Chapter VII: Part 7

'The world never witnessed such powerful scenes of exciting
interest as took possession of Great Britain about this period.
The people were drunk with enthusiasm. One victory followed so
rapidly on the heels of another, that they had not time to sober
down. The peninsular campaign had closed, and the hitherto sacred
soil of France was invaded. The restoration of legitimacy, and the
momentary enthusiasm of the French in favor of their exiled
monarch, disturbed the intellects of half mankind. The magnificent
entrée of LOUIS the Eighteenth into London from Heartwell Park,
where he had resided for some years, almost conveyed the idea that
it was his own capital he was entering, after his long and weary
exile. The silken banner with the _fleur de lis_ flaunting from
the walls of Devonshire-House and all the neighboring mansions in
Piccadilly; immense cavalcades of gentlemen superbly mounted, all
wearing the white cockade; the affectionate sympathy and profound
respect shown by all classes toward the illustrious representative
of the Bourbons, was touching in the extreme. On his route from
Heartwell, and through Stanmore, troops of yeomanry turned out to
give him an honorable escort; and what could be _more_ honorable
than the voluntary attendance of the farmers who represented the
very bone and sinew of the country? The large portly figure of the
KING perfectly disabused JOHN BULL of the long-cherished idea that
Frenchmen lived entirely upon frogs. Even that particular fact
interested them, and repeated huzzas greeted him throughout the
whole of his route to London. On his arrival at Guillon's Hotel in
Albermarle-street, which had been most splendidly prepared for his
reception, His Royal Highness the PRINCE REGENT received him with
that delicate attention so worthy of his high and gallant bearing;
and there LOUIS must have met with one of the most touching scenes
that ever thrilled the human heart. One hundred and fifty of the
ancient noblesse were waiting, after years of hopeless
expectation, to greet the head of that illustrious house, the
recollection of whose sufferings awakened the most painful
feelings. Not one of them but had shared in the horrors of that
bloody revolution; and not one of them but truly felt that the
happiness of that moment repaid them for all their sufferings.'

A rich specimen of the pompous ignorance sometimes exhibited by theatrical managers is afforded in the following anecdote, which has appeared in England, but which we are sure will be relished by our readers. It may seem extraordinary that a manager should be such an ignoramus; but 'half the actors on the English stage,' says a recent writer, 'dare not address a gentleman a note, lest they should 'show their hands:''

'WHEN I first became a member of Covent-Garden, Mr. FAWCETT held
the reins of management, in consequence of the retirement of Mr.
KEMBLE from that position. He had experience to guide him, but he
unfortunately possessed a dictatorial manner, and a want of that
refinement and education which had so distinguished his great
predecessor. In speaking of his public position, however, let me
pay homage to his private virtues. He was a tender husband, an
affectionate father, and a warm friend. During my first season a
play was produced called the '_Students of Salamanca_.' The author
was Mr. JAMIESON, a member of the bar, who had been particularly
successful in several light pieces produced at the Haymarket. Mr.
JONES and myself were 'The Students,' and it occurred to me in my
character to say, 'My danger was imminent.' These words had
scarcely passed my lips, when a dark and lowering look dimmed the
countenance of the manager. I saw that something was wrong, but
was quite at a loss to guess the cause. At the end of the scene,
unwilling to mortify me in the presence of the company, he
beckoned me aside, and said: 'Young man, do you know what you
said?' I changed color, feeling that something fearful had
occurred. I replied, very much agitated, that I was not aware of
any error. 'I thought so! Do you know where you are? You are in
_London_, not in Bath!' The fact was so self-evident that I did
not attempt to disprove it. 'You will be delivered up to scorn and
contempt; the critics will immolate you; the eyes of this great
metropolis are fixed upon you. I thought you were a well-educated
young man, but I have been deceived--grossly deceived!' The effect
of this tirade may be more easily conceived than described. My
face flushed, my heart beat, and I at length mustered courage to
say, 'For heaven's sake, Sir, pray tell me; I am extremely
sorry--deeply regret--but pray tell me!' The kindness of his
disposition got the better of his pedantry, and seeing the
agitation under which I was really suffering, he replied: 'Do you
remember that you said your danger was _imminent_'? Now, Sir,
there is no such word in the English language: it is _eminent!!_'
Need I mention the unbounded relief this explanation gave me? I
quietly suggested the difference of their significations, and was
never after troubled with any corrections. He was a man of
sterling qualities, somewhat like a melon, as his friend COLMAN
said; 'rough without, smooth within.''

In the way of a hoax, we remember nothing more cleverly performed, than the rather cruel one whose execution is pleasantly recorded below:

