'You are aware that the sun rises as per almanac. This is common; and so common, so much an every-day affair, that he gets very little credit therefor; and yet, that he will rise with great exactness, aside from all human calculation, and go on traversing the sky with a wonderful regularity that nothing can stop, is a very pleasant fact touching the prospect of to-morrow; and so also, that every thing in nature will be wrought with marvellous beauty and harmonies of sound; and oh! most satisfactory of all, there will still be an air that properly inhaled fills the heart as well as the lungs. It is from a calm consideration of this fact, that we have done with the eagerness of pleasure. No daily counting of hours to see that all have been properly brimmed; no grasping at a dozen things at once; no draining of the very dregs, lest that may be the last bottle, and we die to-morrow. But thankful as we are for to-morrow, and especially grateful for to-day, we don't care for noon-marks. We have kept no count lately, and for aught we know, Time may have stopped, but probably not. He is doubtless somewhere about, but we take no particular notice. Our watches have run down, and we care not to wind them again. The hours, if there are any, are all golden, and we have no occasion to note the passage one to the other; or if we start them, just to see the motion, they run on diamonds of the purest water; but mostly, whether it be morn, or mid-day, or the starry night, Sabbath or week-day, it is all one—all beautiful. Does it rain? It is quite proper. The earth needs it, no doubt, and it will look the more grateful therefor. Does it shine? Why then the birds will sing, and if they will come a little nearer, we will teach them that charming air from the last opera. Does a new star come out in heaven, or an old one disappear? The one will be an added glory, and the other not much missed; but they will little concern our astronomy. Expect no more rhapsodies, my friend, unless it be upon the wonderful ease with which every thing can be done without them. That we find all things pleasant, is the extent of our poetry. It is pleasant to wake; it is pleasant to sleep; it is pleasant to wake and sleep again; pleasant to watch the opening lid, and pleasant the smile that follows it; pleasant are kind words and tones, the touch of hands, and the touch of lips; the breath of flowers and those that love them; pleasant are the thousand infinitesimals, like the motes of the sun-beam, not less bright because of their minuteness; and pleasant the thought that sufficient as this heaven may be, there is another one above. And doubtless it is pleasant to breathe as usual, and feel the heart send round its currents with a touch of joy; but oh, pleasanter than all, to have no sigh or throb, to remind you that that breath must one day stop, and that warm blood turn cold. Oh! in the 'time' that is set apart 'for all things,' may heaven look kindly on and count these trifling hours!

'Shall we ever leave this charming retreat? Certainly not, while these things last; but it is not impossible that we may return with the cold weather. Meanwhile, I have made a chalk-mark about the grounds, and as yet nothing with a bite or sting has passed over it. Mrs. JULIAN, as she now insists upon being called, has become highly contemplative; and if I did not know that she was never so happy before, I should think her sometimes a little sad; she is so quiet, so demure, and so eternally bewitched with that boy! Why Sir, she will sit for half a day over the fellow, amusing herself and him with I know not what varieties and wonders of invention; with lullabies and ditties and homoeopathies of language; and if he condescend to sleep for a few moments, how divinely still must every thing be! What infinite care is there in pinning the screen; what fortifications are built round about him; and what a world of protection in every movement! And then, when all is complete, she must still sit there, with that strange upward look which she has acquired lately, seeming to reach quite beyond the stars. She is a strange woman! Yesterday, having dined rather late, I happened to forget myself for a few moments on the lounge; and on waking, I found her kneeling before me, and looking up in my face with an expression that to me is peculiarly embarrassing; not the quick, joyous look, followed as quickly by the touch of lips; not that, but something quite indescribable. Perhaps I am not as considerate as I ought to be on such occasions, for doubtless she knows what she would be at, but I confess I do not. Indeed, she is constantly bringing out new points and flourishes, which to me are all vowels of the Hebrew; no doubt very sweet and musical, and certainly very necessary to the sense of the reading, but they are past all finding out. When she dazzles me with these brilliants, I sometimes reply in the Tartar, and so we are quits.

'Young JULIAN developes slowly. He has smiled once or twice, but in a manner so precocious, that it would be alarming, if he were at all delicate. Fortunately he is not. His utterance as yet is quite unintelligible, though no doubt he has his meaning. To Mrs. JULIAN it is all poetry. 'Poeta nascitur' may be quite true, but if he rhymes, which is quite possible to her ear, I am constrained to think that it is entirely accidental. I hope, at least, that he is not so viciously gifted. . . . HAVE I told you that she refuses a nurse, and that too pretty sharply? Well, that is not all; I can hardly touch the boy myself. She is so afraid I shall crush it! My raptures, she says, are not becoming; she even says that I 'frighten the child!' But she is the strangest of women! Last night, happening to wake some time in the small hours, I heard a slight noise in the room, and emerging from a dream, in which I remembered to have heard a good deal of crying and hushing, I listened intently for some moments, but couldn't for my life guess what it could be. There was nothing moving in the room, and the sound appeared to arise from some slow and uniform movement, so that it couldn't be the wind on the shutters; and if the mocking-birds had been sufficiently awake to swing, as they sometimes do, they would certainly have dropped a word or two, for they are great talkers. Now I often hear bells, fire-arms, and exclamations, and very often hear my name called, and questions asked, to which I reply in due form, all which I know at the time to be imaginary; but this sound, though it seemed to be familiar, I couldn't make out. I was so drowsy, however, that I had half a mind to consider it a dream; but then what if any thing should happen? I should be responsible. Rising, therefore, very carefully, not to disturb Mrs. J., I discovered by the shaded light on the table that she was quite sound asleep; but what was wonderful, her right arm, outside the bed, was moving up and down with the regularity of a pendulum! What the deuce was all that? Well, Sir, I bent over breathlessly, and found she was pulling at a string! And what, O EDITOR! who ought to know every thing, what do you think she was pulling? Why, Sir, she was pulling at young JULIAN'S cradle. She was rocking the baby in her sleep! Oh!'

