Chapter TWENTY-FIVE (3)

WE scarcely know when we have been more amused, than in reading lately a satirical sketch, entitled '_The House of Mourning: a Farce_.' Squire HAMPER and his lady, personages rather of the rustic order, who have come up to London from the family seat in the country, in the progress of shopping in a street at the west end of the metropolis, stop at a dry-goods undertakers, with a hatchment, and '_Maison de Deuil_,' or House of Mourning, by way of a sign over the door. 'Mason de Dool!' exclaims the Squire, responding to his wife's translation; 'some foreign haberdasher's, I 'spose.' The lady, however, coaxes him to go in; for although she has lost no friends, she longs to see the 'improvements in mourning,' which she can do by 'cheapening a few articles, and buying a penny-worth of black pins.' The worthy pair enter, take an ebony chair at the counter, while a clerk in a suit of sables addresses the lady, and in sepulchral tones inquires if he 'can have the melancholy pleasure of serving her.' 'How deep would you choose to go, Ma'am? Do you wish to be very poignant? We have a very extensive assortment of family and complimentary mourning. Here is one, Ma'am, just imported; a widow's silk, watered, as you perceive, to match the sentiment. It is called the 'Inconsolable,' and is very much in vogue in Paris for matrimonial bereavements.' 'Looks rather flimsy, though,' interposes the Squire; 'not likely to last long, eh, Sir?' 'A little slight, praps,' replies the shopman; 'rather a delicate texture; but mourning ought not to last forever, Sir.' 'No,' grumbles the Squire; 'it seldom does, 'specially the violent sorts.' 'As to mourning, Ma'am,' continues the shopman, addressing the lady, 'there has been a great deal, a very great deal indeed, this season; and several new fabrics have been introduced, to meet the demand for fashionable tribulation, and all in the French style; they of France excel in the _funebre_. Here for instance is an article for the deeply-afflicted; a black crape, expressly adapted to the profound style of mourning; makes up very sombre and interesting. Or, if you prefer to mourn in velvet, here's a very rich one; real Genoa, and a splendid black; we call it the 'Luxury of Woe.' It's only eighteen shillings a yard, and a superb quality; fit, in short, for the handsomest style of domestic calamity.' Here the Squire wants to know 'whether sorrow gets more superfine as it goes upward in life.' 'Certainly--yes, Sir--by all means,' responds the clerk; 'at least, a finer texture. The mourning of poor people is very coarse, very; quite different from that of persons of quality. Canvass to crape, Sir.' The lady next asks if he has a variety of half-mourning; to which he replies: 'O, infinite--the largest stock in town; full, and half, and quarter, and half-quarter mourning, shaded off from a _grief prononce_ to the slightest _nuance_ of regret.' The lady is directed to another counter, and introduced to 'the gent. who superintends the Intermediate Sorrow Department;' who inquires: 'You wish to inspect some half-mourning, Madam? the second stage of distress? As such Ma'am, allow me to recommend this satin--intended for grief when it has subsided; alleviated, you see, Ma'am, from a dead black to a dull lead color. It's a Parisian novelty, Ma'am, called 'Settled Grief,' and is very much worn by ladies of a certain age, who do not intend to embrace Hymen a second time.' ('Old women, mayhap, about seventy,' mutters the Squire.) 'Exactly so, Sir; or thereabout. Not but what some ladies, Ma'am, set in for sorrow much earlier; indeed, in the prime of life; and for such cases it is a very durable wear; but praps it's too _lugubre_: now here's another--not exactly black, but shot with a warmish tint, to suit a woe moderated by time. The French call it a 'Gleam of Comfort.' We've sold several pieces of it; it's very attractive; we consider it the happiest pattern of the season.' 'Yes,' once more interposes the Squire; 'some people are very happy in it no doubt.' 'No doubt, Sir. There's a charm in melancholy, Sir. I'm fond of the pensive myself. Praps, Madam, you would prefer something still more in the transition state, as we call it, from grave to gay. In that case, I would recommend this lavender Ducape, with only just a souvenir of sorrow in it; the slightest tinge of mourning, to distinguish it from the garb of pleasure. But possibly you desire to see an appropriate style of costume for the juvenile branches, when sorrow their young days has shaded? Of course, a milder degree of mourning than for adults. Black would be precocious. This, Ma'am, for instance--a dark pattern on gray; an interesting dress, Ma'am, for a little girl, just initiated in the vale of tears; only eighteen-pence a yard Ma'am, and warranted to wash.' The 'Intermediate Sorrow Department,' however, derives no patronage from the 'hard customer;' and we next find her in the 'Coiffure Department,' looking at caps, and interrogating a show-woman in deep mourning, who is in attendance, and enlarging upon the beauty of her fabrics: 'This is the newest style, Ma'am. Affliction is very much modernized, and admits of more _gout_ than formerly. Some ladies indeed for their morning grief wear rather a plainer cap; but for evening sorrow, this is not at all too _ornee_. French taste has introduced very considerable alleviations.' Failing however, in 'setting her _caps_' for the new customer, the show-woman 'tries the handkerchief' enticement; exhibiting one with a fringe of artificial tears worked on the border--'the '_Larmoyante_,' a sweet-pretty idea.' The Squire intimates that as a handkerchief _to be used_, it would most likely be found 'rather scrubby for the eyes.' But the show-woman removes _this_ objection: 'O dear, no, Sir--if you mean wiping. The wet style of grief is quite gone out--quite! The dry cry is decidedly the genteel thing.' No wonder that the Squire, as he left the establishment with his 'better half,' was fain to exclaim: 'Humph! And so that's a Mason de Dool! Well! if it's all the same to you, Ma'am, I'd rather die in the country, and be universally lamented after the old fashion; for, as to London, what with the new French modes of mourning, and the 'Try Warren' style of blacking the premises, it do seem to me that before long all sorrow will be sham Abram, and the House of Mourning a regular Farce!' . . . A _Canadian Correspondent_, in a few 'free and easy' couplets, advises us how much we have lost by declining a MS. drama of his, which he is hammering out on the anvil of his brain. We subjoin a few lines of 'The Angry Poet:'