'THERE was a lady attached to the Worthing Theatre, (mark me,
reader, I did not say attached to _me_,) who was very eccentric,
and who was, 'small blame to her,' as the Irishman says, also very
susceptible. I was on very intimate terms with Mr. HARLEY, who was
then at Worthing; and one day, while quietly dining together, we
mutually agreed that there was a fickleness about this lady which
deserved some reproof. We were really liberal in our feelings, and
would not have objected to her shooting an extra dart
occasionally; but it was not to be borne that she should let fly a
whole quiver at once. We had observed that by way of having two or
more strings to her bow, she had got up a flirtation with the
leader of the band, a most respectable man by the way, and of
considerable talent. After giving the affair all due
consideration, we decided upon a mock-duel, in which I was to
personate one of the heroes, my rival being the aforesaid leader.
We carefully and ostentatiously avoided all appearance of
communication, and in such a way that it always reached her
knowledge. Thus by gentle innuendoes she discovered that something
serious was in contemplation, and of course she was not a little
flattered, as she was the object of dispute. Our duelling-pistols
were one day ostentatiously paraded, and evident anxiety took
possession of the company, who were carefully excluded from the
secret. The following morning at five o'clock we each left our
lodgings, accompanied by our seconds, the rain pouring in
torrents. HARLEY then went to the lodgings of the frail or rather
fair one, knocked at the door most violently, and at length she
appeared at the window, in evident alarm. He urged her if she had
the feelings of a woman immediately to accompany him, and prevent
murder; briefly stating, that her 'beauties were the cause and
most accursed effect.' In a state of real excitement, mixed up
with woman's vanity, she rushed out of the house, and accompanied
that wag of wags. A white beaver hat, sweet emblem of her purity,
was on her head, and partially concealed her disordered ringlets,
hastily gathered together. We arranged with HARLEY always to keep
ourselves a certain distance in advance on the pathway bordering
the sands. The first thing that occurred was a sudden gust of wind
which swept the white beaver a considerable distance and covered
it with mud; her flowing locks then fell upon her alabaster neck,
and her romantic appearance was perfect. We most cruelly led her
on a distance of at least two miles, and took our station near
some lime-kilns, close to the sea. When she was sufficiently near,
one of the seconds stepped forward and gave the signal by dropping
a blood-stained handkerchief, prepared for the occasion. Bang!
bang! went the pistols; when she gracefully sank into the arms of
HARLEY, who held her in a fine melo-dramatic attitude. The report
was soon over all the town, and of course in the newspapers. My
adversary put his arm in a sling, and whenever I happened to be
near her, in a perfect state of despair I vowed that I could never
forgive myself for having shot my friend. We mutually repulsed her
by severe looks whenever she approached us; and she soon left the
Worthing Theatre to seek for victims of less sensibility in other
places.'

We once more take our leave of Mr. ABBOTT'S agreeable manuscript volume; by no means certain, however, that its entertaining pages may not again tempt us to share with our readers the enjoyment they have afforded us.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--Will the author of '_Public Concert-Singing_' favor us with his address? We are desirous of communicating with him, although he does _not_ 'find his hastily-jotted thoughts in the pages of the KNICKERBOCKER,' for reasons which perhaps he can partly divine from the present number, and which we could impart more directly in a private note. We agree with him entirely in his views; and if he will permit us, we will here quote a passage from an article which we penned upon a subject collateral to his general theme, many years ago, before we were hampered with the professional '_we_,' and could write out of our 'company dress.' It is a little sketch of the first public singing, save that of the church, to which we had ever listened: 'How well do I remember it! It was at the theatre of a country village; a rough, barn-like edifice, at which several Stentor-lunged Thespians 'from the New-York and Philadelphia Theatres' split the ears of the groundlings, and murdered SHAKSPEARE'S heroes and the King's English. I had been watching with boyish curiosity the play which had just concluded: the mottled, patched, yellowish-green curtain had descended upon the personages whose sorrows were my own; and I was gazing vacantly at the long row of tallow candles placed in holes bored for the purpose in the stage, and at the two fiddlers who composed 'the orchestra,' and who were reconnoitering the house. Presently a small bell was rung, with a jerk. There was a flourish or two from 'the orchestra;' another tinkle of the bell; and up rose the faded drapery. An interval of a moment succeeded, during which half of a large mountain was removed from the scenery, and a piece of forest shoved up to the ambitious wood that had been aspiring to overtop the Alps. At length a young lady, whom I had just seen butchered in a most horrid manner by a villain, came from the side of the stage with a smile, which, while it displayed her white teeth, wrought the rouge upon her face into very perceptible corrugations, and made a lowly courtesy. She walked with measured step three or four times across the stage, in the full blaze of the flaring candles, smiling again, and hemming, to clear her voice. Presently a perfect stillness prevailed; 'awed Consumption checked his chided cough;' every urchin suspended his cat-call; and 'the boldest held his breath for a time.' Our vocalist looked at the leader of the orchestra and his fellow-fiddlers, and commenced, in harmony with their instruments. How touching was that song! I shall never have my soul so enrapt again. That _freshness_ of young admiration possessed my spirit which can come but once. The air was '_The Braes of Balquither_,' a charming melody, meetly wedded to the noble lines of TANNEHILL; and enthusiasm was at its height when the singer had concluded the following stanza, almost sublime in its picturesque beauty:

'When the rude wintry wind wildly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the lion on the night-breeze is swelling,
Then so merrily we'll sing, while the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear shealing ring with the light-lilting chorus!'

The air was old as the hills, but like all Scottish melodies, as lasting too. To every body the songs of Scotland are grateful; and the universal attachment to them arises from their beautiful simplicity, deep pathos, and unaffected, untrammelled melody. The romantic sway of the songs of Scotland over her sons when 'far awa' is to me no marvel. If they possess the power to thrill or to subdue the hearts of those who have never stepped upon the soil of that glorious country, is it at all surprising that they should exert a powerful influence over the native-born, who associate those airs with the purple heath, the blue loch, the hazy mountain-top, and the valley sleeping below?

'What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
What wild vows falter on the tongue,
When 'Scots wha ha' wi' WALLACE bled,'
Or 'Auld Lang Syne' is sung!'