* * * * *

Apropos of 'the baby': an agreeable correspondent, from whom we shall be happy to hear 'frequently if not oftener,' intimates to us that our friend JULIAN, when the 'lactiferous animalcule' whose advent into this breathing world he lately described in such glowing terms, shall have reached a more mature babyhood, may find occasion to 'change the paternal note;' and he cites for us the following passage, from an essay by a sometime contributor to the KNICKERBOCKER, 'in justification of his fears:'

'In my bachelor visitations to my married friends, I have often chuckled over the bashfulness, contending with love, which distinguishes the YOUNG FATHER. In the pride of his heart, perhaps, when his little man has first given evidence of that degree of mental exertion called 'taking notice,' he clasps the crowing baby in his arms; he rests its lily feet upon his knees; he endures with philosophic patience all the 'gouging,' and pulling, and kicking, with which the young hero may testify his triumph; and while the young mother stands by, her eyes beaming with mingled love and pride, he becomes warmer in his romps; makes faces, as the nerveless fingers of the little one seek, with more earnestness, his eyes, or pull with a greater effort at his lips; and amid screams of laughter, he chases the flying hours, until at length a 'pale cast of thought' flits over the baby's face, like a cloud in a summer sky. This is the signal for immediate seriousness. The father grows grave—then frightened. He raises him gently from his lap, and with a single exclamation of 'Take him mother!' consigns the precious charge to her arms, and darting a hasty glance at his 'pants' he walks in silence from the room. Nor do we bachelors always escape with impunity. Anxious to win a smile from some fond mother, more than one of us may have dared to approach, with a kiss, the hallowed lips of her darling. But mark the quick wing of vengeance! Darting from its lurking place in the mouth, out flies the little doubled fist, and slams a well-beslabbered biscuit into the face of the intruder. He recoils, with his 'reeking honors fresh upon him,' and the little squab coos in triumph at his failure.'

NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN.—The growing interest felt in relation to the Fine Arts in this country, and the influence which the NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN has had in producing that interest, make it imperative upon us to notice the pictures which are annually sent to this exhibition. In passing through the Academy with this object in view, we have been at some loss to know where to begin. Finding however by chance at the end of the catalogue an alphabetical arrangement of the exhibitors' names, we have adopted this as the best method of laying the merits of the several pictures before our readers. We therefore begin with:

V. G. AUDUBON, A.—Mr. AUDUBON exhibits four pictures this season: of these, No. 133, 'Grove of Palm-trees' in the Island of Cuba, we prefer. This picture appears to be a faithful representation of the scene, and is handled with a free and firm pencil. The trees are perhaps a little too literally represented, to be agreeable to the eye, consisting as they do of so many equally straight and unpicturesque lines. No. 237, 'Moon-light Squall coming up,' is a pleasing representation of one of Nature's poetical moments. The light is clear and silvery, and the water transparent and truthful. The whole scene is interesting, and there is but little to find fault with; although perhaps parts would admit of more warmth of color.

J. D. BLONDELL has six pictures, the majority portraits. No. 80, 'Portrait of a Lady,' half-length, is a pleasing picture; warm in color and carefully painted, and gives evidence of rising talent. The head is perhaps slightly deficient in careful drawing; but few artists are competent to paint a lady's portrait; and this gentleman should not feel discouraged, though his work be found slightly deficient in that grace which is so difficult of attainment.

BODDINGTON, (London,) exhibits three landscapes, all in a style peculiarly belonging to the English school. They possess great charms; facility of execution, and delicacy of handling.

BONFIELD.—No. 168 is perhaps the best of his productions. If it were not for the pinky hue of the sky, this would indeed be a charming picture.

F. BAYLE.—No. 25; 'Picture-Dealer.' A deep-toned, carefully-painted picture, and evincing much promise in so young an artist. We are glad to perceive that it is purchased by the American Art-Union.

G. L. BROWN.—No. 400; 'View of the Tiber.' Too much of an imitation of old pictures. In seeking this quality, the artist has lost sight of the truth and freshness of nature.

CHAPMAN, N. A.—Mr. CHAPMAN presents nine pictures this season, and all in his usual brilliant style. No. 116, 'Peasant Girl of Albano,' is exceedingly rich in color, and forcible in effect: a few cool tints about the head-dress would give perhaps still greater value to the warm tones. No. 189, 'Hebrew Women,' is this artist's gem of the year. Well composed, pleasing in color, and carefully finished, it expresses the occurrence with fidelity and truth. No. 204, 'Boy in Indian Costume,' is an attractive picture; but No. 213, 'On the Fence,' is more to our liking. The story is well told; the city beau is carefully and truly represented; and the dogs are admirable. No. 263, portrait of Doctor ANDERSON, the father of wood-engraving in this country, is capital. No. 266, 'Lazy Fisherman,' is Laziness personified. No. 341, 'Sketch from Nature,' in water-colors, is an exemplification of this gentleman's versatility of talent.

J. G. CLONNEY, A., has two pictures in the exhibition, Nos. 7 and 160. No. 7, 'The New-Year's Call,' is decidedly the best. The negro is well painted. Mr. CLONNEY'S works generally evince great observation of nature in this class of subjects.