'THE _damper_, the _draft_ of my drama you've checked;
You've stunted my laurels--my rich cargo wrecked!
That cargo! O! never was galleon of Spain
Thus freighted, by winds wafted over the Main!
There were stuffs, and brocades, and rich laces and blonde;
There were Damascene blades, and thy silks Trebisond;
There was armor from Milan, both cuirass and helm,
Abelards, Eloisas, and Father Anselm:
There were jewels, and gold, and the amulet's power,
A hero to spout, and to rant by the hour;
A lady to love, and be loved, and to faint,
As a matter of course, turning pale through her paint!
There were clowns who the grave-digger clown could outvie,
And princes who on the stage strutted so high
That Prince Hamlet they'd _cut_; who could pick up a scull,
Vote his morals a bore, and his wit mighty dull!
There were spirits that roam in the caves of the deep,
Coming back to our earth, as ghosts will do, to peep!
A king of the Cannibals--warriors, a host;
And a city with domes, mid the dim waters lost:
There was some one descended from BRIAN BORU;
For Pleasaunce a hunchback, in French 'Un Tortu;'
Every scene was an episode--tragic each act;
Winding up with swords clashing, or pistols well cracked.'

* * * * *

WE have just received the following from an esteemed correspondent, who transcribes it verbatim from the familiar letter of a friend. If we have a solitary reader who can peruse it without emotion, let him confine his indifference within his own cold bosom:

'I HAVE just returned from the funeral of poor EMMA G----, a
little girl to whom I had been for years most tenderly attached.
As there was something very touching in the circumstances
connected with her death, I will relate them to you. She was the
daughter of a widow, a near neighbor of mine. When I first knew
her, she was a sprightly child of about four years of age, perfect
in form and feature. The bloom of health was on her cheek; her eye
was the brightest I ever saw; while in her bosom there glowed a
generous affection that seemed to embrace all with whom she came
in contact. But when she reached her seventh year, her health
began to decline. The rose suddenly paled on her cheek, and her
eye had acquired prematurely that sad, thoughtful expression which
gives so melancholy a charm to the features of wasting beauty. Her
mother looked on with an anxious heart and at an utter loss to
account for so sudden a change in her health. But soon a new
source of anxiety appeared. While dressing her one day, she
observed on EMMA'S back, just between the shoulders, a small
swelling, of about the size of a walnut. As she watched this spot,
and observed that it grew larger from day to day, the mother began
to have sad misgivings. These however she kept to herself for a
time. Soon afterward, a slight stoop in her gait became visible.
The family physician was now called in, and the worst forebodings
of the mother were confirmed. Her idolized child was fast becoming
a hump-back!

'I will not attempt to describe the feelings of the mother, who
was thus doomed to witness from day to day the slow growth of that
which was to make one so dear to her a cripple and a dwarf.
Suffice it to say, her love as well as care seemed to be
redoubled, and EMMA became more than ever the child of her
affections. Nor did her little companions neglect her when she
could no longer join in their out-door sports, and her own
sprightly step had given place to a slow, stooping-gait, and the
sweet ringing voice to a sad or querulous tone, that sometimes
made the very heart ache. On the contrary, all vied with each
other in administering to her amusements. Among them, none clung
to her with more assiduity than her brother WILLIAM, who was the
nearest to her own age. He gave up all his own out-door play, in
order to be with her, and seemed never so happy as when he could
draw a smile, sad though it was, from her thoughtful features. But
after a while, EMMA grew wayward under her affliction; and
unfortunately, though generally good-natured, WILLIAM had a quick
temper, to check which required more self-command than commonly
falls to one so young. Sometimes, therefore, when he found plan
after plan, which he had projected for her amusement, rejected
with peevish contempt, he could hardly conceal from her his own
wounded feelings. Yet, though at times apparently ungrateful, EMMA
was perhaps not so in fact; and she loved her brother better than
any one else, save her mother. It was only in moments when her too
sensitive nature had been chafed perhaps by her own
reflections--for like the majority of children in her
circumstances, she was thoughtful beyond her years--that her
conduct seemed unkind. And then, when she marked the clouded
expression of her brother's face, she would ask forgiveness in so
meek a spirit, and kiss his cheek so affectionately, that he
forgave her almost as soon as offended.