The association however is touching, not _alone_ because it awakens old recollections, but because the music is _natural_; it is the language of the heart. Affectation has not interpopolated tortuous windings and trills and shakes, to mar its beauty, and to clip the full melodious notes of their fair proportions. It is pleasant to think that fashion, though never so potent, can neither divert nor lessen the popular attachment to the simpler melodies. We have the authority of the WOODS, WILSON, SINCLAIR, POWER, and other eminent artists for stating that 'Black-eyed Susan,' 'John Anderson my Jo,' 'The Last Rose of Summer,' and kindred airs, could always 'bring down the house,' no matter what the antagonistical musical attraction might be. We could wish that the VENERABLE TAURUS, or 'OLD BULL,' as many persons call him, would take a hint from this. Let him try it once; and we venture to say that no one, however uninitiated, will again retire from his splendid performances as a country friend of ours did lately, assigning as a reason: 'I waited till about ha'-past nine; and _then_ he hadn't got done _tunin' his fiddle_!' A touch of 'music for the general heart' would have enchained him till morning. CHRISTOPHER NORTH, we perceive, in the last BLACKWOOD, fully enters into the spirit of our predilection. He has just returned from a concert of fashionable music, where he 'tried to faint, that he might be carried out, but didn't know how to do it,' and was compelled to sit with compressed lips, and listen to 'sounds from flat shrill signorinas, quavering to distraction,' for two long hours. When he gets _home_, however, he 'feeds fat his grudge' against modern musical affectations. Let us condense a few of his objurgations:

'It is a perfect puzzle to us by what process the standard of
music has become so lowered, as to make what is ordinarily served
up under that name be received as the legitimate descendant of
harmony. There is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous,
and this entrancing art, it seems, has taken it; sorely
dislocating its graceful limbs, and injuring its goodly
proportions in the unseemly escapade. We hate your crashing,
clumsy chords, and utterly spit at and defy chromatic passages,
from one end of the instrument to the other, and back again;
flats, sharps, and most appropriate 'naturals,' spattered all over
the page. The essential spirit of discord seems to be let loose on
our modern music. Music to soothe! the idea is obsolete. There is
music to excite, much to irritate one, and much more to drive a
really musical soul stark mad; but none to soothe, save that which
is drawn from the hiding-places of the past. There is no repose,
no refreshment to the mind, in our popular compositions. There is
to us more of touching pathos, heart-thrilling expression, in some
of the old psalm-tunes, feelingly played, than in a whole batch of
modernisms. The strains go _home_, and the 'fountains of the great
deep are broken up;' the great deep of unfathomable feeling, that
lies far, far below the surface of the world-hardened heart; and
as the unwonted yet unchecked tear starts to the eye, the softened
spirit yields to their influence, and shakes off the moil of
earthly care; rising, purified and spiritualized, into a clearer
atmosphere.'

* * * * *

We often hear of odd things happening in consequence of mistakes in orthography, but seldom of any benefit accruing therefrom to the orthoöpist. But a friend mentioned to us a little circumstance the other day, which would seem to prove that it does a man good sometimes to spell somewhat at variance with old JOHNSON. In a village not far hence lived a man known by the name of BROKEN JONES. He had dissipated a large fortune in various law-suits; had become poor and crazy; and at last, like another PEEBLES, his sole occupation consisted in haunting the courts, lawyers' offices, and other scenes of his misfortunes. To judge and attorneys he was a most incorrigible bore; to the latter especially, from whom he was continually soliciting opinions on cases which had long been 'settled,' and carried to the law-ledgers, where they were only occasionally hunted up as precedents in the suit of perhaps some other destined victims. As JONES hadn't a cent of money left, it was of course impossible for him to obtain any more 'opinions;' but this didn't cure him of his law-mania. One morning he entered the office of lawyer D----, in a more excited state than he had exhibited for a long time, and seating himself _vis-a-vis_ with _his_ victim, requested his 'opinion' on one of the 'foregone conclusions' already mentioned. D---- happening at the moment to be very busy, endeavored to get rid of his visiter, and contrived various expedients for that purpose. But JONES was not in a mood to be trifled with. 'I came, 'Squire,' said he, 'to get your opinion in writing on this case, and I will have it before I leave the room, if I sit here till the day of judgment!' The lawyer looked upon his visiter, while a thought of forcible ejectment passed through his brain; but the glaring eye and stout athletic frame which met his gaze, told him that such a course would be extremely hazardous. At length the dinner-bell rang. A bright thought struck him; and putting on his coat and hat, he took JONES gently by the arm: 'Come,' said he, 'go and dine with me.' 'No!' said the latter, fiercely; 'I'll never dine again until I get what I came for.' The lawyer was in a quandary, and at length, in very despair, he consented to forego his dinner and give his annoyer the desired opinion. 'Well, well, JONES,' said he, soothingly, 'you shall have it;' and gathering pens, ink and paper, he was soon seated at the table, while JONES, creeping on tiptoe across the room, stood peeping over his shoulder. The lawyer commenced: 'My oppinion in the case----' 'Humph!' said the lunatic, suddenly seizing his hat, and turning on his heel, '_I wouldn't give a d--n for your opinion with two p's!_' · · · MANY of our public as well as private correspondents seem to have been not a little interested in the articles on _Mind and Instinct_, in late numbers of this Magazine. A valued friend writing from Maryland, observes: 'The collection of facts by your contributor is very industrious, their array quite skilful, and the argument very strong. I think, however, that if I had time I could pick several flaws in the reasoning, or rather erect a very good counter-argument, founded principally upon the fact that the intelligence of animals is generally as great in early youth as it is in the prime of their beasthood. The author might have added to his list of facts, an account which I read when a boy, of the practice of the baboons in Caffraria, near the orange-orchards. They arrange themselves in a row from their dens to the orange-trees. One then ascends the tree, plucks the oranges, and throws them to the next baboon, and he to the next, and so on throughout the whole file; they standing some fifty yards apart. In this manner they quickly strip a tree, and at the same time are safe from being all surprised at once. The early French missionaries in Canada, also asserted that the squirrels of that region, having denuded the country on one side of the big lake, of nuts, used to take pieces of birch bark, and hoisting their tails for canvass, float to the other side for their supply.' We have been struck with a passage in a powerful article upon '_The Hope that is within Us_,' in a late foreign periodical, wherein the fruitful theme of our correspondent is touched upon. 'If matter,' says the writer, 'be incapable of consciousness, as JOHNSON so powerfully argues in _Rasselas_, then the _animus_ of brutes must be an _anima_, and immaterial; for the dog and the elephant not merely exhibit 'consciousness,' but a 'half-reasoning' power. And if it be true, as JOHNSON maintains, that immateriality of necessity produces immortality, then the poor Indian's conclusion is the most logical,

'Who thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.'