T. COLE, N. A.—Mr. COLE exhibits but one picture, and that comparatively a small one. It possesses however many of the admirable characteristics of his works, particularly his early ones. It would be difficult to find a middle-ground and distance surpassing those of this picture.

T. CRAWFORD, (Rome.)—Mr. CRAWFORD gives us two full-length statues, in which the charm of the marble is strongly apparent. Mr. CRAWFORD, we grieve to say, is evidently too impatient in the finish of his works to produce that correctness which is essential to a high effort of art.

J. F. CROPSEY.—No. 68, 'View in Orange County,' is a careful representation of nature, and has the appearance to our eyes of having been painted on the spot; a practice very rarely to be found in young artists. A continuance in this course will place this artist in a prominent position as a landscape-painter. The sky is faulty in color, being too purple to meet our views of nature; and there is a lack of delicacy in the more receding portions of the work. But the fore-ground is carefully painted, and full of truth.

CUMMINGS, N. A.—Mr. CUMMINGS has but one picture. It possesses however the careful finish, gentlemanly character, and general truthfulness, so characteristic of this fine artist.

T. CUMMINGS, JR., a young artist. No. 149, 'The Ball,' is his best work. In thus attempting a subject of great difficulty of execution, he evinces promise of future ability. The picture has many pleasing points, marked however with some errors, which time and practice, let us hope, will correct.

C. CURTIS.—Mr. CURTIS has two pictures in the exhibition, and both of merit. No. 196 is among the best heads in the collection.

J. W. DODGE, A.—'Miniature Portraits.' Those of HENRY CLAY and Gen. JACKSON are the most prominent. The likenesses are good, and the pictures carefully finished; a merit in works of this character frequently unattended to. There is, however, a want of dignity sometimes to be found in Mr. DODGE'S portraits, which we could wish to see remedied: it would give an elevation to his paintings which they at present lack.

PAUL P. DUGGAN.—'John the Baptist' is a model in plaster, which displays greater knowledge of anatomy than we are in the habit of finding in the works of even older artists. In this respect it possesses great merit. We understand it is his first effort in modelling. As such, it is truly a work of the highest promise.

DURAND, N. A.—Mr. DURAND has contributed largely to the present exhibition, in every sense of the word. His most prominent production is No. 36, 'The Solitary Oak.' For an exhibition-picture, perhaps it is not so striking as some of his previous works; yet it will bear examination better. Without any effort at warmth of color, it has that glow of sunlight which it is so difficult to express. A veteran tree, standing alone upon a gentle eminence, stretching forth its giant arms, that have withstood the storms of centuries, is truly a noble subject for an artist of Mr. DURAND'S reputation; and most truly has he depicted it. The distance is beautiful, and the introduction of cattle seeking their evening shelter gives an interest seldom to be found in works of this class. Should we attempt to find a fault, it would be the want of a little more warmth and clearness in the dark parts of the fore-ground. No. 134, another charming landscape; true to nature, of a silvery tone, and most exquisite sweetness of color and delicacy of touch. Nos. 181 and 258 are two careful studies from nature, wherein special care has been given to the trunks of trees, a feature in landscape-painting upon which sufficient attention is rarely bestowed. No. 244, 'Emigrant Family,' is full of interest. The travelling family are encamped under the shade of the trees, and the kettle hung over the fire shows that they are evidently preparing to refresh themselves for farther toil and journeying. The foliage of the trees is elaborately executed; the distance is well preserved; and the whole possesses great truth to nature; perhaps however, like all 'green' pictures, it is less attractive in an exhibition than works of a warmer color. No. 163, 'Portrait of a Gentleman,' has great force, and shows the artist's versatility of genius.

F. W. EDMONDS, N. A.—No. 105, 'Beggar's Petition,' is a spirited and faithful representation of the cold indifference to the wants of others, displayed in the miser's disposition. The figures are of life-size, and well drawn. The female supplicating in behalf of the distressed, is graceful in attitude, and admirably contrasted with the hoarding miser. No. 205, 'The Image Pedler,' is an effort of a higher order; for the artist has attempted, and successfully too, to elevate the class of works to which it belongs. In short, he has invested a humble subject with a moral dignity, which we hope our younger artists, who paint in this department, will not lose sight of. An independent farmer has his family around him, apparently immediately after dinner, and a strolling pedler appears among them, to dispose of his wares; and this gives interest to the whole group. The grandmother drops her peeling-knife, and the mother takes her infant from the cradle, to gaze at the sights in the pedler's basket. The husband, who has been reading in the cool breeze of the window, turns to participate in the sport; while the grandfather takes a bust of WASHINGTON, places it on the table, and commences an earnest elucidation of the character of the, 'Father of his Country' to the little children around him. All the figures are intelligent, and the whole scene conveys to the mind a happy family. In color, light and shade, and composition, it is masterly; and we see in it that minuteness of detail and careful finish are not incompatible with a broad and luminous effect.

C. L. ELLIOTT has five portraits in the exhibition. His 'Full-length of GOV. SEWARD' is a prominent one, although not his most agreeable picture. No. 61 is we think the best, and is a well-managed portrait, both in drawing and color.

G. W. FLAGG, H.—No. 63, 'Half-length of a Lady,' has considerable merit. It is rich and mellow in color, and better we think than many of Mr. FLAGG'S recent works. No. 208, 'The Widow,' is a popular picture; pleasing in expression, and possessing more refinement of character than is observable in many of his other portraits. No. 102, 'Bianca Visconti,' we do not admire.