'Years thus passed on, when one day, after she had been more than
usually perverse and fretful, WILLIAM, who had been reading to
her, on receiving some slight rebuff, started suddenly from his
seat by her side, called her '_a little hunch-back_,' and left the
room. In a moment, however, his passion subsided, and returning,
he found his sister in tears. He attempted to put his arm around
her neck, but she repulsed him, and slipping away, retired to her
own chamber. Her mother soon after learned what had happened, and
going to EMMA, found her upon the bed in a paroxysm of grief. She
endeavored to soothe her feelings, but in vain; she refused to be
comforted. 'I want to _die_, mother,' she replied to all her
endearments; 'I have long felt that I was a burden to you all.'
She cried herself to sleep that night, and on the morrow was too
ill to rise. The doctor was called in, and warned the mother
against an approaching fever. For three days she remained in an
uncertain state; but on the fourth, the fever came in earnest, and
thenceforth she was confined to her pillow.

'In the mean time, the grief of WILLIAM had been more poignant
even than that of his sister. Thrice he had been to her bedside to
ask her forgiveness, and kiss once more her pallid cheek; but she
turned her face resolutely away, and refused to recognize him.
After these repulses he would slowly leave the room, and going to
his own chamber, sit brooding for hours over the melancholy
consequences of his rashness. Owing to the previous enfeebled
health of EMMA, the fever made rapid progress, and it soon became
apparent that she must die. WILLIAM, in consequence of the violent
aversion of his sister, had latterly been denied admittance to the
chamber, though he lingered all day about the door, eagerly
catching the least word in regard to her state, and apparently
unmindful of all other existence.

'One morning there was evidently a crisis approaching; for the
mother and attendants, hurrying softly in and out the sufferer's
chamber, in quick whispered words gave orders or imparted
intelligence to others. WILLIAM saw it all, and with the quick
instinct of affection, seemed to know what it foreboded. Taking
his little stool, therefore, he sat down beside the chamber-door,
and waited in silence. In the mean time, the mother stood over the
dying child, watching while a short unquiet slumber held her back
for a little while longer. Several times a sweet smile trembled
round the sufferer's lips, and her arms moved as if pressing
something to her bosom. Then she awoke, and fixing her eyes upon
her mother, whispered faintly, 'I thought WILLIAM was here.' A
stifled sob was heard at the door, which stood partly open. Mrs.
G---- stepped softly out, and leading WILLIAM to the bed-side,
pointed to his dying sister. He threw himself upon her bosom, and
pressing his lips to her pale cheek, prayed for forgiveness. EMMA
did not heed him; but looking again in her mother's face, and
pointing upward, said softly: 'I shant be so _there!_--shall I,
mother?'

'No, my poor child!' replied the weeping parent; 'I hope not. But
don't talk _so_, EMMA. Forgive your poor brother, or you'll break
his heart.'

'EMMA tried to gasp something; but whatever it was, whether of
love or hate, it never reached a mortal ear. In a few moments she
was no more.'

* * * * *

WE take your amiable hint, good 'P.' of S----, and shall venture the forfeit. That our own 'humor is no great shakes,' we very cheerfully admit--so that there is an end to _that_ 'difference of opinion.' 'P.' reminds us of an anecdote which we had not long since from a friend. 'There, take that!' said a would-be facetious doctor to a patient, whom he had been boring almost to extinction with what he fancied to be humor; 'take it; 't will do you good, though it _is_ nauseous.' 'Don't say a word about _that_,' said the patient, swallowing the revolting potion; 'the man who has endured your _wit_, has nothing to fear from your _physic!_' . . . 'C. M. P.'s parody on '_Oh no, I never mention Him_,' is a very indifferent affair, compared with HOOD'S transcript of that well-known song. We remember a stanza or two of it:

'OH, no, I never mentioned it,
I never said a word;
But lent my friend a five-pound note,
Of which I've never heard.
He said he merely borrowed it
To pay another debt;
And since I've never mention'd it,
He thinks that I forget!

'Whene'er we ride, I pays the 'pike;
I settles every treat;
He rides my horse, he drives my cab,
But cuts me when we meet.
My new umbrell' I lent him too,
One night--'t was very wet;
Though he forgets it ne'er came back,
Ah, me! _I_ don't forget!'

* * * * *

THE kite-season has opened with great activity. Did you ever remark, reader, when Nature begins to waken from her winter-sleep; when the woods 'beyond the swelling floods' of the rivers begin to redden; when the first airs of spring assume their natural blandness; when ladies are out with their 'spring hats' and carmen with their spring-carts; when the snow has left us, and the city-trees are _about_ leave-ing; how innumerous kites begin to thicken in the air? Yonder a big unwieldy fellow rises with calm dignity, trailing his long tail with great propriety behind him; here a little bustling creature ducks and dives, coquetting first on this side, then on that; until finally turning two or three somersets, it almost reaches the earth; but soon rises at a tangent, and sails far up into the bright blue firmament. Look! the air is full of them! It is a charming amusement, this kite-flying of the boys. We greatly affect it, even now, although we are 'out of our 'teens!' There is something ethereal in it; some thing that lifts up the young admiration

