, and across the street, be Jingo! That was what ye might call a kicking! While I was in the street, a friend of mine spoke to me: I knew he was a friend, from what he said; for says he, Go it, my little fellow!- he's a gainin' on ye!' and I guess he did, for the way he put in the licks was some! As for you, you don't know how to kick a gentleman ye do n't!'... THE Elegiac Stanzas,' suggested by the untimely fate of a young and lovely townswoman, who was recently thrown from a carriage and instantly killed, evince due sympathy; yet the feeling which 'informs' them seems rather of the fancy than the heart. But as to 'consolation,' who can offer it to the bereaved parent? A beloved child in her virgin innocence and bloom of beauty, in one moment torn from a father's arms! TIME, the great Healer, may at length subdue and sanctify his grief. He will find, as years wear away, a serene peace in the thought, that as love's circle nar

rows on earth it is widening in heaven.' His cherished child may never more 'come to him' but he will go to her.' Surely, surely the time will come, when

'IN the bright world above, he shall claim her as his own,

From out the white-robed company that sing around the throne.'

'W. H. C. H.' may already have seen, that our friend LONGFELLOW is not amenable to the charge which might have seemed true, without explanation. The little poem in question was translated from a German book, now in his possession, where it appeared as original. It had however been translated into the German from the English, but the American translator had never seen the English version. There must have been great faithfulness 'MORE than ten years have elapsed,'

in the rendering of the lines, in both cases. writes a friend, from whom our readers are always as well pleased to hear as ourselves, 'since the enclosed lines were addressed to me. It was a balmy Sunday morning, and I was walking in the woods with a young Scotchman, who had but lately landed on our shores. We were both sophomores in the college at Princeton; he full of talent and enthusiasm, touched yet with a little melancholy for his dear absent hills. And he led me away by his pleasant converse, over hill and dale, until the Sunday-bells had ceased chiming, and we sat beneath an old oak, situated on an elevated knoll, and commanding a view of that splendid prospect. Then I asked him to compose something in memory of the pleasant bours which I had passed with him; when he immediately drew out his tablets and wrote the following, which he copied on his return to the college, and gave them to me, as I now send them to you. His name was M- T. I have not seen him for years, and do not know what has become of him. Yet one loves to rescue these little memories, and to gather them from the wrecks of swift-fleeting years; and whenever a festive hour has been passed, to mark its anniversary well, and live it over in the bright calendar. These are the days numbered by the ancients with a white stone; and some of these I have had with you; not forgotten, but brought out, whenever their time comes round, like bright Falernian. They are as sure to remind me of them as roses are to blossom again in June. Sometimes indeed they come back sadly, and I am ready to say with the Latin poet, who has said very beautifully:

IIERE is a new reading of a passage in SHAKSPEARE, which we take the liberty of commending to the attention of Mr. VERPLANCK, as worthy of reference, in the pictorial series which he is editing and elaborately illustrating' with notes:

'There's a divinity that shapes our ends rough,
Hew them how we will!'