The truth is, that we must depend upon _revelation_ for an assurance of immortality; which promises, however, the resurrection of the body, as philosophy is unequal to its demonstration, and modern researches into animal life have rendered the proof more difficult than heretofore.' By the by, 'speaking of animals:' there is a letter from LEMUEL GULLIVER in the last number of BLACKWOOD, describing a meeting of 'delegates from the different classes of consumers of _oats_, held at the Nag's-Head inn at Horsham.' The business of the meeting was opened by a young RACER, who expressed his desire to promote the interests of the horse-community, and to promote any measure which might contribute to the increase of the consumption of oats, and improve the condition of his fellow quadrupeds. He considered the horse-interest greatly promoted by the practice of sowing wild oats, which he warmly commended. A HACKNEY-COACH HORSE declared himself in favor of the _sliding-scale_, which he understood to mean the wooden pavement. Things went much more smoothly wherever it was established. He contended for the abolition of nose-bags, which he designated as an intolerable nuisance; urged the prohibition of chaff with oats, as unfit for the use of able-bodied horses; and indeed evinced the truth of his professions, that he 'yielded to no horse in an anxious desire to promote the true interests of the horse-community.' An OLD ENGLISH HUNTER impressed upon the young delegates the good old adage of 'Look before you leap,' and urged them to go for 'measures, not men.' A STAGE HORSE 'congratulated the community upon the abolition of bearing-reins, those grievous burdens upon the necks of all free-going horses; and he trusted the time would soon arrive when the blinkers would also be taken off, every corn-bin thrown open, and every horse his own leader.' Several other steeds, in the various ranks of horse-society, addressed the meeting. 'Resolutions, drawn by two DRAY-HORSES, embodying the supposed grievances of the community, were finally agreed upon, and a petition, under the hoof of the president, founded upon them, having been prepared and ordered to be presented to the House of Commons by the members for Horsham, the meeting separated, and the delegates returned to their respective stables.' · · · WHAT habitual theatre or opera-goer has not been tempted a thousand times to laugh outright, and quite in the wrong place, at the incongruities, the inconsistencies, the mental and physical _catachreses_ of the stage, which defy illusion and destroy all vraisemblance? A London sufferer in this kind has hit off some of the salient points of these absurdities in a few 'Recollections of the Opera:'

'I'VE known a god on clouds of gauze
With patience hear a people's prayer,
And bending to the pit's applause,
Wait while the priest repeats the air.

I've seen a black-wig'd Jove hurl down
A thunder-bolt along a wire,
To burn some distant canvass town,
Which--how vexatious!--won't catch fire.

I've known a tyrant doom a maid
(With trills and _roulades_ many a score)
To instant death! She, sore afraid,
Sings: and the audience cries 'Encore!'

I've seen two warriors in a rage
Draw glist'ning swords and, awful sight!
Meet face to face upon the stage
To sing a song, but not to fight!

I've heard a king exclaim 'To arms!'
Some twenty times, yet still remain;
I've known his army 'midst alarms,
Help by a bass their monarch's strain.

I've known a hero wounded sore,
With well-tuned voice his foes defy;
And warbling stoutly on the floor,
With the last flourish fall and die.

I've seen a mermaid dress'd in blue;
I've seen a cupid burn a wing;
I've known a Neptune lose a shoe;
I've heard a guilty spectre sing.

I've seen, spectators of a dance,
Two Brahmins, Mahomet, the Cid,
Four Pagan kings, four knights of France,
Jove and the Muses--scene Madrid!'