'To that blue vault and sapphire wall
That overhangs and circles all,'

and the mysterious realm that lies beyond its visible confines. . . . WE select from the '_Random Reminiscences of a Retired Merchant_' a single passage; the entire article being quite too short for any other department of our work: 'There once flourished in one of our commercial cities a little French merchant, who was very well known to every man and boy by the fact of his being always followed by a curly-haired yellow dog with his tail 'cut a little too short by a d----d sight!' During the last war, our little Frenchman was doing a very thriving business in the dry-goods line, and was supposed to be a little sharper at a bargain than any of his fellow-tradesmen. There also flourished at the same time, in the same city, an importing merchant of Yankee origin, who was noted as a long-headed, close-fisted dealer. It is well known that during the war English goods were sold at enormous prices. The Yankee merchant was in that line of trade; and a few days before the arrival in this country of the news of peace, he received private advices from the Continent which led him to anticipate it. As he had a large supply of English goods on hand at the time, the prices of which would of course instantly fall, he set about disposing of them as soon as possible to his less informed and unsuspecting customers. The little Frenchman was one of his victims. After much haggling, and the offer of a long credit, the importer effected a bill of sale of goods to him, to the amount of something like twenty thousand dollars, taking his notes on long time in payment. These he considered perfectly good, of course, as his customer's reputation in the money-market was unsullied. The bargain being consummated, the two friends parted, each in a capital humor with himself; the Yankee to deposit the notes in his strong box, and the Frenchman to his store, where, receiving his newly-purchased goods, he immediately commenced marking them one hundred per cent. above cost, thus making before midnight, to use his own boast, a _profit_ of twenty thousand dollars on his purchase! Three days afterward the official news of peace came; English goods instantly fell one half, and our little Frenchman awoke in horror from his dream of cent. per cent. Nine persons out of every ten under such circumstances would have failed at once. But _nil desperandum_ was the motto of our Frenchman. He saw that he had been '_bit_' by his commercial friend, and he immediately set his wits at work to turn the tables upon him. So, late in the evening of the next day he repaired to the dwelling of the importer, and told a long and pitiful story of his embarrassments. He said his conscience already smote him for making so heavy a purchase while in failing circumstances, and that he had come to make the only reparation in his power; namely, to yield up the goods obtained of the importer, on the latter's cancelling the notes given therefor. The Yankee at first demurred; but on the Frenchman insisting that he was a bankrupt, and that he feared the moment he opened in the morning the sheriff would pounce upon him with a writ that would swallow up every thing, he finally agreed to the proposition. 'Half a loaf was better than no bread,' he thought; and so the notes and the bill of sale were accordingly cancelled. By daylight in the morning the Yankee was at the Frenchman's store, with his teams, as had been agreed upon the night before, and every package of his goods was soon removed. The two merchants again parted, the Frenchman with a mind relieved of a heavy load, and the Yankee rather down in the mouth at the result of his trade. Two or three days afterward, as the importer was passing the Frenchman's store, he observed his sign still up, and every thing apparently as flourishing as ever. He stepped in to see what it all meant. 'Hallo! Mr. S----,' said he, 'I thought you had failed!' '_Failed!_' repeated the Frenchman, thrusting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, and sliding his legs apart from counter to counter, till he resembled a small Colossus of Rhodes: '_Failed?_ No, be gar! Firmer than ever, Mr. H----, but I _should_ have failed, _almosht_, if I hadn't got rid of dem tamn'd English goods at cost!' Straitway the out-witted Yankee 'departed the presence!'' . . . IT has been generally supposed that the oratorical efforts of 'Major POGRAM,' as described by Mr. DICKENS in a late number of his 'Chuzzlewit,' rather carricatured even the worst specimens of western eloquence; but the subjoined passage from the speech of a Mr. MAUPIN in the Indiana legislature, upon the subject of establishing a tobacco warehouse and inspection at Paducah, seems to militate against the validity of this 'flattering function:'

'MR. SPEAKER: I feel incompetent to measure this comprehensive
subject. Were my thoughts as deep as the Mississippi, and as clear
as the Ohio, I could not grasp its whole magnitude. It requires a
mighty mind; one that can look beyond the landscape; he must be
able to look even beyond the ocean; to grapple with all the
intricacies and winding convolutions of the subject, and to map in
his mind the whole length and breadth of its territories. Here,
Sir, is a river, whose broad and deep stream meanders from Paducah
through one of the most fertile tobacco countries in the world, to
Ross's landing, and at the terminus of the great Charleston
railroad, and possessing a steam navigation of eight hundred
miles, and giving commercial facilities to the briny ocean. Behold
this vast channel of commerce; this magnificent thoroughfare of
trade; one grand, unbroken chain of inter-communication, like to a
prodigious sarpent, with his head resting upon the shores of
Europe, and his lengthened form stretching over the ocean and
curling along this great winding stream in serpentine grandeur,
proudly flaps his tail at Paducah! . . . SIR, the ball is in
motion; it is rolling down in noise of thunder from the mountain
heights, and comes booming in its majesty over the wide-spread
plain. Yes, Sir, and it will continue to roll on, and on,
gathering strength and bulk in its onward progress, until it
sweeps its ponderous power to the town of Paducah, and there stand
a towering monument of patriotic glory and sublime grandeur, with
the noble American eagle proudly perched upon its cloud-capped
summit, and gazing with swelling pride and admiration down upon
the magnificent spectacle of the greatness of human wisdom and
power!'