G. FREEMAN.—Miniature portraits, generally large, and highly finished. This gentleman has lately arrived from Europe, and is we believe a popular artist; yet we do not like his productions.

J. FROTHINGHAM, N. A.—Nos. 32 and 35: portraits exhibiting Mr. FROTHINGHAM'S usual bold and free style in this department of art; remarkably fine likenesses; true in color, and of pleasing general effect.

H. P. GRAY, N. A.—Mr. GRAY exhibits a number of his works this season. He seems to us to sacrifice every thing to color; and his color is not such as is generally seen in nature, but rather what he has seen in pictures. This we think a mistake, and one which we must be permitted to hope he will rectify. In the pictures which he formerly painted, a much closer attention to nature is observable. Mr. GRAY has all the feeling of an artist, with no ordinary talent; and we regret to find that he wanders from the direct path. We were among the first, if not the very first, to call public attention to his merits, and it is with reluctance that we perform the duty involved in these animadversions. 'Comparisons,' DOGBERRY tells us, 'are odorous;' we cannot help remarking, however, that Mr. GRAY'S old fellow-student, HUNTINGTON, is (longa intervallo) in the advance. We prefer, of our artist's present efforts, the picture of 'His Wife.' It has a pleasing effect, and is more finished than usual, and more natural in tone than his 'Magdalen.'

J. T. HARRIS, A., has two pictures, and both portraits. No. 19 is the best. It exhibits a broad, free touch, and correct drawing, and is withal an excellent likeness. But we never look at Mr. HARRIS' works without being impressed with the idea that they are not finished. They seem to us, to borrow an artistical expression, as if they were in a capital state for 'glazing and toning up.' Otherwise, they are above the ordinary run of portraits.

G. P. A. HEALY, H.—Mr. HEALY is a resident of Paris, but an American. He is a favorite at the French court, and has by this means a reputation to which his works generally do not entitle him. We are bound in justice to say of his present effort, however, that it is an exceedingly fine picture. It is boldly and masterly executed; forcibly drawn, honestly colored, and well expressed. There is too about it a freedom from all the usual tricks of the profession, such as a red chair, velvet collar, and fantastic back-ground, which we particularly recommend to the attention of young artists.

THOMAS HICKS, A., has eight pictures in the collection, but none, excepting his portraits, which equal his former productions. No. 264, 'The Mother's Grave,' is an oft-repeated subject, and should not be attempted unless the artist is able to treat it with entire originality. There are good points about it, but none sufficiently attractive to warrant particular notice.

INGHAM, N. A., as usual has a fine collection of female portraits, all excellent for their careful drawing, lady-like expression, and high finish. The drapery and accessories of Mr. INGHAM'S portraits are always wonderfully exact to nature; and this greatly enhances the value of portraits of this description; for aside from their merit as likenesses, they will always be valuable as pictures. His male portrait, No. 113, of T. S. CUMMINGS, Esq., is a most admirable likeness, as well as a highly-wrought and masterly-painted picture. No. 239, 'Portrait of a Lady,' with a fan in her hand, is our favorite among his female heads. There is a sweetness and modesty in the expression, not only in the countenance but in the whole figure, which makes it peculiarly attractive.

H. INMAN, N. A.—No. 62, 'Portrait of the late Bishop MOORE, of Virginia,' is the admiration of all who behold it. In color it surpasses any thing of Mr. INMAN'S we have seen in many a day. Clear and luminous, with great breadth of light, and a mild, pleasing expression. We of course mean this to apply to the head. The hand and part of the drapery are not, in our judgment, so well done. No. 104, 'Lady with a Mask,' we do not altogether like; yet it is remarkable for being foreshortened in every part, and possesses that singular charm of light and shadow, and accidental effect, which are the characteristics of our artist's pencil. No. 314, a Landscape, although small, is delicately handled, and 'touched in' with great neatness and accuracy. In effect it is attractive, and in color pleasing. The figure in the fore-ground equals in care and minuteness of finish the manner of WOUVERMANS.

N. JOCELYN.—No. 57, 'Portrait of Professor SILLIMAN,' a faithful likeness, and carefully-painted portrait of a distinguished individual. No. 2, 'Portrait of a Child,' is another finished picture by this artist; clear and pearly in color and infantile in expression.

ALFRED JONES.—No. 301, an engraving from MOUNT'S picture of 'Nooning,' for the American Art-Union, is one of the largest line-engravings ever published in this country, and a work of high order. This style of engraving has heretofore received so little encouragement, that until the Art-Union started it, no one except Mr. DURAND had ever before dared to attempt it. This effort of Mr. JONES does him great credit.

M. LIVINGSTONE, A., has several works in the exhibition, but we cannot rank them among the higher class of landscapes. They lack the poetry of landscape-painting; but as amateur productions, they are very good.

E. D. MARCHANT, A.—All portraits, but none of high merit. Mr. MARCHANT is a persevering artist, who paints good likenesses and pleasing pictures; and so far, is doubtless popular with those who employ him.

JOHN MEGAREY has two portraits, and those far surpassing his former works. They are carefully painted, without an effort at any thing beyond the subject before the artist.