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We can imagine this improved reading pronounced with great fervor in these days of dramatic declension; when the walking gentleman of the stage has to boast night after night of his splendid fortune, while oppressed with the painful consciousness of eight dollars a week, and his boots to find; and who is obliged to talk of his father's mansion in the country,' with a dreary recollection of his own cheerless garret at home.' By the way, speaking of SHAKSPEARE 'illustrated,' there is matériel for a good burlesque drawing, in the anecdote related of an aged actor named CHAPMAN, at the Park-Theatre, who 'supplied' the ghost in Hamlet one evening, at very short notice. Doubting his perfection in the words, he took a book of the play, and stationing himself by the wings, looked it over, that he might be ready and perfect when called for. As he was near-sighted, he was obliged to wear spectacles when reading. Presently he was summoned, and on he went, every inch a ghost. He had scarcely stalked five paces, before the audience broke forth in an ungovernable fit of convulsive laughter. The actor, in his haste to meet the Royal Dane,' had forgot his glasses, and the astonished audience beheld before them the ghost of the King of Denmark in spectacles! Rather an odd spectacle to say the least, and justificatory of much cachinnation. . A WRITER in a late number of the London Pictorial Times' says of the last English edition of ROGERS' writings, that it is the best illustrated work in the language;' and adds: 'We feel assured, moreover, that it will never be surpassed. There is not a bad illustration in the two volumes. A man with a bank at his back may affect a great deal, and effect a good deal more; but the whole banking fraternity in London could not produce an illustrated book like the Italy.' The two volumes are said to have cost Mr. ROGERS ten thousand pounds. No bookseller could afford to work as Mr. ROGERS worked. He would take twenty illustrations from TURNER and select five; buy fifty from STOTHARD and select two. He would even have engravings reëngraved; and when reengraved would not unfrequently reject them altogether. We have indeed heard that he has as many rejected engravings as would make a second Italy.' After reading this, we took down our volumes of the 'Poems,' and renewed the delight with which we have often regarded their superb illustrations. STOTHARD'S 'Woodland Fountain' is a charming scene; and of the entire collection by TURNER, there is not one that is not 'beautiful exceedingly.' The Rialto by Moonlight,' the Chapel of Saint Julienne,' the Chamois Hunt among the Alps,' and Sunrise on Tornaro,' especially, are perfect gems. Nor is the character of the printing and paper at all' out of keeping' with this pictorial excellence. The large clear types are impressed with jet-black ink upon the finest linen paper, thick as Bristol board, and shining with the gloss of the hot-press. ROGERS' house in St. James' Place is pronounced a neat pyramid in white marble' of his taste in the fine arts. His collection of pictures cost him some fifty thousand dollars, embracing chef d'œuvres of RAPHAEL, RUBENS, VELASQUEZ, CLAUDE, Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, WILKIE, etc. Among the attractions in his beautiful library, with its well-filled book-cases, crowned with noble Etruscan vases, none is deemed more rare than a bit of coarse, common-looking paper, framed and glazed; being nothing more nor less than MILTON's agreement with SIMONDS the book-seller for the sale of Paradise Lost.' What a pleasure it would be to drop in upon the 'Poet of Memory' some summer morning! Our friend HALLECK, when in England, contented himself with a glance at the outside of his brother-poet's noble mansion. 'Tell him,' said Mr. ROGERS to WASHINGTON IRVING, on one occasion, in allusion to this fact, 'tell him, for me, that when next he visits England, the author of 'Marco Bozzaris' and 'Alnwick Castle' must not satisfy himself with a survey of the outside of the house, if he would not dis-satisfy its occupant.' ・・ 'I was struck,' writes a correspondent, with the

force and truth of a remark in the first paper of your last number, in relation to what is termed the 'popular preaching' of the day: 'It is a singular fact that those pastors who leave their people the least hope, and pour in the hottest fire, become decidedly the most popular. The hope for salvation seems to increase with the certainty of damnation.' I venture to say, that your readers in almost every section of the Union have in their own vicinity illustrations of the correctness of this assertion. That kind of preaching is most generally liked, which, as the venerable ROBERT MORRIS of Philadelphia once observed, 'drives a man into the corner of his pew, and makes him think the very devil is after him!''. THE children of the earth,' says Miss BREMER, in one of her admirable novels, war against misfortune and neglect for many, many years: they live, they suffer, they struggle. At length, Success reaches to them the goblet; they touch their lips to the purple edge, and die.' How many never see the sun, until from their sky of life the last cold cloud is passing! This truth it is, which CARLYLE tells us he sometimes regards with 'a grim smile.' There are various tastes in this world; and it is quite possible that the plain statement of the charcoal QUOZZLE on this p'int' may better jump with the humor of some of our readers: 'I wish I could be pickled down for a hundred years. I'm a wasted man in this benighted day and generation; and when I am no more, perhaps even then I won't be apprehended, comprehended, or understood; no, not for a century to come, at least: but history must do me justice. I guess I'll have to wait. Great people always have to wait. When you know any thing, the dinner of your glory is never ready. Nobody believes in you, if you get candles at the same grocery store, and live over the way in the same alley. What is greatness, if you can twig it any day buying a quarter-peck of potatoes? Nobody need ever expect to be seen as he is, until he ca'nt be seen at all. When greatness is out of sight altogether, then people begin to open their eyes to it.'. . . A LADY, a correspondent for whom we profess and feel a high esteem, complains - we cannot but think unjustly—that our Magazine has not more religious pieces.' There is a lack, she deems, in this regard:

BOCKER.

'THINGS needful we have thought on; but the thing
Of all most needful that which Scripture terms,
As if alone it merited regard,

The ONE thing needful that we've not considered.'