* * * * *

EVERY-BODY has heard of the good old lady who purchased a family Bible at a bookstore, and soon after returned it, being desirous to exchange it for one of larger print. 'We have at present no Bible,' said the clerk, 'of a larger-sized type than the one you have.' 'Well,' replied the lady, 'I wish you would _print me one_, and I'll call in a day or two and get it!' She thought a request so reasonable could readily be complied with. One of our most prominent publishers mentions a clever anecdote of a poetess, who in reading the proofs of her forthcoming volume, found passages of a page or more in length enclosed in parenthetical pen-marks in the margin, with 'THOMSON,' 'GRAY,' 'MOORE,' 'BURNS,' 'WILSON,' etc., inscribed at the end. One day a letter accompanied the return-proofs, in which the lady remarked, that 'she had endured the repeated insinuations of the publisher long enough; she was no _plagiarist_, whatever her other literary faults might be; she had on each occasion looked over the works of MOORE, THOMSON, BURNS, GRAY, etc., but with the exception perhaps of a passage in WILSON'S 'Isle of Palms,' there was not even the slightest _pretext_ for a charge of plagiarism. She would thank the publisher, therefore, to discontinue in future his groundless hints upon the margins of the proof-sheets.' The initiated will understand that the 'insinuations' of which the poetess complained, were simply the names of the different compositors, indicating the lines at which they severally began to place her effusions in type! . . . MANY a reader will recall, as he peruses the subjoined unpretending sketch, a kindred scene in his own experience, 'when life and hope were new:'

OUR OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

LORD, 'tis not ours to make the sea
And earth and sky a home for Thee;
But in Thy sight our off'ring stands,
A humble temple, 'made with hands.'

'MANY years ago, when 'the dew of the morning was fresh upon me,'
there stood, just in the edge of the village where I was born, an
old church edifice. The graves of many an early settler were round
about it; and often as the shadows of evening were settling upon
the valley, with half-averted face and hurried steps have I stole
noiselessly by to our rural home. O, how many associations crowd
upon the memory, in connection with that rude old meeting-house!
It was an old-fashioned, square building, without portico, or
steeple, or belfry. The winter's hail and summer's rain had beaten
against it for half a century. Its numerous small windows, without
curtain or blind, let in floods of light. Its small pulpit,
perched high upon one side, and close to the wall, concealed the
preacher's body, while the heads of the congregation were just
seen rising above the square high-backed pews. Hardly a cushion
was to be seen; and the interior furnishing was of the simplest
and plainest character. I have said that it had associations of
great interest. It is now more than an hundred years since a small
band of Scotch-Irish Presbyterians settled in that valley. Though
but few in number, and braving the elements and the savages, they
determined to carry with them into the wilderness not only the
Christian's hope, but the Christian's ordinances. A small building
of logs arose soon after the settlement, in which for many years
an educated and regularly-ordained minister preached the gospel to
a little flock. The inquiry had already commenced; 'The prophets,
where are they?' The larger part of the pioneers had sunk into
peaceful graves, when the war of the revolution commenced. It was
still a frontier hamlet, and was soon swallowed up and lost in
that terrible whirlwind of death which year after year swept over
the settlements of Central New-York. When peace was restored, the
remnant of the inhabitants whom war and disease had spared,
returned to their former homes. But though war and disease had
impoverished them, they had not forgotten the GOD of their
fathers. Having no house for assembling together, the inhabitants
met in what they termed 'the meeting-house yard;' and there
organized anew that church which has continued thence to this day,
and determined upon the erection of the old meeting-house of which
I have spoken. Under the open heavens, with their feet upon their
fathers' graves, they dedicated themselves anew to the service of
HIM who was LORD overall, and whom they acknowledged as their only
Sovereign. I have looked over the records of that meeting with
emotions never to be forgotten. The gray-haired patriarch, loaning
on his staff with one hand, and with the other guiding our
youthful footsteps to the house of prayer on every Sabbath
morning, was one of that small number, and took an active part in
that solemn ceremony. The stillness of a Sabbath morning in the
country has often been remarked. How often, amid the din and
bustle of the great city, does the heart of him who has been
accustomed to the holy quietness of the day of rest in some
secluded valley, pant for a return to the home of his youth! Such
has been my own experience; in the far-off past I see again the
gathering of the quiet, orderly congregation; I hear the voice of
the good old father who ministered in holy things; I sit by the
open window and look out upon the green graves thick strown round
the old meeting-house; the warbling of the feathered songsters in
the grove near by falls softly upon the ear. The voice of prayer
is hushed, and the voice of praise ascends. Alas! the voices of
most of those which were then attuned on earth, are now attuned to
more celestial music in another world!

'But our old meeting-house, where is it? It has gone with those
who, in the midst of trials, and in the plenitude of their
poverty, with their own hands hewed out its massive timbers; and
the place that knew it knows it no more! It was in the fall of the
year that a traveller on horseback rode up to the principal hotel,
and as he dismounted and handed the reins to his host, he inquired
what building that was in the southern part of the village? On
being informed that it was the meeting-house, he remarked, with a
dogged air, that 'he had often seen the LORD'S house, but had
never seen the LORD'S _barn_ before!' The comical remark of the
traveller produced an immediate action. The good old house soon
disappeared. A more ambitious edifice was built in another part of
the village. The land-marks are now entirely effaced, and the spot
where it stood has been added to the 'meeting-house yard.' The
monuments of the young and the aged who sleep there dot over the
place where the first Presbyterian congregation, ay, the first
congregation of Evangelical Christians of any denomination, in
Central New-York, assembled to worship the living GOD.'