We shall resume and conclude our remarks upon the exhibition in our next number.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.—We are about to enter upon the TWENTY-FOURTH volume of the KNICKERBOCKER, for the advertisement of which, please note the second and third pages of the cover of the present number. We have nothing farther to add, than that 'what has been, is that which shall be,' in our onward progress. This Magazine, much the oldest in the United States, has been established, by the ever-unabated favor of the public, upon a basis of unshaken permanence. Its subscription-list fluctuates only in advance; it has the affection of its readers, and all concerned in its production and promulgation, to a degree wholly unexampled; and it is designed not only to maintain, but continually to enhance, its just claims upon the liberal patronage of American readers. The arrangements for the next volume, if they do not 'preclude competition,' will be found, it is confidently believed, to preclude any thing like successful rivalry, on the part of any of our contemporaries. On this point, however, we choose as heretofore to be judged by the public. . . . WE gave in a recent issue two or three extracts from a lecture on 'The Inner Life of Man' delivered by Mr. CHARLES HOOVER, at Newark, New-Jersey. This admirable performance has since been repeated to a highly gratified audience in this city; and from it we derive the following beautiful passage, which we commend to the heart of every lover of his kind: 'It is a maxim of patriotism never to despair of the republic. Let it be the motto of our philanthropy never to despair of our sinning, sorrowing brother, till his last lingering look upon life has been taken, and all avenues by which angels approach the stricken heart are closed and silent forever. And in such a crisis, let no counsel be taken of narrow, niggard sentiment. When in a sea-storm some human being is seen in the distant surf, clinging to a plank, that is sometimes driven nearer to the shore, and sometimes carried farther off; sometimes buried in the surge, and then rising again, as if itself struggling like the almost hopeless sufferer it supports, who looks sadly to the shore as he rises from every wave, and battling with the billow, mingles his cry for help with the wild, mournful scream of the sea-bird; nature in every bosom on the shore is instinct with anxious pity for his fate, and darts her sympathies to him over the laboring waters. The child drops his play-things, and old age grasps its crutch and hurries to the spot; and the hand that cannot fling a rope is lifted to heaven for help. What though the sufferer be a stranger, a foreigner, an enemy even? Nature in trouble, in consternation, shrieks 'He is a man!' and every heart and hand is prompt to the rescue.' 'To a high office and ministry, to a life of beneficence, pity and love, each man should deem himself called by a divine vocation, by the appointment of nature; and otherwise living, should judge himself to be an abortion, a mistake, without signification or use in a world like ours. And the beauty, the glory of such a life, is not to be reckoned among ideal things heard out of heaven but never encountered by the eye. This world has had its CHRIST, its FENELONS, its HOWARDS, as well as its CALIGULAS and NEROS. Love hath been at times a manifestation as well as a principle; and the train of its glory swept far below the stars, and its brightness has fallen in mitigated and mellowed rays from the faces of men. As the ambiguous stranger-star of Bethlehem had its interpreting angel-song to the herdsmen of the plains, so loving men in all ages have given glimpses and interpretations of the love of GOD, and of the pity that is felt for the miserable and the guilty in the palace and presence-chamber of JEHOVAH. What glory within the scope of human imitation and attainment is comparable to that of the beneficent, the sympathising lover of his race? What more elevated, pure, and beautiful is possible among the achievements of an endless progression in heaven itself? MILTON represents the profoundest emotions of joy and wonder among the celestial hosts as occasioned by the first anticipative disclosures of divine pity toward sinning man; and a greater than MILTON assures us that the transport and festival of angelic joy occurs when Pity lifts the penitent from his prostration and forgives his folly.' . . . EMBELLISHMENT would seem to be the literary order of the day, in more ways than one. It has come to be the mode to express the most simple thought in the most magniloquent phrase. This propensity to lingual Euphuism has given rise to sundry illustrations, in embellished maxims, which are particularly amusing. They are of the sort so finely satirized by 'OLLAPOD,' on one occasion, two or three examples of which we annex. The common phrase of ''Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good' was transformed into 'That gale is truly diseased which puffeth benefactions to nonentity;' 'Let well enough alone,' into 'Suffer a healthy sufficiency to remain in solitude;' and 'What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,' into 'The culinary adornments which suffice for the female of the race Anser, maybe relished also with the masculine adult of the same species.' Some London wag, in a kindred spirit, has illustrated the cockney song, 'If I had a donkey as vouldn't go, do you think I'd wallop him?' etc., as follows: 'The herbaceous boon and the bland recommendation to advance, are more operative on the ansinine quadruped than the stern imprecation and the oaken cudgel:

'Had I an ass averse to speed, I ne'er would strike him; no indeed! I'd give him hay, and cry 'Proceed,' And 'Go on EDWARD!''

The same species of satire is now and then visited upon the 'Troubadour Songs,' which have become so afflictingly common of late years. Some of these we have already given; and we find them on the increase in England. We have before us, from the London press of TILT AND BOGUE, 'Sir WHYSTLETON MUGGES, a Metrical Romaunte, in three Fyttes,' with copious notes. A stanza or two will suffice as a specimen. The knightly hero, it needs only to premise, has been jilted by his fair 'ladye-love,' who retires to her boudoir, while the knight walks off in despair:

'Hys herte beat high and quycke; Forth to his tygere he did call, 'Bring me my palfrey from his stall, For I moste cotte my stycke!'

'Ye stede was brought, ye knyghte jomped up, He woulde not even stay to sup, But swyft he rode away; Still groanynge as he went along, And vowing yet to come out stronge, Upon some future day.

'Alack for poore Syr WHYSTLETON, In love and warre so bold! Ye Ladye BLANCHE hym browne hath done, He is completely solde!

'Completely solde alack he is, Alack and wel-a-day; Mort DIEU! a bitterre fate is hys Whose trewe love sayth him nay!'