* * * * *

The leading paper in the present number will not escape the attention nor fail to win the admiration of the reader. The description of the _Ascent of Mount Ætna_ by our eminent artist, is forcible and graphic in the extreme. It will derive additional interest at this moment from the recent eruption of this renowned volcano, which still continued at the last advices, and by which already seventy persons had lost their lives. If our metropolitan readers would desire a _due_ impression of the magnificent scene which our correspondent has described, let them drop in at the rooms of the National Academy of Design, where they will find the Burning Mountain, as seen from Taormina, depicted in all its vastness and grandeur; and not only this, but the noble series of allegorical pictures, heretofore noticed at large in this Magazine, called '_The Voyage of Life_,' representing Childhood, Youth, Manhood, and Old Age; '_Angels ministering to Christ in the Wilderness_,' a picture that has an horizon, and an aërial gradation toward the zenith, which alone, to say nothing of the figures, and the composition itself as a study, would richly repay a visit; '_The Past and the Present_,' two most effective scenes, especially the second, which is overflowing with the mingled graces of poetry and art; a glorious composition, '_An Italian Scene_,' of which we shall speak hereafter; as well as of the view of '_Ruined Aqueducts in the Campagna di Roma_,' fading into dimness toward the imperial city, and of '_The Notch in the White Mountains_' of New-Hampshire. _Apropos_: we perceive by a letter from an American at Rome, in one of the public journals, that THORWALDSEN, the great sculptor, was an enthusiastic admirer of Mr. COLE'S pictures, particularly of his 'Voyage of Life,' which he pronounced 'original, and new in art.' 'He could talk of nothing else,' says the writer, 'for a long time; and every time he speaks of him, he adds: '_Ma che artista, che grand' artista, quel vostro compatriota! Che fantasia! quanto studio della natura!_' 'But what an artist, what a great artist, is this countryman of yours! What fancy, what study of nature!' · · · WE are aware of a pair of 'bonny blue een' swimming in light, that will 'come the married woman's eye' over a kind but most antiquarian husband, when the following is read, some two weeks from now, in their 'little parlor' in a town of the far west. It reaches us in the MS. of a Boston friend: 'Old Colonel W----, formerly a well-known character in one of our eastern cities, was remarkable for but one passion out of the ordinary range of humanity, and that was for buying at auction any little lot of trumpery which came under the head of 'miscellaneous,' for the reason that it couldn't be classified. Though close-fisted in general, he was continually throwing away his money by fives and tens upon such trash. In this way he had filled all the odd corners in his dwelling and out-houses with a collection of nondescript articles, that would have puzzled a philosopher to tell what they were made for, or to what use they could ever be put. This however, was but a secondary consideration with the Colonel; for he seldom troubled his head about such articles after they were once fairly housed. Not so with his wife however, who was continually remonstrating against these purchases, which served only to clutter up the house, and as food for the mirth of the domestics. But the Colonel, though he often submitted to these remonstrances of his better-half, couldn't resist his passion; and so he went on adding from week to week to his heap of miscellanies. One day while sauntering down the street, he heard the full, rich tones of his friend C----, the well-known auctioneer, and as a matter of course stepped in to see what was being sold. On the floor he observed a collection that looked as if it might have been purloined from the garret of some museum, and around which a motley group was assembled; while on the counter stood the portly auctioneer, in the very height of a mock-indignant remonstrance with his audience. 'Nine dollars and ninety cents!' cried the auctioneer. 'Gentlemen, it is a shame, it is barbarous, to stand by and permit such a sacrifice of property! Nine dol-_lars_ and ninety---- Good morning, Colonel! A magnificent lot of--of--_antiques_--and all going for nine dollars and ninety cents. Gentlemen, you'll never see another such lot; and all going--going--for nine dollars and ninety cents. Colonel W----, can _you_ permit such a sacrifice?' The Colonel glanced his eye over the lot, and then with a nod and a wink assured him he could not. The next instant the hammer came down, and the purchase was the Colonel's, at ten dollars. As the articles were to be paid for and removed immediately, the Colonel lost no time in getting a cart, and having seen every thing packed up and on their way to his house, he proceeded to his own store, chuckling within himself that _now_ at least he had made a bargain at which even his wife couldn't grumble. In due time he was seated at the dinner-table, when lifting his eyes, he observed a cloud upon his wife's brow. 'Well, my dear?' said he, inquiringly. 'Well?' repeated his wife; 'it is _not_ well, Mr. W.; I am vexed beyond endurance. You know C----, the auctioneer?' 'Certainly,' replied the Colonel; 'and a very gentlemanly person he is _too_.' '_You_ may think so,' rejoined the wife, 'but I _don't_, and I'll tell you why. A few days ago I gathered together all the trumpery with which you have been cluttering up the house for the last twelve-month, and sent it to Mr. C----, with orders to sell the lot immediately to the highest bidder for cash. He assured me he would do so in all this week, at farthest, and pay over the proceeds to my order. And here I've been congratulating myself on two things: first, on having got rid of a most intolerable nuisance; and secondly, on receiving money enough therefor to purchase that new velvet hat you promised me so long ago. And now what do you think? This morning, about an hour ago, _the whole load came back again, without a word of explanation_!' The Colonel looked blank for a moment, and then proceeded to clear up the mystery. But the good VROUW was pacified only by the promise of a ten-dollar note beside that in the hands of the auctioneer; on condition, however, that she should never mention it.' Of course she kept her word! · · · HOW seldom it is that one encounters a good sonnet! Most sonnetteers of our day are like feeble-framed men walking in heavy armor; 'the massy weight on't galls their laden limbs.' We remember two or three charming sonnets of LONGFELLOW'S; PARK BENJAMIN has been unwontedly felicitous in some of his examples; and H. T. TUCKERMAN has excelled in the same poetical rôle. Here is a late specimen of his, from the 'Democratic Review,' which we regard as very beautiful:

DESOLATION.

THINK ye the desolate must live apart,
By solemn vows to convent walls confined?
Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloistered heart,
And in a crowd the isolated mind:
Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate
The world sees not how sorrowful they stand,
Gazing so fondly through the iron grate
Upon the promised, yet forbidden land;
Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet,
Day after day, in voiceless penance turn;
Silence the holy cell and calm retreat
In which unseen their meek devotions burn;
Life is to them a vigil that none share,
Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer.