* * * * *

WE are promised by an esteemed friend some interesting extracts from the original American correspondence of Mrs. GRANT of Laggan, whose 'Memoir and Correspondence,' edited by her son, has recently attracted so much attention and remark in Great-Britain. Mrs. GRANT appears to have been a woman of very remarkable powers, and of the most admirable _common sense_. Her observations upon the 'amusive talents' of THEODORE HOOK, and his entire devotion to their cultivation, are replete with the soundest wisdom. The distinction between living to amuse the public merely, and the exertion of one's intellectual powers for one's own benefit, and with an eye to the claims of riper years, is admirably discriminated and set forth. There is not perhaps a more instructive lesson than that conveyed by _professional_ wits, who are 'first applauded and then _endured_, when people see that it is all they have.' As auxiliaries, as contrasts, with reflection and thoughtful exercitations of the mind, wit and humor are felicitous matters; as an intellectual _main-stay,_ however, they have been weighed in the balance by a hundred brilliant examples, and have always been 'found wanting.' . . . PUNCH, at this present writing, save three or four numbers, in February, is among the missing. Late issues however, furnish some valuable contributions to academical statistics; as for example, Mr. BOYS, who in his report upon the metropolitan school-visitation, writes as follows:

'THE use of sponge for cleaning slates he found confined to 17-1/4
per cent.; of whom 5-1/2 used the sponge wet with water, and
11-3/4 with saliva; the remaining 82-3/4 made use of the latter
liquid and the cuffs of their jackets instead of sponges, with an
occasional recourse to the pocket-handkerchief. The author found,
in schools in which the Latin language was not taught, a
lamentable deficiency in the knowledge of the meaning of 'meum'
and 'tuum;' he pointed out how the great extent of juvenile crime
might thus be accounted for, as being caused by the absence of all
instruction in the Latin language, and hoped that teaching it
would soon be made obligatory upon all school-masters.'

There is a humorous sketch of an examination of law-students, from which we select an 'exercise' or two:

'QUES: Have you attended any and what law lectures? ANS: I have
attended to many legal lectures, when I have been admonished by
police magistrates for kicking up rows in the streets, pulling off
knockers, etc.

QUES: What is a real action? ANS: An action brought in earnest,
and not by way of a joke.

QUES: What are a bill and answer? ANS: Ask my tailor.

QUES: How would you file a bill? ANS: I don't know, but would lay
the case before a blacksmith.

QUES: What steps would you take to dissolve an injunction? ANS: I
should put it into some very hot water, and let it remain there
until it was melted.

QUES: What are post-nuptial articles? ANS: Children.

QUES: What is simple larceny? ANS: Picking a pocket of a
handkerchief, and leaving a purse of money behind.'

We have had books on etiquette, of various kinds, lately, but a work of this sort for prisons will be found, one would think, to supply an important desideratum. GEORGE SELWYN, when a servant was sent to Newgate, for stealing articles from the club-house of which SELWYN was a member, was very much shocked: 'What a horrid report,' said he, 'the fellow will give of us to the gentlemen in Newgate!' This feeling will doubtless be more general by and by:

'IN consequence of complaints that have been made by persons
committed to prison before trial, who object to their not being
allowed to mix with other prisoners, it has been thought necessary
to frame a Book of Etiquette for prison purposes. Of course a
superior delinquent, like a forger, could not be on visiting terms
with a mere pick-pocket, nor could a man charged with stealing a
hundred pounds, feel at his ease in the society of one whose
alleged theft might be mean and insignificant. It is, we believe,
intended to introduce the prisoners to each other formally, not by
name, but by the offence with which they are charged. Thus, the
Governor of Newgate would say to Felony: 'Allow me to introduce
you to AGGRAVATED LARCENY. You ought to know each other--indeed
you ought. AGGRAVATED LARCENY, FELONY; FELONY, AGGRAVATED
LARCENY.' By a nice adjustment and proper application of the rules
of etiquette, a very admirable system of social intercourse might
be established in all our prisons, and the present complaint of a
want of 'good society,' which falls so severely on superior
scoundrels, would at once be got rid of.'