Thus endeth 'Fytte ye First.' We learn from the preface that the 'Rhime of the Manne whose Mothre did not Know he was Out,' and 'Ye Lodgemente of Maistre FERGISOUN,' are also in the editor's possession, but owing to the imperfect state of the MSS., it is doubtful whether they will ever be published. They have however been submitted to the inspection of 'The PERCY Society!' . . . WE are well pleased to learn that Sir EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, the distinguished author, is soon to visit the United States. That he will be warmly welcomed and cordially received, we cannot doubt; but we have good reason to believe that in the present instance at least our admiration of true genius will be tempered by all proper self-respect. Mr. BULWER has for many years entertained a desire to visit America. In one of his letters to the late WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, now lying before us, he writes: 'I have long felt a peculiar admiration for your great and rising country; and it gives me a pleasure far beyond that arising from a vulgar notoriety, to think that I am not unknown to its inhabitants. Some time or other I hope to visit you, and suffer my present prepossessions to be confirmed by actual experience.' . . . WE have received and perused with gratification the last report of the 'New-York Asylum for Deaf Mutes.' The institution is in the most flourishing condition, and its usefulness greatly increased. We are sorry to perceive, by the following 'specimen of composition' of a pupil in the eighth class, that the 'Orphic Sayings' of Mr. A. BRONSON ALCOTT are taken as literary models by the deaf and dumb students. The ensuing is certainly much better, internally, than anything from the transcendental 'seer;' but the manner too nearly resembles his, for both to be original. There is the same didactic condensation, the same Orphic 'oneness,' which distinguishes all Alcottism proper. It is entitled 'Story of Hog:'

'I walked on the road. I stood near the water. I undressed my feet. I went in the water. I stood under the bridge. I sat on the log. I washed my feet with hands. I looked at large water came. I ran in the water. I ran out the water. The large water floated fast. I afraid. I wiped feet with stockings. I dressed my feet with stockings and shoes. I went on the ground. I stood on the ground. I seen at the hog ate grass. The hog seen at me. I went on the ground. I ran. The hog heard. The hog looked at me. It ran and jumped. The hog ran under the fence and got his head under the fence and want to ran out the fence! I caught ears its hog. The hog shout. I pulled the hog out the fence. I struck a hog with hand. I rided on the hog ran and jumped fast. The hog ran fell on near the water. I rided off a hog. I stood. I held one ear its hog. The hog slept lies on near the water. I waited. I leaved. I went from the hog. The hog awoke. It rose. It saw not me. It ran and jumped. The hog went from the water. The hog went in the mud and water. The hog wallowed in the mud and water became very dirty. It slept. I went. I went into the house.'

* * * * *

THE EKKALAEOBION is the name given to an establishment opposite the Washington Hotel, in Broadway, where the formation of chickens, ab initio, is 'practised to a great extent.' And really, it is in some respects an awful exhibition, to a reflecting mind. It is as it were a visible exposition of the source of life. You see the pulse of existence throbbing in the yet unformed mass, which assumes, day after day, the image of its kind; until at length the little creature knocks for admittance into this breathing world; steps forth from the shell in which it had been so long 'cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in;' and straitway walks abroad, 'regenerated, disenthralled,' and ready for its 'grub.' By all means, reader, go and see this interesting and instructive exhibition. It is provocative of much reflection, aside from the mere contemplation of it as a matter of curiosity. . . . THE correspondent who sends us the following, writes upon the envelope containing it: 'I have endeavored to preserve the measure of the original, and at the same time to present a literal translation.' It will be conceded, we think, that he has been successful in his endeavor. Perhaps in some lines (as in 'Pertransivit gladius') the translation is a little too literal:

STABAT MATER.

I. I.

Stabat mater dolorosa, Near the cross the Mother weeping Juxta crucem lacrymosa, Stood, her watch in sorrow keeping Dum pendebat filius: While was hanging there her SON: Cujus animam gementem, Through her soul in anguish groaning, Contristantem et dolentem, O most sad, HIS fate bemoaning, Pertransivit gladius. Through and through that sword was run.

II. II.

O quam tristis et afflicta Oh how sad with woe oppressed, Fuit illa benedicta, Was she then, the Mother blessed, Mater unigeniti: Who the sole-begotten bore: Quae moerebat, et dolebat, As she saw his pain and anguish, Et tremebat, cum videbat She did tremble, she did languish, Nati poenas inclyti. Weep her holy Son before.

III. III.

Quis est homo qui non fleret, Who is he his tears concealing, Christi matrem si videret Could have seen such anguish stealing In tanto supplicio? Through the Saviour-mother's breast? Quis posset non contristari, Who his deepest groans could smother, Piam matrem contemplari, Had he seen the holy Mother Dolentem cum filio? By her Son with grief oppressed!

IV. IV.

Pro peccatis suae gentis Christ for Israel's transgression Vidit Jesum in tormentis, Saw she suffer thus oppression, Et flagellis subditum; Torment, and the cruel blow: Vidit suum dulcem natum Saw Him desolate and dying; Morientem, desolatum, Him she loved, beheld Him sighing Dum emisit spiritum. Forth His soul in deepest woe.

V. V.

Eja mater, fons amoris, Source of love, thy grief, O Mother, Me sentire vim doloris Grant with thee to share another— Fac, ut tecum lugeam. Grant that I with thee may weep: Fac ut ardeat cor meum, May my heart with love be glowing, In amando Christum Deum, All on Christ my God bestowing, Ut sibi complaceam. In His favor ever keep.