* * * * *

'OUR Ancient,' the editor of the handsome 'Lady's and Gentleman's Magazine' hight '_The Columbian_,' (which is to run a brisk competition, as we learn, with the other 'pictorials,' GODEY'S, GRAHAM'S, and SNOWDEN'S,) should have enabled us to speak of it from an examination of _our own copy_, instead of being obliged to filch an idea of its merits from the counter of those most obliging gentlemen, Messrs. BURGESS AND STRINGER. The work is a gay one externally, and spirited internally; having several good articles from good writers, male and female. One of the best things in it, however, is the paper on '_Magazine Literature_,' by the Editor. How many writers, now well known both at home and abroad, who began and continue their literary career in the KNICKERBOCKER, can bear testimony to the truth of the following remarks:

'WE have said that this is the age of magazines; adverting not
merely to their number, but even more especially to their
excellence. They are the field, chiefly, in which literary
reputation is won. Who ever thinks of JOHN WILSON as the learned
professor, or as the author of bound volumes? Who does not, when
WILSON'S name is mentioned, instantly call to mind the splendid
article-writer, the CHRISTOPHER NORTH of Blackwood? CHARLES LAMB
was long known only as the ELIA of the New Monthly. Most of the
modern French celebrities; SUE, JANIN, and half a hundred others,
have made their fame in the _feuilletons_ of the Parisian
journals; a more decided graft, by the way, than is elsewhere
seen, of the magazine upon the newspaper. In our own country, how
many there are whose names are known from the St. Lawrence to the
Gulf of Mexico, that are as yet innocent of books, but have
nevertheless contributed largely and well to the growing stock of
American literature. How many more who are bringing themselves
into notice by their monthly efforts in the pages of some popular
magazine. In fact, the magazine is the true channel into which
talent should direct itself for the acquisition of literary fame.
The newspaper is too ephemeral; the book is not of sufficiently
rapid and frequent production. The monthly magazine just hits the
happy medium, enabling the writer to present himself twelve times
a year before a host of readers, in whose memories he is thus kept
fresh, yet allowing him space enough to develope his thought, and
time enough to do his talent justice in each article. Then, too,
on the score of emolument, justly recognised now as a very
essential matter, and legitimately entitled to grave
consideration, the magazine offers advantages not within the reach
of either book or newspaper. · · · BUT after all, the great point
is, that magazines are more read than any other kind of
publications. They just adapt themselves to the leisure of the
business man, and the taste of the idler; to the spare half hours
of the notable housewife and the languid inertia of the
fashionable lady. They can be dropped into a valise or a
carpet-bag as a welcome provision for the wants of a journey by
steam-boat or rail-road, when the country through which the
traveller passes offers nothing attractive to be seen, or the eyes
are weary of seeing; they while away delightfully the tedious
hours of a rainy day in summer, and afford the most pleasant
occupation through the long evenings of winter.'

Touching the matter of payment for magazine articles: Mr. WILLIS informs us that many of the American magazines pay to their more eminent contributors nearly three times the amount for a printed page that is paid by English magazines to the best writers in Great-Britain; and he instances GODEY and GRAHAM as paying often twelve dollars a page to their principal contributors. This refers to _a few_ 'principal' writers only, as we have good reason to know, having been instrumental in sending several acceptable correspondents to those publications, who have received scarcely one-fourth of the sum mentioned. Mr. WILLIS adds, however, that many good writers write for nothing, and that 'the number of clever writers has increased so much that there are thousands who can get no article accepted.' All this is quite true. There is no magazine in America that has paid so large sums to distinguished native writers as the KNICKERBOCKER. Indeed, our _most_ distinguished American writer was never a contributor to any other of our Monthlys than this. The books of this Magazine show, that independent of the Editor's division of its profits as joint proprietor, or his salary as editor, (a matter which its publishers have always kept distinct from, and in all respects unconnected with, the payments to contributors,) annual sums have heretofore been paid for literary _matériel_ greater than the most liberal estimate we have seen of any annual literary payment by our widely-circulated contemporaries. To the first poet in America, (not to say in the world, at this moment,) we have repeatedly paid fifty dollars for a single poem, not exceeding, in any instance, two pages in length; and the cost of prose papers from sources of kindred eminence has in many numbers exceeded fifteen dollars a page. Again: we have in several instances paid twice as much for the MS. of a continuous novel in these pages as the writer could obtain of any metropolitan book-publisher; and after appearing in volumes, it has been found that the wide publicity given to the work by the KNICKERBOCKER has been of greatest service to its popularity, in more than one subsequent edition. We should add, however, that we have had no lack, at any period, of excellent articles for our work at moderate prices; while many of our more popular papers have been entirely gratuitous, unless indeed the writers consider the honorable reputation which they have established in these pages as _some_ reward for intellectual exertion. But 'something too much of this.' We close with a word touching the pictorial features of the '_Columbian_.' It has four 'plates' proper, with an engraving of the fashions; is neatly executed by Messrs. HOPKINS AND JENNINGS, and published by ISRAEL POST, Number Three, Astor-House. · · · SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY is just at hand; and a pleasant correspondent, in enclosing us the following lines, begs us to mention the fact, and to refer to the festivities of the day. We know of _one_ 'festivity' that will be a very _recherché_ and brilliant affair, on the evening of that day; namely, '_The Bachelors' Ball_,' to be given with unwonted splendor at the Astor-House, under the supervision of accomplished managers, whose taste and liberality have already been abundantly tested. 'Take it as a matter granted,' says our friend, 'that very many of your lady-readers will commit matrimony before the year is done; and tell them so plainly; for it will gratify their palpitating hearts; and even should it not be true in every individual case, the disappointed ones will never complain of you for the pleasing delusion; for it was their own fault, of course, not yours. It behooves you, moreover, as a conservator of the general weal, to give the young wives that are to be some goodly counsel; and to aid you in the laudable office of advice-giver, I send you some appropriate verses, which some fifteen years ago went the rounds of the press, and met with 'acceptance bounteous.' The moral of the stanzas, I take it, is unexceptionable, whatever may be said of their execution:'

EPISTLE

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY JUST MARRIED.

On matrimony's fickle sea
I hear thou'rt ventured fairly;
Though young in years, it may not be
Thy bark is launched too early.
Each wish of mine to heaven is sent,
That on the stormy water
Thou'lt prove a wife obedient,
As thou hast been a daughter.