* * * * *

DEAFNESS, although sometimes rather annoying--as for example in the case mentioned in preceding pages by JOHN WATERS--is yet not without its advantages. Your conversational ''Deaf BURKE,' who can endure any amount of 'punishment' without being the worse for it,' enjoys not unfrequently a great deal of negative felicity. We envied the condition of such an one the other day, while sitting with a friend at the 'Globe,' over such potables and edibles as that matchless establishment can alone set before its guests. At a table in near proximity, sat two Englishmen, whose comments upon 'matters and things' in America were embodied in such 'voluble speech' that we could scarcely hear ourselves speak. 'They may _talk_ about their hinstitutions as much as they please,' said one of the speakers, 'but honly _look_ at 'em--see their heffect, from the 'ead of the government, down. Yesterday I perused in the 'Courier' newspaper an account of a negro's skin, hentire, that was found with the 'ead attached, in the Mississippi river!' ''Orid, isn't it! Think o' such a thing as that picked up in the Tems! And last week. I read in the 'Erald of a man near the Canada lines, who was found dead by the side of a fallen tree, half eaten up by wild hogs or panthers. He 'ad a flask of whiskey by his side, which he had taken 'neat,' till it had killed him; and in his pocket was a dirty pack o' cards, wrapped up in a copy of the Declaration of Hindependence! That's your _liberty_ for ye!' [Symbol: Hand pointing right] See if these very absurdities be not found embodied within a twelve-month in some new work by a travelling Englishman, upon that 'miserable experiment at self-government, the United States of America!' . . . HERE are some scraps of '_Parisian Gossip_' which will not be altogether uninteresting to American readers. One of our Paris letters states that at a splendid party given by Lady COWLEY, there occurred a rather curious incident. 'Among the guests was a Mr. L----, (one of the _snobiculi_, most likely,) who, believing that none but a friend whom he addressed was within hearing, said, 'And they call this a party? Why, I never saw any thing so dull in all my life. It is not worth the trouble of dressing for such an affair; and then the rooms are so intolerably hot.' Unfortunately, the noble hostess was standing near, and overheard him, and immediately said: 'Mr. L----, there (pointing to the ante-room,) is a cooler room, and beyond it is the hall, still cooler.' This prompt and significant hint was felt, understood, and taken.' 'Every body in Paris knows or has heard of HALEVY the composer, and his brother, the author. A _bon mot_ of a pretty and sarcastic lady, at the expense of both of them, is now going the round of the gossipping circles. 'Do you like HALEVY, the author?' inquired a friend. '_Pas du tout, pas du tout!_' answered the lady; 'He is as dull as if his brother had composed him!' EUGENE SUE has hatched a large brood of 'Mysteries.' The _Journal des Debats_ having published 'Mysteries of Paris,' the _Courier Francais_ is now publishing the 'Mysteries of London.' At Berlin no less than four different authors have published its 'Mysteries.' The 'Mysteries of Brussels' are being detailed in one of its journals. The 'Mysteries of Hamburg' have been exposed in print. At Vienna they are giving the 'Mysteries of Constantinople;' and a Paris newspaper promises in a short time the 'Mysteries of St. Petersburg.' Going on at this rate, there will soon be no 'Mysteries' in the world, and even the very word will become obsolete.' . . . '_The God of our Idolatry_' contains some home-thrusts at the national love of money, and not a few just animadversions upon the standard of respectability which obtains, in certain quarters, among us. HAMILTON and BASIL HALL'S experience in this regard seems also to have been that of our correspondent. The tendency of this standard, in a social and intellectual point of view, is very far from elevating. 'You are going to the dinner at ----'s to-day, of course,' said a lady with 'an eye to the main chance' to a friend of ours, the other day; 'the company will be composed of some of our most 'fore-handed citizens--all _heavy men_,' Our friend _did_ go to the dinner; and he found the guests as 'heavy' as their best friends could have wished them to be. . . . READING, in presence of a travelled friend, the proof of the admirable paper which opens the present number, we came to the passage which records the opinion of KEPLER, that 'the world is a vast animal, that breathes and reasons;' whereupon our listener remarked: 'No doubt of it; it _is_ an animal; I've seen its four-quarters myself!' It was a pun worthy of a butcher. . . . WE are not so _certain_ that the moral of '_The Independent Man_' is 'an unexceptionable one.' The 'Charcoal-sketcher' expresses the general opinion, we fear, in this regard: 'There's a double set of principles in this world, one of which is to talk about and the other to act upon; one is preached and the other is practised. You've got hold, somehow, of the wrong set; the set invented by the knowing ones to check competition and to secure all the good things for themselves. That's the reason people are always praising modest merit, while they are pushing along without either the one or the other. You always let go when any body's going to take your place at table; you always hold back when another person's wanting the last of the nice things on the dish. That's not the way; bow and nod, and show your teeth with a fascination, but take what you want for all that. This is manners--knowing the world. To be polite is to have your own way gracefully; other people are delighted at your style--you have the profit.' . . . THE reader will not overlook the '_Alligatorical Sketch_' in preceding pages. We begin to perceive how much the alligator has been slandered. It _yawns_ merely, it would seem; and the only care requisite is, to be absent when its jaws close! 'The 'gator isn't what you may call a _han'some_ critter, but there's a great deal of _openness_ when he smiles!' The _smile_ of an alligator!! . . . 'Cleanliness,' says FULLER, 'is godliness;' and he is not far out of the way; for no man, we think, can be a dirty Christian. In a moral and religious point of view, then, we are doing good service in calling public attention to the spacious baths of Mr. CHARLES RABINEAU, at the Astor-House, and at his new establishment at Number 123 Broadway, Albany. Go wash in them and be clean, reader, and thank us for the joy which you will experience, when you shall have come out of the water and gone your ways. . . . ONE of the late London pictorial publications contains a portrait of Sir HUDSON LOWE, the notorious keeper of NAPOLEON, the Emperor of the French, at St. Helena. It is in perfect keeping with the generally received estimate of the character of that functionary. The wretched thatch that disfigures without concealing the intellectual poverty of his narrow skull; the scowling features; the ragged penthouse brows; are 'close denotements' of the truth of 'Common Report.' In short, judging from the much-bepraised 'likeness' to which we allude, if Sir HUDSON LOWE was not a tyrant, and a small-minded one withal, GOD doesn't write a legible hand. . . . SOME clever wag in the last BLACKWOOD has an article, written in a hurry, upon the _hurriedness_ of literary matters in these our 'go-ahead' days. 'People,' he says, 'have not only ceased to purchase those old-fashioned things called books, but even to read them. Instead of cutting new works page by page, they cut them altogether:

'WHEN England luxuriated in the novels of RICHARDSON, in eight
volumes, it drove in coaches and four, at the rate of five miles
an hour. A journey was then esteemed a family calamity; and people
abided all the year round in their cedar parlors, thankful to be
diverted by the arrival of the _Spectator_, or a few pages of the
_Pilgrim's Progress_, or a new sermon. To their incidental lives,
a book was an event. Those were the days worth writing for! The
fate of RICHARDSON'S heroines was made a national affair; and
people interceded with him by letter to 'spare Clarissa,' as they
would not now intercede with her Majesty to spare a new EFFIE
DEANS. The successive volumes of _Pope's Iliad_ were looked for
with what is called 'breathless' interest, while such political
sheets as the _Drapier's Letters_, or _Junius_, set the whole
kingdom in an uproar. And now, if POPE, or SWIFT, or FIELDING, or
JOHNSON, or STERNE, were to rise from the grave, MS. in hand, the
most adventurous publisher would pass a sleepless night before he
undertook the risk of paper and print; would advise a small
edition, and exact a sum down in ready money, to be laid out in
puffs and advertisements! 'Even then, though we may get rid of a
few copies to the circulating libraries,' he would observe, 'do
not expect, Sir, to obtain readers. A few old maids in the county
towns, and a few gouty old gentlemen at the clubs, are the only
persons of the present day who ever open a book!' And who can
wonder? _Who_ has leisure to read? _Who_ cares to sit down and
spell out accounts of travels which he can make at less cost than
the cost of the narrative? _Who_ wants to peruse fictitious
adventures, when rail-roads and steam-boats woo him to adventures
of his own? People are busy ballooning or driving; shooting like
stars along rail-roads, or migrating like swallows or wild-geese.'

In allusion to the illustrated newspapers, now vieing with each other in enterprise and expense, in the British metropolis, the writer says: 'The pictorial printing press is now your only wear! Every thing is communicated by delineation. We are not _told_ but _shown_ how the world is wagging. Views of the Holy Land are superseding even the Holy Scriptures, and a pictorial BLACKSTONE is teaching the ideas of sucking lawyers how to shoot. Libels are veiled in carricature. Instead of _writing_ slander and flat blasphemy, the modern method is to _draw_ it, and not to 'draw it mild' either. The columns of certain papers bear a striking likeness to a child's alphabet, such as 'A was an Archer, and shot at a frog.' All the world is now instructed by symbols, as formerly the deaf and dumb. We have little doubt of shortly seeing announcements, standing like tomb-stones in those literary cemeteries, the Saturday papers, of 'A new work upon America, from the graver of GEORGE CRUIKSHANK;' or 'A new fashionable novel, (diamond edition,) from the accomplished pencil of 'H. B.'' . . . WE have a '_Query_' from a Philadelphia correspondent, as to whether Mr. and Mrs. WOOD would not be likely to come over here, if invited, and in company with BROUGH, and other artists, establish English opera among us. Touching the disposition of the WOODS in this matter, we know nothing; but BROUGH is too busily employed to admit of such a consummation. What with his agency for the new sporting gun-powder, (which DANIEL WEBSTER declares to be superior in strength and cleanliness to any other thing of the kind in the world,) and for the 'Illustrated London News,' 'Old PARR'S Life-pills' etc., he has scarcely leisure to achieve his private calls, and execute occasionally, for the gratification of his friends, those charming airs which are indissolubly associated with his name. . . . Messrs. SNELLING AND TISDALE'S '_Metropolitan Library and Reading-Room_,' at 599 Broadway, near Houston-street, supplies an important desideratum in that quarter of the metropolis. In addition to a well-stocked library and reading-room, there are coffee, conversation, chess, and cigar-apartments, and all the belongings of a first establishment after its kind. . . . WE had clipped for insertion, from a Baltimore journal, a poem in honor of OLE BULL, entitled '_The Bewitched Fiddle_,' which we have unluckily mislaid or lost. It was by Mr. HEWITT, a popular song-writer and musical composer, and was one of the most fanciful and felicitous things we have seen in a month of Sundays. As it is at this moment out of our power to print it, we can only counsel our readers, if they encounter it any where, not to fail of its perusal. . . . WE have a pleasant metropolitan story to tell one of these days, (at least we think so,) of which we have been reminded by the following from a late English magazine:

'THE vulgar genteel are nervously cautious concerning every thing
they say or do; they are ever alive to the dread of compromising
their 'gentility.' At a ball--it was a _charity_-ball!--given at a
fashionable watering-place, a pretty young woman, who was sitting
by her mother, was invited by a gentleman to dance. He led her to
a set; when, instantly, two 'young ladies' who were of it,
haughtily, withdrew to their seats. 'They had no notion of dancing
in _such_ company'--and with good reason. The young person was
nothing more than the daughter of a wealthy and respectable
tradesman of the place; while they--the two Misses KNIBBS--were
members of its resident _small_ 'aristocracy.' The places they had
vacated were good-naturedly filled by two ladies who had witnessed
the proceeding, one of whom was the daughter, the other, the
niece, of a nobleman. _Their_ position was too well established to
be compromised by dancing for a quarter of an hour in the same set
with a respectable tradesman's daughter; but the two Misses KNIBBS
were the daughters of a retired soap-boiler.'

* * * * *

.*. WE have numerous communications in prose and verse, several of them from favorite contributors, of which we shall make more particular mention in our next. Three pages of '_Literary Record_,' although in type, are unavoidably omitted.