VI. VI.

Saneta mater, istud agas, This, oh holy Mother! granting, Crucifixi fige plagas In my heart the wounds implanting Cordi meo valide: Of His cross, oh let me bear: Tui nati vulnerati, Pangs with which thy Son when wounded Jam dignati pro me pati, Deigned for me to be surrounded, Poenas mecum divide. [] Grant, oh grant that I may share.

VII. VII.

Fac me vere tecum flere, Be my eyes with tears o'erflowing, Crucifixo condolere, For the crucified bestowing, Donec ego vixero: Till my eyes shall close in death: Juxta crucem tecum stare, Ever by that cross be standing, Te libenter sociare Willingly with thee demanding In planctu desidero. But to share each mournful breath.

VIII. VIII.

Virgo virginum praeclara, Thou of virgins blest forever, Mihi jam non sis amara Oh deny I pray thee never Fac me tecum plangere; That I may lament with thee: Fadut portem Christi mortem, Be my soul His death enduring, Passionis ejus sortem, And His passion—thus securing Et plagas recolere. Of His pains the memory.

IX. XI.

Fac me plagis vulnerari, With those blows may I be smitten, Cruce hac inebriari, In my heart that cross be written, Ob amorem filii: For thy Son's dear love alway: Inflammatus et accensus Glowing, burning with affection, Per te, virgo, sim defensus Grant me, Virgin! thy protection, In die judicii. In the dreaded judgment-day.

X. X.

Fac me cruce custodiri, May that cross its aid extend me, Morte Christi praemuniri, May the death of Christ defend me, Confoveri gratia: With its saving grace surround; Quando corpus morietur, And when life's last link is riven, Fac ut animae donetur To my soul be glory given, Paradisi gloria. That in Paradise is found.

St. Paul's College. G. H. H.

* * * * *

'A Story of Sorrow and Crime' is an affecting monitory sketch, devoid of that mawkishness which is sometimes the characteristic of kindred performances. The writer's reflections upon the career of his hero, remind us of that beautiful passage in one of BLAIR'S essays: 'Life is short: the poor pittance of seventy years is worth being a villain for. What matters it if your neighbor lies in a splendid tomb? Sleep you with innocence! Look behind you through the track of time; a vast desert lies open in the retrospect; through this desert have your fathers journeyed on, until wearied with years and sorrows, they sunk from the walks of men. You must leave them where they fell, and you are to go a little farther, where you will find eternal rest. Whatever you may have to encounter between the cradle and the grave, every moment is big with innumerable events, which come not in slow succession, but bursting forcibly from a revolving and unknown cause, fly over this orb with diversified influence.' . . . 'F. P.'s 'Western Adventures' have good points about them, but if published entire, would we think disappoint himself perhaps as much as his readers. Here is an anecdote, however, which is worth 'jotting down' in types: 'I met not long after in New-York a man who had just been induced to rent the very hotel in Kentucky which was the scene of the reverses I have been describing. Aware that I had at one time kept the establishment, he was anxious to know my opinion of its pecuniary promise. 'I don't expect to make much the first year,' said he; 'I shall be satisfied if I 'realize' all expenses. But do you think I shall clear myself the first year?' 'I haven't the slightest doubt of it,' I replied; 'I cleared myself before the first six months were up, and was d—d glad to get off so; and I rather guess that you'll be too, in about half that time.' And he was!' . . . Could there be a more affecting picture than that of a fond mother learning for the first time from the tell-tale prattle of her little ones that she is 'given over to darkness and the worm' by her friends, who had disguised from her the fatal truth? Such is the scene depicted in these pathetic lines:

'He speaketh now: 'Oh, mother dear!' Murmurs the little child: And there is trouble in his eyes, Those large blue eyes so mild:

'Oh, mother dear! they say that soon, When here I seek for thee I shall not find thee—nor out there, Under the old oak-tree;

'Nor up stairs in the nursery, Nor any where, they say: Where wilt thou go to, mother dear? Oh, do not go away!'

There was long silence, a deep hush, And then the child's low sob: Her quivering eyelids close: one hand Keeps down the heart's quick throb.

And the lips move, though sound is none, That inward voice is prayer. And hark! 'THY will, O LORD, be done!' And tears are trickling there—

Down that pale cheek, on that young head; And round her neck he clings; And child and mother murmur out Unutterable things.

He half unconscious, she deep-struck With sudden, solemn truth, That number'd are her days on earth— Her shroud prepared in youth:

That all in life her heart holds dear GOD calls her to resign: She hears, feels, trembles—but looks up, And sighs 'THY will be mine!''

* * * * *

'I came down from Albany the other evening,' writes a correspondent, 'in that floating palace, the KNICKERBOCKER steamer; I slept in your KNICKERBOCKER state-room; arrived in town, I took after dinner a KNICKERBOCKER omnibus, and rode up to the 'Westminster Abbey Bowling Saloon,' named of KNICKERBOCKER; I called on you with my article for the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine; and on my way down, enjoyed a delightful ablution at the KNICKERBOCKER Bath; stepped into the KNICKERBOCKER Theatre, and 'laughed consumedly' over an amusing play; and finally, closed with a cup of delicious tea, green and black, and anchovy-toast, at KNICKERBOCKER Hall. Every thing, I was glad to see, was KNICKERBOCKER.' Very flattering; yet we dare say our friend was not aware that this Magazine was the pioneer in the use of this popular name in Gotham, and that its example has suggested, one after another, the namesakes to which he has alluded. Such, howbeit, is the undeniable fact. . . . We remarked the example of catachresis to which 'L.' alludes, and laughed at it, we venture to say, as heartily as himself. It was not quite so glaring however as the confused images of a celebrated Irish advocate: 'I smell a rat; I see it brewing in the storm; and I will crush it in the bud!' . . . We find several things to admire in our Detroit friend's 'Tale of Border Warfare;' but he can't 'talk Indian'—that is very clear. The 'abrogynes' are not in the habit of making interminable speeches: they leave that to white members of Congress, who pump up a feeling in a day's speech 'for Buncombe.' Do you remember what HALLECK says of RED-JACKET?