But our kind friend will permit us to say, that ours not being a professedly religious periodical, can scarcely be considered an appropriate medium for strictly religious discussions or essays. At the same time, we aim, in all our decisions, to enforce, and not to, weaken, the influence of truly religious and moral principles. And in proof of this assumption, we boldly challenge an examination of a score and upward of volumes of the KNICKERA FRIEND at the national capital writes us: 'I heard a good joke to-day touching Office-Hunting.' A scamp of a fellow, who had been used for party purposes in some part of the country, applied the other day to a gentleman here, who was supposed to have some influence with the coming administration, for a certain office, and in the event of its being appropriated, some other post' for which the gentleman applied to might think he was fitted. The following laconic reply was returned: Sir: The only post you are fitted for, in my opinion, is the whipping-post! Yours,' etc. . . . IN one of HOGARTH'S pictures, there is a striking feature, representing a robbery of the valuables about the person of a poor dying woman. We were reminded of it in reading, in the Crescent and the Cross,' an account of the death of that most remarkable woman, Lady HESTER STANHOPE, at Beyrout. Our missionary at that station, Mr. THOMPSON, hearing that she was ill, accompanied by Mr. MOORE, the English consul, rode over the mountains to visit her: 'It was evening when they arrived, and a profound silence reigned over all the palace; no one met them; they lighted their own lamps in the outer court, and passed, unquestioned, through court and gallery, until they came to where she lay. A corpse was the only inhabitant of the palace; and the isolation from her kind, which she had sought so long, was indeed complete. That morning, thirty-seven servants had watched every motion of

her eye; but its spell once darkened by death, every one fled with such plunder as they could secure. A little girl, whom she adopted and maintained for years, took her watch and some papers on which she set peculiar value. Neither the child nor the property was ever seen again. Not a single thing was left in the room where she lay dead, except the ornaments upon her person; no one had ventured to touch these; and even in death she seemed able to protect herself. At midnight, her countryman and the missionary carried her out by torch-light to a spot in the garden that had been formerly her favorite resort, and there they buried her.' Such was the end of that extraordinary person, whom the Sultan addressed as 'Cousin ;' who annihilated a village for disobedience, and burned a mountain chalet, with all its inhabitants, on account of the murder of two French travellers, who had been under the protection of her firman. WE have just returned

from an examination of two paintings, recently executed abroad, by our friend HENRY INMAN. The first, a portrait of MACAULEY, is evidently a most life-like picture; yet it scarcely confirms our previous impressions of the personnel of the great reviewer. The countenance is mild and prepossessing, while the eyes beam benignity. The second is a sweet, tranquil sketch of Rydal Water' and its picturesque 'surroundings,' near the residence of WORDSWORTH. It is a gem of art; and as we examined the dark transparency of the pictured water, we could not help acquitting the poet of extravagance in saying that the beard of a goat upon an overhanging height might be seen 'reflected to a hair' in the stainless waters below.... WE gave not long since a Quaker's description of the difference between a mule and the other species of jackass. Here is a little information touching the same quadruped, which may be new to many of our readers. It was quite 'fresh' to us: 'When the ass was first created, his ears were no longer, in proportion to his size, than those of any other animal; but being of a firm disposition, which his enemies called obstinacy, and declining on some occasions to proceed when he considered himself too heavily laden, his enemies began to pull at his ears, until by the lapse of time they have become of their present size!' ""Taint true, 't aint likely,' remarks a matter-of-fact friend, to whom we have just read this choice bit of natural history; 'it don't stand to reason.' BAALAM's ass stood to reason,' however, with his master, and fully illustrated the obstinacy of the animal, for which impudence the beast ought to have had his ears pulled' if they were not... PERHAPS' (writes a friend in a note to the EDITOR,) the very best ccordance of sound with sense, in the whole range of ancient and modern poets, not excepting the Quadrupedante of VIRGIL, or the upheaving and descent of the stone in HOMER, is to be found in a couple of lines contained in the first eclogue of the former :

'Nec tamen interea rauca, tua cura, palumbes,
Mec gemere æria cessabit turtur ab ulmo.'

...

It is the melancholy cooing and ululations of ring-doves or pigeons, upon the eaves. Nearly every word is an accurate resemblance of the sound, especially the latter part of each line, which seems to be taken right out of the throat of doves. The conclusion of the eclogue is the most charming rural picture or painting I know of. The setting sun, the repose of the landscape, the lengthened shadows cast from the mountains, and the smoke curling over the roofs of the cottages, could scarcely be added to by the delicious tints or touches of CLAUDE. THE value of money in securing the unbought suffrages of freemen' is well attested in the sketch of an ignorant-ish old fellow who returned from India (whither he had gone as an adventurer,) o his native village in England, where he was induced to stand for parliament. His eloquence at the hustings was of a 'rich' kind: 'After tapping his trowsers-pockets, he said: Brother townsmen! I am proud to say I am come back to live among you! I am proud of my native place! (Vociferous cheers.) I left you a poor man; I return to you pretty well provided (Cries of 'Bravo!' and 'Go it !') with the fruits of honest industry. I am here to spend them among you and upon you. religious sentiments.

VOL. XXV.

These, fellow-townsmen, form a brief sketch of my political and

I shall call on each of you individually, to inquire after yourselves

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