If every wish of mine were bliss,
If every hope were pleasure,
Thou wouldst with him find happiness,
And he in thee a treasure:
For every wish and hope of mine,
And every thought and feeling,
Is for the weal of thee and thine,
As true as my revealing.

To please thy husband in all things,
Forever be thou zealous;
And bear in mind that Love has wings,
Then never make him jealous:
For if Love from his perch once flies,
How weak are Beauty's jesses!
In vain might plead thy streaming eyes,
And thy dishevelled tresses.

Be prudent in thy thoughts of dress,
Be sparing of thy parties;
Where fashion riots in excess,
O! nothing there of heart is!
And can its palling sweets compare
With love of faithful bosom?
Then of the fatal tree beware,
There's poison in its blossom!

Each thought and wish in him confide,
No secret from him cherish;
Whenever thou hast aught to hide,
The better feelings perish.
In whatsoe'er ye do or say,
O never with him palter;
Remember too, thou saidst 'obey'
Before the holy altar.

Bear and forbear, for much thou'lt find
In married life to tease ye,
And should thy husband seem unkind,
Averse to smile, or please ye,
Think that amid the cares of life
His troubles fret and fear him;
Then smile as it becomes a wife,
And labor well to cheer him.

Aye answer him with loving word,
Be each tone kindly spoken,
For sometimes is the holy cord
By angry jarring broken.
Then curb thy temper in its rage,
And fretful be thou never;
For broken once, a fearful change
Frowns over both forever.

Upon thy neck light hang the chain,
For Hymen now hath bound ye,
O'er thee and thine may pleasure reign,
And smiling friends surround ye.
Then fare ye well, and may each time
The sun smiles, find ye wiser:
Pray kindly take the well-meant rhyme
Of thy sincere adviser.