'The spell of eloquence is thine, that reaches The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport; And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, The secret of their mastery—they are short.'

Not one man in a thousand can talk or write the true 'Indian.' Our friend SA-GO-SEN-O-TA, formerly known as Col. WILLIAM L. STONE, is one of the best Indian writers in this country. His late letter 'To the Sachems, Chiefs, and Warriors of the Seneca Indians,' acknowledging the honor they had done him in electing him a chief, is a perfect thing in its kind. May it be long before the 'MASTER OF BREATH' shall call him to 'the fair hunting-grounds, through clouds bright as fleeces of gold, upon a ladder as beautiful as the rainbow!' . . . Our entertaining 'Dartmoor Prisoner' has a pleasant story of a fellow-captive who on one occasion performed that 'cautionary' experiment which is sometimes denominated 'putting your foot in it.' The term is of legitimate origin, it should seem. According to the Asiatic Researches, a very curious mode of trying the title to land is practised in Hindostan. Two holes are dug in the disputed spot, in each of which the lawyers on either side put one of their legs, and remain there until one of them is tired, or complains of being stung by the insects, in which case his client is defeated. In this country it is the client and not the lawyer who 'puts his foot into it!' . . . We have commenced in the present, and shall conclude in our next number, a 'Legend of the Conquest of Spain,' by WASHINGTON IRVING. We derive it from the same source whence we received the 'Legend of Don RODERICK,' lately published in these pages. We commend its graphic limnings and stirring incidents to the admiration of our readers. . . . A FRIEND and correspondent in a sister city dashes in with a rich brush, in one of his familiar letters to us, a sketch of a boss-painter, who was renovating the writer's house with sundry pots of paint; a conceited, half-informed prig, who having grown rich, talks of 'going to Europe in the steam-boat,' and has a huge fancy for seeing Italy. 'Yes,' said the house-and-sign RAPHAEL, 'I must see Rome and Athens; them Romans allers made a great impression on me; the land of APELLES and XERXES; ah! that must be worth travelling for.' 'Would you not rather run over England?' I asked; but the ass poohed at England, and on the strength of his daubing our house-blinds, claimed an interest in the Fine Arts abroad: 'No, Sir, give me Italy—the Loover and the Vattykin; them's the places for my money! Gods! how I should like to rummage over them old-masters! They beat us all hollow—that's a fact. I'll give in to them. There never was such painters before, nor never will be. I want to study 'em.' 'Yes,' I rejoined; ''twould interest you, doubtless; and after having studied the great painters in Italy, you might return by way of Switzerland, and scrape acquaintance with the glaciers.' The booby did not take, but only stared and said: 'Oh, they're famous for glass-work there, be they?' This lover of the Fine Arts had a counterpart in the man who having 'made as much money as he wanted by tradin' in Boston,' went 'a-travelling abroad;' and while in Florence, called on POWERS the sculptor, with a design to 'patronize' him a little. After looking at his 'Greek Slave,' his 'Eve,' and other gems of art, he remarked that he 'thought they'd look a good 'eal better if they had some clothes on. I'm pretty well off,' he continued, 'and ha'n't a chick nor child in the world; and I thought I'd price a statty or two. What's the damage, now, for that one you're peckin' at?' 'It should be worth from four to five thousand dollars, I think,' answered POWERS. 'What! five thousand dollars for that 'are! I cal'lated to buy me a piece of stattyary before I went home, but that's out of the question! Hasn't stattyary riz lately? How's paintin's here now?' . . . Just complaints are made by our city contemporaries of the exorbitant rates of postage upon weekly periodicals. Mr. WILLIS complains, in the 'New-Mirror' weekly journal, that country postmasters charge so much postage on that periodical by mail, that in many cases it would make the work cost to its country subscribers something like ten dollars a year! All postage in this country is at too high a rate; and so long as it remains so, the law will continue to be evaded. 'Cheating UNCLE SAM' is not considered a very heinous offence. There is nothing one robs with so little compunction as one's country. It is at the very worst robbing only eighteen millions of people. . . . The lines sent us in rejoinder to the stanzas of 'C. W. D.,' in a late issue, would not be original in our pages; nor could we hope to have many new readers for them, after they have appeared in, and of course been copied from, that exceedingly pleasant and well-edited daily journal, the Boston Evening Transcript. . . . HAUFFMAN, the German poet, was recently expelled from the Prussian dominions, and all his works proscribed thenceforth. 'Served him right;' for in one of his works appears the 'word following, to wit:' 'Sleuerverweigerungsverfassungsmassigberechtig!'—meaning a man who is exempt by the constitution from the payment of taxes. 'Myscheeves thick' must needs follow such terrific words. 'We have heard,' says a London critic, in allusion to this jaw-breaker, 'of a gentleman, a member of the Marionettenschauspielhausengesellschaft, who was said to be an excellent performer on the 'Constantinopolitanischetudelsackpfeife!'' . . . We owe a word of apology to our friends the publishers, for the omission of notices which we had prepared of their publications, and which are crowded out by our title-page and index, that were forgotten until the last moment. We shall 'bring up arrears' in our next.

THE END