* * * * *

Through the kindness of Messrs. MASON AND TUTTLE, Nassau-street, (who import the _originals_ for immediate circulation to American subscribers,) we have our copies of the foreign Monthlys, as well as of the 'Edinburgh,' 'Foreign,' and 'Quarterly' Reviews for the current quarter. The 'Quarterly, so savage and tartarly,' has a notice of the '_Change for American Notes_,' which is not conceived in the kindest spirit toward this country. It reviews PRESCOTT'S late work, however, at great length, and welcomes it with cordial commendation. Among other 'good words,' the reviewer observes: 'He is full and copious, without being prolix and wearisome; his narrative is flowing and spirited, sometimes very picturesque; his style is pure, sound English.' In conclusion, the reviewer says: 'We close with expressing our satisfaction that Mr. PRESCOTT has given us an opportunity at this time of showing our deep sympathy, the sympathy of kindred and of blood, with Americans who like himself do honor to our common literature. Mr. PRESCOTT may take his place among the real good English writers of history in modern times.' The 'Foreign Quarterly' opens with a paper upon '_The Poets and Poetry of America_,' ostensibly based upon Mr. GRISWOLD'S book. It is not altogether a review, however, but a very coarse and evidently malignant tirade against America, her people, institutions, manners, customs, literature; every thing, in short, that she is and that she contains. We annex a hasty synopsis of the _critical_ portion of the article in question. HALLECK is 'praised, and that highly too.' His 'Marco Bozzaris' is pronounced 'a master-piece,' and the 'most perfect specimen of versification in American literature;' and himself as possessing 'a complete knowledge of the musical mysteries of his art.' A quotation is made, with much laud, from his 'RED-JACKET,' but the lines are spoiled by two gross errors; one in the last line of the third, and the other in the first line of the fifth stanza. The highest encomiums are justly bestowed upon BRYANT, as a 'purely American poet,' who 'treats the works of Nature with a religious solemnity, and brings to the contemplation of her grandest relations a pure and serious spirit. His poetry is reflective but not sad; grave in its depths but brightened in its flow by the sunshine of the imagination. He never paints on gauze; he is always earnest, always poetical; his manner is every where graceful and unaffected.' The illustrative quotation is from 'An Evening Reverie,' written by Mr. BRYANT for the KNICKERBOCKER. LONGFELLOW is pronounced to be 'unquestionably the first of American poets; the most thoughtful and chaste; the most elaborate and finished. His poems are distinguished by severe intellectual beauty, by dulcet sweetness of expression, a wise and hopeful spirit, and a complete command over every variety of rhythm. They are neither numerous nor long, but of that compact texture which will last for posterity.' SPRAGUE is represented as having in certain of his poems imitated SHAKSPEARE and COLLINS rather too closely for all three to be original. 'PIERPONT is crowded with coincidences which look very like _plagiarisms_;' 'but,' adds the reviewer, 'it is reserved for CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN to distance all plagiarists of ancient and modern times in the enormity and openness of his thefts. He is MOORE hocused for the American market. His songs are _rifaciamentos_. The turns of the melody, the flowing of the images, the scintillating conceits, are all MOORE. Sometimes he steals his very words.' Mrs. SIGOURNEY'S poetry is said to be characterized by 'feeble verbosity' and 'lady-like inanity,' and Mrs. OSGOOD is represented as being in the same category. After quoting certain characteristic lines of Mr. JOHN NEAL, describing the eye of a poet as '_brimful of water and light_,' and his forehead as being '_alarmingly bright_,' the reviewer adds: 'We find a pleasant relief from these distressing hallucinations, in the poems of ALFRED B. STREET. He is a descriptive poet, and at the head of his class. His pictures of American scenery are full of _gusto_ and freshness; sometimes too wild and diffuse, but always true and beautiful.' So some are praised and some are blamed--'thus runs the world away!' · · · WE are made aware, and we would not have our correspondents ignorant of the fact, that there is a critical eye monthly upon our pages, that is keen to discover errors (as well as beauties) in language and construction of sentences. See: 'By the by, what a miserable language is our English in some respects; so awkward, so incompact! Look at the phrase 'unheard of,' and compare it with the Latin '_inauditus_.' What a pity we were not born Romans or Greeks, with Yankee notions! Tell your Gotham friends that if they are speaking of a ruinous _brick_ wall, they must say _dilaterated_, from 'later,' a brick, and not '_dilapidated_,' from 'lapis,' a stone. One might as well say a man is 'stoned' to death with brick-bats.' · · · WHAT sad and startling contrasts are presented to the eye and mind of one who attentively looks over the illustrated newspapers of the British metropolis! On one hand, pictures of triumphal processions, arches, bonfires, illuminations, rich presents, gorgeous equipages, state-beds, 'royal poultry-houses, owleries, and pigeonries,' accompanied by elaborate descriptions, arrest the attention; on the other, there is a picture of a city 'Asylum for the Destitute,' where poor naked wretches find a temporary refuge from the pitiless winter storm without: huddling round a dim fire, or sunk exhausted upon the straw in the human 'stalls,' or clutching at their bowls of pauper-soup; a scene whose true character is enforced by accounts of poor women making shirts for _a farthing apiece_, a hard day's work; sleeping four in a bed; purchasing with the scanty pittance tea-leaves to boil over again! Hardly-entreated brothers and sisters of humanity! not always shall the glaring inequality that surrounds you, crush your spirits to the earth! · · · THERE is a pleasant pen in our metropolitan '_Aurora_,' which occasionally dashes off sententious paragraphs that flash and sparkle like snow-crust in a moon-lit night in winter. There is evidently a FOSTER-ing hand over its columns; and _through_ them (let us add, as it is _that_ of which we especially wish to speak,) over the reputation of Mr. WILLIS. The remarks in a late number of that journal, under the head of '_Mr. Willis's Defence_' against a scurrilous attack on his private character in a down-eastern print, were equally just and felicitous. Had it been generally known in his native town who was the instigator of that attack, we have good authority for saying that, gross as it was, Mr. WILLIS would have considered it utterly beneath his notice. As it was, however, he deemed it not amiss at one and the same time to punish skulking envy and impotent malignity; to vindicate his reputation with his townsmen against unprovoked calumny; and to render the repetition of any obnoxious remarks from the same source altogether 'of none effect' and unworthy of heed. This he accomplished by his 'Defence' and the 'terrors of the law,' which speedily produced a satisfactory sample of wholesale word-eating. · · · OF all the Polichinellos we have ever encountered, we consider '_Punch, or the London Charivari_,' the best. His fun is exhaustless. He ought to be knighted and appointed court-jester to King ENNUI. 'Laughter,' he tells us, 'is a divine faculty. It is one of the few, nay, the only one redeeming grace in that thunder-cased, profligate old scoundrel JUPITER, that he sometimes laughs: he is saved from the disgust of all respectable people by the amenity of a broad grin.' We ourselves hold with the pleasant LINCOLN RAMBLE: 'I love a hearty laugh; I love to _hear_ a hearty laugh above all other sounds. It is the music of the heart; the thrills of those chords which vibrate from no bad touch; the language Heaven has given us to carry on the exchange of sincere and disinterested sympathies.' And to the end that 'laughter free and silvery from the heart may escape the reader, doing rightful honor to PUNCH, and bestowing cheerfulness and health upon the laughter,' we proceed to present a few excerpta which arrested our attention in looking over late files. We suspect that the annexed report of the 'doings of Royalty' in the country have more than once had a precedent. PRINCE ALBERT is here at Dayton-Manor, the seat of Sir ROBERT PEEL: 'Her Majesty slept extremely well; but whether it was the air of Dayton, or the conversation of the host, did not transpire. At eleven o'clock in the morning, Prince Albert went out to shoot. The guns were ordered at ten and the game was desired to be in attendance at half-past. The Prince first went in a boat on the water, where several ducks were appointed to be in waiting. Having granted an audience to the whole of them, and unintentionally honored two by shooting them, though it was another duck who had the distinguished gratification of being aimed at and missed, his Royal Highness landed. A numerous meeting of hares and pheasants having been called to pay their respects to the Prince, the game-keepers forming an outer circle, with their guns pointed to keep the game well up to the mark, His Royal Highness shot sixty pheasants, twenty-five head of hares, eight rabbits and one wood-cock, who would cock his bill opposite the muzzle of Royalty.' The poetical advertisement of one MOSES, a slop-shop clothes-man, is pleasantly 'reviewed.' Of his 'Prince ALBERT coats,' PUNCH says: 'Whatever may be the resemblance between the Prince and the coat, the similarity certainly ends with the price; one costing thirty shillings and the other thirty thousand pounds per annum.' Here is a touch at Moses' sea-coats:

'These coats for nautical pursuits
Have qualities no one disputes;
The very texture of their cloth
Seems to defy the ocean's wrath:
And then their form and make as well
Are suited to the billows' swell.'

What can be happier than the allusion to the fact mentioned in the last two lines; namely, that the coat is quite a match for the billows, being as great a swell as any of them? The poet dashes off a few lines on trowsers, finishing with the following couplet, which is not likely to encourage purchasers. It is stated, and we dare say truly, that if any one puts on a pair of MOSES' trowsers he becomes at once an object of general observation:

'While oft such cries as these escape;
Look! there's a figure! there's a shape!'